‘This mob grief is ridiculous – unless they agree with me’
My gran told me about Michael Jackson’s death as I made my way up to the airport last week. It was just before midnight and she was watching Columbo, or whatever they seem to put on at that time, and then it came out of the blue; Michael Jackson was in a coma, then he was dead. It was bizarre at first; I didn’t quite know how to handle it. Was I saddened? Undoubtedly, yes. I was upset that someone who had so much potential had been allowed to fritter it all away, and that outside forces had contributed to that. Was I shocked? Again, yes. Why would Michael Jackson die? He was only fifty and had planned a comeback concert series in London, and was taking part in rehearsals – however many he showed up for – in preparation. Was I fed up with it by the Sunday? And here’s the thing: yes, I was. Incredibly.
For two days straight, the news channels led coverage of – well, nothing, really. MJ had died, there were no two ways about it. They weren’t covering his death, though. It was the aftershock, the parade of celebrity tributes. It seems that as profiles get higher, the death is more important. You’re hardly ever going to find George Clooney leading the mourning congregation over the death of Keith Chegwin. Nor are you going to find anyone of worth crying over Richard Littlejohn, when he gets hit by a car travelling at 100mph then shot with arrows and eventually dragged behind a bicycle along Bournemouth beach before ending up in Luton, where the locals can kick any of the shit out of him that’s left (or something like that, most likely he’ll die of a heart attack when he realises that nobody honestly gives a toss what he thinks about elf ‘n’ safety. Either way I’m not fussed).
But the tributes came flooding in. Celebrities releasing statements, telling the fawning public that he was “the world’s brightest star” and that he would be “sorely missed”. Madonna told us that she “couldn’t stop crying” and even Paris Hilton (who knew MJ so well, she referred to him as “Mike”) added her own vacuous spew, which was so heartfelt I can’t even remember what she said. Soon, the videos came pouring on screen. Hit after hit after hit was played, despite viewers having seen Smooth Criminal at least forty times already. Seemingly pre-written obit pieces were inserted into the main news bulletins and the newspapers, adorned with pictures of a young, very handsome and – er – black man, who gradually morphed into an old, frail, strange-looking white man. Some went too far – OK! magazine, while not known usually for its exceptional taste and journalistic flair (remember Jade Goody? Anyone?) managed to outdo themselves once again – rather than leading with a picture of MJ at his best, the laughingly-titled “tribute” issue had a picture of Jackson, on life support, in an ambulance, most likely already dead. Basically, OK! led with a picture of a corpse on their front cover.
And so began the seemingly endless stream of Celebrity Death Pornography. When someone famous dies, the whole world seems to enter a massive competition to see who can be the first to get their opinion noticed. This has been massively enhanced by social networking sites, such as the now infamous Twitter (which I still really don’t see the point of – you can do so much more on Facebook without needing to see what Stephen Fry’s up to every twenty seconds), where stars of stage, screen, record and f*ck all gathered to pay tribute. For days on end, the deluge continued – and continues, with today’s headlines suggesting a lengthy custody battle for the sadly fatherless children, a will which leaves nothing to Jackson’s horrid father and another raft of tributes. More sinister, though, are the people who have now crawled out of the woodwork to leave not-so-glowing tributes. They are publishing thoughts that would never have seen the light of day had the events of the past week not unfolded. I’m always disappointed by this and feel the authors of said articles show a tremendous amount of cowardice for that very reason – but at least it’s helped pad this column out by a few more lines.
This is the part that I really don’t get though. Why do people who don’t care about his death seem intent on telling us they don’t care? Some have become infuriated with not the media but the public, convinced that it’s only Michael Jackson who’s died, and after all he was just a weirdo paedophile with nothing more than a few good songs and a chimpanzee to his name. Guess which paper this view prevailed in? And guess which columnist it came out of (if you’re sick of my Daily Mail bashing, don’t read on. I’m running out of original ideas). It prompted another one of the Heil’s regular “ban this” sections, which tends to turn into Paul Dacre’s manifesto for changing Britain. All this wailing and crying over a dead bloke is just nonsense. “In Central London, the provisional wing of the Friends of Dorothy and the usual coven of madwomen took to the streets in a vomit-inducing display of sentimentality and exhibitionism,” wrote the Chief Commissar of the DM’s own thought police. He blathered on: “that's not to say that Jackson was without talent - although as someone steeped in the history of Motown, I'd argue that he's a fairly minor figure compared with Smokey, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, Holland-Dozier-Holland, the Tops and the Temps.” Well done on a well-executed Wikipedia search, Richard. Wonder how he managed to hear about the mourning in London all the way from Florida!
Thing is, though, how you feel is your own personal preference. Yes, people took to the streets – I didn’t, but some people did. Because that’s how they felt. They felt like they wanted to go out and make their feelings known, in the same way that Mr Littlejohn writes his nice little column in his (I’m sure he thinks it’s his own) paper and pretends that real people give a shit. Some of them went out and bought his records again. I didn’t (thank goodness for Spotify) but some people did. No, not necessarily because fashion dictated that they must, but maybe – just maybe – they’d misplaced their original CDs or LPs, and wanted to buy his album, stick it in the car again and feel nostalgic while feeling crap that he’s dead. It’s also worth noting that Jackson was effectively cleared twice of child molestation – and trial by media is a lot harder to plead not guilty in than trial by jury. Just as they came out in 1993 when Jordie Chandler had his fun, the vultures circled again, each one wanting to get a little bit of the action. Some of it was downright obscene – and some opinion articles didn’t really have any idea what side of the debate they were on.
We shouldn’t forget his controversies. His whole personality was based on his weirdness; the strange outfits, the bizarre behaviour, and the childish outbursts. Many still blame Martin Bashir for his major downfall at the beginning of the century – a man who knew exactly what he was doing and probably feels no different now than when he did when he made his film. Then again, those who believe that he was an evil man and a paedophile are those who don’t believe in depression and frivolous things like that, and believe that Thatcher was a soft touch. A worse thing than spelling mistakes is people who have no idea what they’re talking about when it comes to these subjects and, having suffered from depression, I am offended by these hard-line fuckwits who are jacks of all trades but masters of sod all. At heart, I have a feeling Jackson was a very lonely, troubled little boy, who in his own mind could see nothing wrong with his mad spending and his odd behaviour, and thus refused help wherever it was offered. His close friend and actress Elizabeth Taylor backed up the innocent nature of his slumber parties – he was a man who had been ruined by success and who just wanted to be a kid again. Even the director of the masterpiece that is the video for Thriller said that working with Jackson was like working with a big kid; full of ideas with a creative mind that never stopped brimming with cool ideas. I have a feeling he thought his concerts would be pretty cool too.
Creative minds, however, are becoming increasingly rare in this day and age. They are being replaced either by pen-pushers who don’t believe in creativity, or by people pretending to be creatives but ending up looking like pretentious tossers. I love creativity – the fun of brand new, daring ideas that haven’t been touched yet. It’s one of the reasons I loved RENT so much. It’s all about creativity, and living for the moment, something which is becoming rapidly diminished. One of the most peculiar things, however, is how this credo maybe permanently damaged Jackson. Yes, “no day but today” is a fun message and a hopeful one too, but not when the money to fund it runs out. The Neverland Ranch. The vile sculptures he bought on one such spending spree. Just some examples of his perceived recklessness. He left the world with barely £400,000 in the bank, which isn’t a lot for someone with assets totalling £600m (before debt) but maybe this is just another quirk that made him who he was.
I didn’t know Michael Jackson personally, and I’m not going to pretend that I did. But I have to confess, I went to bed on the Friday morning feeling a little odd. It seemed just weird to think that someone we’d derided, someone we’d scorned and someone we’d once admired had just suddenly vanished. In my own way, I dealt with it. And perhaps we should let other people deal with it their way too. It’s not hurting anyone, is it? I’m not being injured by stampedes of MJ fans crowding my train. At base level, these are people with someone who they believed in, someone whose music and whose personality made them feel good about themselves and each other. I think it’s time to let them do what they want to do in peace. He rocked their world, and now they can keep their own little bit of him alive.
I’ll end on a horrible joke, which will offend the majority of you. What are Jade Goody and Michael Jackson expecting for Christmas? Patrick Swayze.
Er... bye.
This week James moped around the house drinking tea and watching Top Gear, followed by Top Gear and then finished off the week by watching Top Gear. “Coming up next, it’s the fiftieth play of the one where Lionel Richie’s really lovely”
James Hall's Awful
Sput, as far as I'm aware, there's no banner at the top which dictates that you must read my columns of "wordy bore". However, you did choose to read it - or scan over it, at least - and post a reply to it. If you dislike my ranting raves, then by all means, do tell me, and I'll find somewhere else to do it. I like to give people what they want.
In the meantime, some woman on my Nationalised Express train has just accosted the nice trolley man in the vestibule for possibly not getting along the train by York (a feat easily accomplished - we were at Peterborough, he was at coach D and she was seated in coach B) and that she just HAD to have her cup of tea and have time to drink it. The fact that the job was more difficult for the trolley man because the vestibule is a shaky area clearly wasn't important to her.
In the meantime, some woman on my Nationalised Express train has just accosted the nice trolley man in the vestibule for possibly not getting along the train by York (a feat easily accomplished - we were at Peterborough, he was at coach D and she was seated in coach B) and that she just HAD to have her cup of tea and have time to drink it. The fact that the job was more difficult for the trolley man because the vestibule is a shaky area clearly wasn't important to her.
I have had occasion this weekend to be in Glasgow, but do a lot of travelling anyway due to moving away from home. Thus, I'm still seeing more of the insides of trains than there are Ronnie Biggs' nightmares but thought I'd feed you a few opinions a few months on from the monster of a diatribe at the start.
I travelled Virgin Trains yesterday Euston to Glasgow, and a really nice journey it was. The Pendolinos are very sexy and I love the onboard shop, and all in all really did enjoy the experience. Only four and a half hours passed too, so glad to see they're holding the record.
Cross reference that with today's journey. I'm on a Great National North Express Eastern Coast Railways train. At least, that's what the cab says (may upload a photo later to show you how actually shit it looks).They've done a quick job with vinyl stickers for the logos to cover up the NXEC branding on the white stripes (and in fact a train's just whizzed past me with the NXEC branding still on it - nothing like continuity during transfer time is there!) and there's a bit of new plastic covering the benches in the vestibules. There are new maps, and the posters are all replaced with "It's business as usual, it's your... East Coast" and the reserved signs, presumably not wanting to go to the expense of having to change in 2 days when the next bunch of sods take over, have no logo on them. The staff are all wearing NXEC uniform, with a few new badges.
The question is, what else can they do though? The NXEC franchise lost a lot of money. EC being a government owned TOC, what can they do now which will keep the cost of running services down, yet still provide a distinctive service? I'm interested to hear train geeks' opinions and corrections on this...
I travelled Virgin Trains yesterday Euston to Glasgow, and a really nice journey it was. The Pendolinos are very sexy and I love the onboard shop, and all in all really did enjoy the experience. Only four and a half hours passed too, so glad to see they're holding the record.
Cross reference that with today's journey. I'm on a Great National North Express Eastern Coast Railways train. At least, that's what the cab says (may upload a photo later to show you how actually shit it looks).They've done a quick job with vinyl stickers for the logos to cover up the NXEC branding on the white stripes (and in fact a train's just whizzed past me with the NXEC branding still on it - nothing like continuity during transfer time is there!) and there's a bit of new plastic covering the benches in the vestibules. There are new maps, and the posters are all replaced with "It's business as usual, it's your... East Coast" and the reserved signs, presumably not wanting to go to the expense of having to change in 2 days when the next bunch of sods take over, have no logo on them. The staff are all wearing NXEC uniform, with a few new badges.
The question is, what else can they do though? The NXEC franchise lost a lot of money. EC being a government owned TOC, what can they do now which will keep the cost of running services down, yet still provide a distinctive service? I'm interested to hear train geeks' opinions and corrections on this...
Oh I know, that was one thing I missed yesterday on VT, was that they've got an agreement with T-Mobile (and I'm not forking out £10 for 29 mins access).Sput wrote:East coast? I rather like their free wifi, and on their website there are no booking fees AND free 1st class postage of tickets.
The day I became an arsehole
Everyone who owns a BlackBerry is an arsehole. Let’s get that fact clear right now. Statistically, 99% of people who own a BlackBerry are either evil, or corrupt, or they’re just simply not nice. The other 1% are people who don’t know what a BlackBerry does, but got a free upgrade so decided to invest in one of them. But the nice people have fairly naff phones that they’ve held onto for twenty years and which still only do the most basic things. The nasty people stay on top of technology. Which is why they’ve got a BlackBerry. If it was called something fuzzy like the DingleTot or the PotatoCom, it wouldn’t sell half as well as the BlackBerry, because the name’s half the key to its success. Having said that, I would buy the DingleTot name and market it for kids – a phone with a dummy which extends from the mouthpiece. It’s a winner.
However, I have become one of the 99%. I have become a BlackBerry-using, suit-wearing, puppy-murdering monster. And I haven’t looked back – because the day I got a BlackBerry was the day that I entered an elite club. The day I transferred across to the dark side. I had to – during an impromptu visit to Norway, immediately following a funeral, I succumbed to the family trait of uselessness and left my old pretend-BlackBerry (a Nokia E71, don’tcha know, with all the functionality of a sheaf of corn crossed with a calculator and a cucumber) on a replacement bus service. Being phoneless is not a trait I enjoy – immediately, I felt out of the loop. But more importantly, my barrier to the world was broken.
When in a new place, with new people and new behaviours to memorise, I employ the same guard that virtually every nervous actor or human being employs. I get my phone out to “check my texts”, “check my emails” or “check Facebook”. This is my guard. I don’t immediately flock towards new people – therefore having a functional phone gives me something to do that says, “oh, no. I couldn’t possibly come and talk to you, because I’ve got to check my texts”. It’s a safety precaution that I feel fairly useless without. At a more basic level, it’s something to keep me occupied – in an airport, for example, I will randomly sit and press buttons on my phone in the vain hope that it will look like I’m doing something, but also to keep my pea-sized brain vaguely entertained. Don’t sneer – you do it too. Yes, you.
So – oh, bugger. I’m without a phone. Within two hours of landing at Heathrow, I find myself in Tesco, buying a cheap T-Mobile Pay and Go mobile that probably cost less to produce than Jordan’s implants. The rigmarole of having a new number began. This includes setting up one of those horrible Facebook groups – you know, the ones with irritating pictures of a phone, with witty titles like PHONE.ME or whereismyphone.com (I was truthful – mine was called “I am such an utter tit”). They’re also a measure of popularity; because I’d created an event, rather than a group, I therefore invited people to the “I am such an utter tit” event, which they could decide whether or not they wanted to attend. Imagine my chagrin when people started declining the invitation. Losing your phone deflates your ego.
Anyway, some numbers replaced, and temporary phone at the ready, I ventured into the world again, this time feeling like an human being. This time, however, I felt more like a technophobe. The phones in Tesco are traditionally meant for people who don’t use phones. The people who buy them do so simply to call and text, and maybe send the occasional picture of their cat begging for food and water. In addition, I’d not been worried about credit for a while. With being on a contract, the idea of asking people to ring me as I “didn’t have any credit” was a novelty and quickly shoved me down the pecking order again. I started to feel completely insecure. I was a PC still running Windows 97, and the rest of the world had moved on to Mac OSX. I was on a Gemini mission stuck in orbit while my friends were blasting off to Mars. I had become the uncool dad at a party.
Adding to my middle-aged turn of stomach was my inability to text properly on this new phone. For a few days, my chubby fingers toyed with the arcane touch screen like an oiled up stripper trying to climb up a fireman’s pole. I like phones with buttons, because buttons can’t go wrong. I can press them, they’re real (again, unlike Jordan’s tits) and if the screen crashes, you do at least get a few presses of buttons to vent your rage. But with touch screens, I feel like I’m trying to get one over on HAL from 2001. My thumbs get in the way and I end up texting someone I presume is the Yemeni ambassador telling him I love him, followed by a business presenter at the BBC, who receives an abusive text saying that I’d had enough and wanted to “sort this shit out”. He understood – I think.
I rang up my insurers. I’d had enough. Every reverse call I had to arrange felt like I was trying to organise a visit to Wormwood Scrubs. I no longer felt connected. Sure, I have my laptop with me pretty much constantly – but it won’t fit in my pocket, no matter how much I try to mash it down to make it so. I had no social networks at my side, no email, and only rudimentary texting. I felt pathetic that I’d come to rely on technology so much rather than real voices, and real people – but at the same time, I was starting to feel the pain of not relying on technology (after all, if it’s there, why not make the most of it?) and had decided to take affirmative action. Luckily, uselessness is rewarded (see MI5) and they offered me an upgrade. As I have an utter hatred of Apple, Macs and anything like that in general with “I” in front of the title, I excitedly chose a BlackBerry.
And so it comes to pass that I sit most days, back where I started, vacantly searching through my phone for something interesting, all the time aware that I have now become evil. Because I now have a BlackBerry, and as is the custom for anyone who owns a BlackBerry, I now have to keep my phone permanently attached to my hand, even on the Tube, and always have a message open to make me look popular. I must persuade people to “BBM” me (whatever on earth that is) and have developed a taste for consistently pressing the big black button in the centre – not even to check the time, but to look at my display picture and remind myself that I have a BlackBerry. Above all though, I feel important. I am now able to do things like send emails, and point with my phone, which I never would have dared to do with my pretend phone. I have become a tosser, less an actor and more an estate agent. I am embodying all of the things I used to abjectly loathe about people with BlackBerrys (I assume we are not meant to write “BlackBerries”, however grammatically correct). In short, I hate myself, which I think is what you’re supposed to feel with a BlackBerry.
This week James distracted himself every five minutes by reading the Daily Mail website – “I didn’t realise Piers no longer had a column. His was the least objectionable viewpoint”
Everyone who owns a BlackBerry is an arsehole. Let’s get that fact clear right now. Statistically, 99% of people who own a BlackBerry are either evil, or corrupt, or they’re just simply not nice. The other 1% are people who don’t know what a BlackBerry does, but got a free upgrade so decided to invest in one of them. But the nice people have fairly naff phones that they’ve held onto for twenty years and which still only do the most basic things. The nasty people stay on top of technology. Which is why they’ve got a BlackBerry. If it was called something fuzzy like the DingleTot or the PotatoCom, it wouldn’t sell half as well as the BlackBerry, because the name’s half the key to its success. Having said that, I would buy the DingleTot name and market it for kids – a phone with a dummy which extends from the mouthpiece. It’s a winner.
However, I have become one of the 99%. I have become a BlackBerry-using, suit-wearing, puppy-murdering monster. And I haven’t looked back – because the day I got a BlackBerry was the day that I entered an elite club. The day I transferred across to the dark side. I had to – during an impromptu visit to Norway, immediately following a funeral, I succumbed to the family trait of uselessness and left my old pretend-BlackBerry (a Nokia E71, don’tcha know, with all the functionality of a sheaf of corn crossed with a calculator and a cucumber) on a replacement bus service. Being phoneless is not a trait I enjoy – immediately, I felt out of the loop. But more importantly, my barrier to the world was broken.
When in a new place, with new people and new behaviours to memorise, I employ the same guard that virtually every nervous actor or human being employs. I get my phone out to “check my texts”, “check my emails” or “check Facebook”. This is my guard. I don’t immediately flock towards new people – therefore having a functional phone gives me something to do that says, “oh, no. I couldn’t possibly come and talk to you, because I’ve got to check my texts”. It’s a safety precaution that I feel fairly useless without. At a more basic level, it’s something to keep me occupied – in an airport, for example, I will randomly sit and press buttons on my phone in the vain hope that it will look like I’m doing something, but also to keep my pea-sized brain vaguely entertained. Don’t sneer – you do it too. Yes, you.
So – oh, bugger. I’m without a phone. Within two hours of landing at Heathrow, I find myself in Tesco, buying a cheap T-Mobile Pay and Go mobile that probably cost less to produce than Jordan’s implants. The rigmarole of having a new number began. This includes setting up one of those horrible Facebook groups – you know, the ones with irritating pictures of a phone, with witty titles like PHONE.ME or whereismyphone.com (I was truthful – mine was called “I am such an utter tit”). They’re also a measure of popularity; because I’d created an event, rather than a group, I therefore invited people to the “I am such an utter tit” event, which they could decide whether or not they wanted to attend. Imagine my chagrin when people started declining the invitation. Losing your phone deflates your ego.
Anyway, some numbers replaced, and temporary phone at the ready, I ventured into the world again, this time feeling like an human being. This time, however, I felt more like a technophobe. The phones in Tesco are traditionally meant for people who don’t use phones. The people who buy them do so simply to call and text, and maybe send the occasional picture of their cat begging for food and water. In addition, I’d not been worried about credit for a while. With being on a contract, the idea of asking people to ring me as I “didn’t have any credit” was a novelty and quickly shoved me down the pecking order again. I started to feel completely insecure. I was a PC still running Windows 97, and the rest of the world had moved on to Mac OSX. I was on a Gemini mission stuck in orbit while my friends were blasting off to Mars. I had become the uncool dad at a party.
Adding to my middle-aged turn of stomach was my inability to text properly on this new phone. For a few days, my chubby fingers toyed with the arcane touch screen like an oiled up stripper trying to climb up a fireman’s pole. I like phones with buttons, because buttons can’t go wrong. I can press them, they’re real (again, unlike Jordan’s tits) and if the screen crashes, you do at least get a few presses of buttons to vent your rage. But with touch screens, I feel like I’m trying to get one over on HAL from 2001. My thumbs get in the way and I end up texting someone I presume is the Yemeni ambassador telling him I love him, followed by a business presenter at the BBC, who receives an abusive text saying that I’d had enough and wanted to “sort this shit out”. He understood – I think.
I rang up my insurers. I’d had enough. Every reverse call I had to arrange felt like I was trying to organise a visit to Wormwood Scrubs. I no longer felt connected. Sure, I have my laptop with me pretty much constantly – but it won’t fit in my pocket, no matter how much I try to mash it down to make it so. I had no social networks at my side, no email, and only rudimentary texting. I felt pathetic that I’d come to rely on technology so much rather than real voices, and real people – but at the same time, I was starting to feel the pain of not relying on technology (after all, if it’s there, why not make the most of it?) and had decided to take affirmative action. Luckily, uselessness is rewarded (see MI5) and they offered me an upgrade. As I have an utter hatred of Apple, Macs and anything like that in general with “I” in front of the title, I excitedly chose a BlackBerry.
And so it comes to pass that I sit most days, back where I started, vacantly searching through my phone for something interesting, all the time aware that I have now become evil. Because I now have a BlackBerry, and as is the custom for anyone who owns a BlackBerry, I now have to keep my phone permanently attached to my hand, even on the Tube, and always have a message open to make me look popular. I must persuade people to “BBM” me (whatever on earth that is) and have developed a taste for consistently pressing the big black button in the centre – not even to check the time, but to look at my display picture and remind myself that I have a BlackBerry. Above all though, I feel important. I am now able to do things like send emails, and point with my phone, which I never would have dared to do with my pretend phone. I have become a tosser, less an actor and more an estate agent. I am embodying all of the things I used to abjectly loathe about people with BlackBerrys (I assume we are not meant to write “BlackBerries”, however grammatically correct). In short, I hate myself, which I think is what you’re supposed to feel with a BlackBerry.
This week James distracted himself every five minutes by reading the Daily Mail website – “I didn’t realise Piers no longer had a column. His was the least objectionable viewpoint”