It was freakish. There we were on the high stools at Bocca di Lupo picking at a deep fried artichoke with a dirty martini on order, wondering how on earth Michael Jackson was going to get out of doing the 02 concerts. It’s been, let’s face it, clear for quite some time that he wasn’t exactly busting internal tissue rehearsing. And 50 shows. It’s a bit much.
‘There will be illness,’ said one of us. ‘That’s the only thing anyone’s going to believe. But he better be good.’ Literally two minutes later, the maitre d’ approached to break the news that he had died. Now, what do you think about that? Another story that is pretty much about us and not the celebrity at the heart of it all!
So, while sad that our favourite pop freak – we defended him vigorously when that retard Jarvis Cocker, like the little middle class twat he is, invaded the King’s stage at the Brits all those years ago – is no more. But there’s a part of us that thinks he is hiding out in a high-security palace in the United Arab Emirates and that it was a hologram that had the heart attack.
In fact, we saw Michael Jackson in Holborn Pret a Manger buying a Posh Cheddar baguette and a soya latte half an hour ago. Let that count as the first official sighting.