Re: James Hall's Awful
Posted: Wed 01 Jul, 2009 11.24
‘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”
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”