When Michael Jackson died on June 25th, 2009, it was like my whole world had suddenly come to an end.
I was a Michael Jackson fan, a slightly obsessive fan actually; a fan whose cramped and narrow bedroom was decked to the nines in King of Pop merchandise and life-sized cardboard cutouts that would creepily gaze at me in the middle of the night. I would half expect them to suddenly come to life and penetrate me, but being the insanely neurotic fan I was at the time, I probably would have enjoyed having my bum fucked by a cardboard Michael Jackson quite frankly.
You couldn’t swing an elbow nor do a Jackson trademark spin (with complimentary OW!) in my bedroom without bumping into something with Michael Jacksons surgically constructed face plastered on it.
“The last time I had experienced such devastating heartbreak was when Geri left the Spice Girls.”
I was fanatical, I was deranged… and I was BAD! (And probably slightly DANGEROUS too in a mentally unstable kind of way)
When my hero died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wept uncontrollably into my Michael Jackson cushion and strategically planned out on how I was going to kill myself.
The last time I had experienced such devastating heartbreak was when Geri left the Spice Girls, and even though Ginger was proclaimed dead in the ‘Look at Me’ video, at least Geri Halliwell was well and truly alive in real life.
In fact, I had been to the Spice Girls concert a few years back and envisioned the day when I could say I had been to a Michael Jackson tour. So when it was announced that the king of pop would be making a triumphant comeback. Well… it was an absolute thriller!
Who would have thought that those haughtily accurate and eerie words would actually literally mean, THIS IS IT!
On the verge of hanging myself with a sequin glove and not particularly wanting to end up as a dancing zombie corpse in my next life, I ventured out in the search of other grief-stricken Michael Jackson fans who would be the only people in the world to understand my despair and suffering.
We all congregated together outside the 02 Arena where Michael Jackson was set to perform 50 shows as part of his sell-out concert. Dressed up in Jackson-style fedoras and military jackets brought off eBay, we lit candles and sang his songs as images of the star were projected on a giant screen.
A temporary memorial wall had been erected where grieving and distraught fans could sign their messages of sorrow and sadness, as people travelled from all over the UK, some even coming from other parts of the world to lay flowers, letters and photos of their beloved hero.
Friendships blossomed in grief and anguish, and it was as if the spirit of Michael was bringing us together.
Herded together by the death of our treasured leader, we came together with a purpose, showcasing a display of unity, solidarity and stupidly awkward toe standing as Billie Jean played on someones dodgy 80’s style boom box for the 1,375th time in a row.
By now I was fully aware that Billie Jean was in fact just a girl that claimed that she was the one, as the subliminal lyrics of Michael Jackson was slowly filtered through into my brain like some kind of Anti-Trump propaganda transmitter.
To the normal everyday tax paying commuter who had a life and actual responsibilities and on their way to work, we probably looked like a group of down syndrome/autistics clumsily huddled together and let out on a day trip up to London without our carers supervising us.
But to us, we were defenders of truth and justice, as we left a trail of glittering glued on sequins behind us on the Central Line, on route to another uncoordinated shambles of a flash mob.
Just like your average Harvey Weinstein casting coach session, there was a lot of inappropriate crouch grabbing that occurred, and not the kind of crouch grabbing that the king of pop was best known for either.
[Disclaimer] – This would be the perfect opportunity to include an underage boy joke here but he was proven innocent. So stuff your tabloid crap!
Speaking of inappropriate physical contact, there was sex and sleaze where ever you turned. In fact, it was very uncommon to meet a member of the MJ fan community that had not slept or sucked off their fellow MJ fan.
There was cheating, group sex and just the right amount of consensual underage sex to rival any Jeremy Kyle episode. But, hey… it was all for L.O.V.E after all… right!?
“I knew I had to look at that non-binary person in the mirror and make that change.”
There were a lot of strange and peculiar characters in the Michael Jackson fan community. Most of which probably suffered from some kind of personality defect or just a bad case of psychological distress. Witnessing supposedly grown adults attempt to recreate the anti-gravity lean as seen in the Smooth Criminal music video and falling flat on their face made you question why the NHS cut costs on mental health care provisions in the first place.
Amongst the Dirty Dianas, Liberian Girls and the resident Michael Jackson fan community STD ravaged prostitutes who gave head in exchange for rare MJ memorabilia; there was this rather unusual woman who went by the name of, The Boogie Woman.
This boogie woman person resembled a frightening looking homeless person with a traumatic looking weave, and who looked like the kind of rough sleeper who bathed in pigeon faeces and who smelt of urine. No one actually knew her real name, all we knew was that her ‘boogie’ alter ego came from some obscure Jackson 5 song, which to be honest, even the diehard super Jackson fan I was at the time was not familiar with.
This boogie Boogie-woogie woman clearly thought she was the resurrection of Jesus Christ as her equally as deluded disciples of the MJ Community (who by now had dubbed themselves the aptly named MJ Fam) blindly followed her crusade of love, all in the name of their lord and saviour Michael Jackson of course.
The boogie Woman was now the new self-appointed leader of the MJ Fam, but with great power came even greater extravagancies, and of course, a lot more hanging out on street corners and preaching the Jackson gospel. We were the Jackson jihadists and we would do absolutely anything to defend the name and honour of our beloved popstar prophet Michael Jackson (peace be upon him).
But, I knew I had to look at that non-binary person in the mirror and make that change. The MJ community had become a political shambles of unelected bureaucrats who were only out to serve their own agenda and stroke their own ego (a bit like the E.U really)
I sold off most of my MJ collectables and used the profit to ship Tesco Value sandwiches (halal of course) to starving children in Syria and done my little bit to heal the world. I hung up my red sequined jacket, put down my pet monkey, and moonwalked my ass out of there (Actually, I couldn’t moonwalk to save my life, so just walked out in a normal socially accepted kind of way instead)
It took me years to be able to listen to Michael Jackson songs again without wanting to dunk my face into Sulfuric acid but I am finally able to listen to a Jackson tune and… you know, actually enjoy it, without getting an orgasm!
I did not want to dance on the corner of a street like a hooker on coke whenever I heard “Remember the Time” and for all intents and purposes, I could fully function in a normal society without wanting to punch anyone in the face who had the audacity to say that Michael Jackson was a paedophile.
Saying beat it (literally) to the Michael Jackson fan community was the best thing that I could have possibly ever done. I don’t know if Anne is ok, but I do know that my mental sanity is doing A-OK!