Sunday, 28 June 2009

Michael Jackson - Crusty Reflects.

Well, it is the day after tomorrow – as they say – and the world has woken up to the terrible news that Michael Jackson has died at the tender age of 50, only mere hours since the tragic loss of Hollywood beauty Farrah Fawcett (who I must say seems to have been forgot since the King of Pops demise).

Crusty was first made aware something was occurring in the astral plain of stardom when one of the North East’s regional radio superstars, Phil Holmes, twatted me (if, indeed, that is the past participle of “tweet”). One’s curiosity was aroused and I turned from my beloved Question Time to Sky News. There were ticker lines whizzing by with mountains of speculation; correspondents were speaking of their reaction to this news – or rather possible news; a myriad of people who hardly knew him were being given their 5 minutes of fame, being asked the most inane questions the news anchors could think of, while the Los Angeles news helicopters circled the L.A. skies like mechanical vultures waiting to pick what they could from the bones of this story.

Meanwhile, back in Her Majesty’s realm, it was a race to see who could get the exclusive with spoon bender Uri Geller. The poor little poppet was run ragged; on every news channel Crusty turned to, “…and we can now go to Uri Geller, a friend of Michael Jackson …”.

All we got from the showbiz wizard was that the news was devastating - if it was true - but “I just can’t talk right now!”

This very same message he conveyed to viewers on each news channel he was on over the next 10 minutes. Crusty was shocked at one stage when I noticed on one’s Facebook messages that Uri Geller had dyed! …is it any wonder, one thought…all that running around from newsroom to newsroom? but then realised it was in reference to his hair colour.

Dressed in a rather eye-catching, multi-coloured top – either that or we had caught him the middle of decorating – he give a in-depth, beautifully lit interview where he spilled the beans; for someone who “just can’t talk”, the little magical poppet wouldn’t shut up, to the point where we were even offered the revelation of a hypnotising incident where rather intrusive questions were asked about inappropriate touching. It was all becoming too much and I was forced to instruct my faithful houseboy, Chu Me, to switch the Mojitos to straight gins.

The media frenzy has clearly started and despite the gorgeous Ashton Kutcher’s requests to think of his children, one suspects these will not be heeded and journalists will be armed with their powerful telephoto lenses and dirt-sifting rakes for a considerable time to come.

One thing is for sure, the worlds walk-in wardrobe of musical legends is slowly being depleted; We are fortunate to still have iconic stars such as Dame Tina Turner, Madonna, Dame Birley Shassey (if one goes in for that sort of thing), Tom *scream* Jones, Barbra I-love-to-keep-people-waiting Streisand et al, but many of the hangers are empty now and once that wardrobe is bare, we will never find pieces of the required quality to replenish it.

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