So the most famous man in the world is dead.
He’s so famous that, when he died, he broke the internet. As reports of Michael Jackson’s supposed cardiac arrest emerged, Google thought it was “under attack”.
For an eighties kid like me, growing up trying to perfect, but still to this day being shit at, the moonwalk, it’s strange to think how his star has waned in recent times. It’s true, there have been some uncomfortable allegations. And a fairground certainly sounds like something a rich paedophile would build in his back yard.
But he was acquitted, so anything said to the contrary is just speculation – it’s unlikely that anyone will ever really know what happened.
Mud sticks, though, so it’s testament to Michael Jackson’s talent and influence that, despite all the negative headlines, all the babies dangled over balconies and the inexplicably nonchalant approach to vase-buying he displayed in that Martin Bashir documentary, he could still sell 11 tickets a second for this year’s 50-date tour – said to be the fastest-selling ever.
With Quincy Jones he created one of the best songs of all time, Billie Jean, and for his electric live performances and all his ground-breaking, unifying and just damn funky music, he is, and always will be, a legend and a genius.
RIP Michael Jackson.