By Jonathan Howcroft

I write this knowing only the vaguest of rumours circulating the death of Michael Jackson. I’m certain that he won’t be the first pop royalty to have rumours of his death greatly exaggerated. But I write not about MJ per se. I am writing to prophesise the coming hours, weeks and days as the global media Magimix whips us into such a state of frenzied grief you’ll be able to see the soft peaks of pilgrims at Neverland from space.

I was in the UK in 1997 when Diana Princess of Wales was tragically killed. I was actually one of the few people awake early enough to hear reports of the accident prior to confirmation of her death. I spent the rest of the day playing cricket and being robbed (hence why I remember the details so clearly) before returning home to scenes of such unfamiliar public grief I could have believed I was in a parallel universe. The following hysterical weeks were of a gruesome like unknown in modern times. You could not move for someone trying to lay flowers at some landmark or other where Diana had posed, fawned or conducted an extra-marital affair. As far as modern icons go, the late MJ is one of the few who can compete. I fear for our collective sanity that he has now taken his final moon-walk.

I don’t like Michael Jackson. I’ll say that now. Don’t get me wrong, he was a phenomenally talented songwriter, dancer and showman and richly deserves all of the industry accolades he has been showered with. The trouble is as an individual he has proven himself to be in a league of his own when it comes to being uncomfortably odd. The cosmetic surgery, the baby-juggling, the persistent rumours of paedophilia, the ‘Jesus-Juice’, the skin bleaching, the conversion to Islam, the chimp, the sailing of a giant effigy of himself down the Thames, calling his son Prince Michael, the list goes on. My point is (and this is not reserved specifically for Jackson) at what point should we divorce the soul of the genius from the deeply flawed individual in which it is housed? My answer is somewhere around the time the genius apes Christ and gyrates in flowing white robes surrounded by choirs of children practically catatonic in awe.

So now we have to endure days, if not weeks, of footage of Jacko as child, relive the horrific stories of his abusive J-Ho upbringing, rejoice in the cherubic brown child of the 70s, revolt as he matures into the pale ghoul of recent times, admire the ground-breaking music and videos – all suitably overlaid with classic hits of the past four decades. I haven’t seen such a montage yet, but I am already over it.

I can predict with confidence an army of mawkish pilgrims en route to Neverland as I type, resplendent in their Jacko tour T-shirts, white gloves and comedy chimp puppets. Nothing attracts a crowd quite like the unexpected death of an icon, and Jackson’s fans are nothing if not fanatical. No other group of devotees have had to endure as much as MJs. And still they remain; a stadium residency in London recently breaking box-office records despite (accurate) question-marks over the performer’s health and professional capacity to complete such an arduous season.

And therein is the circle squared. Michael Jackson was a deeply flawed individual. Much of this can be attributed to a cruel and labour intensive childhood. Much of the rest is the product of chasing one’s ego to the precipice of sanity to the cheers of vacant clones. Why didn’t the fans try and help him? Where was the tough love? The demands for rehab? The rejection of bad-albums? For years the Jackson Leviathan has been fed by zombie sycophants. The same hangers-on will now be publicly lamenting the passing of their idol, blissfully unaware of their role in his downfall.

The death of Michael Jackson is tragic. The life of Michael Jackson was tragic. The Michael Jackson fans that are going to dominate my life for the next few weeks are tragic. A drug-addict who abused his body for the duration of his adult life has died prematurely. Can we please take a brief moment to reflect on the cost of such a waste and move on?

Fortunately for Australians, the Ashes begin in a week.

*Intellectual Property owned by Mr Nicholas Kirk.