Michael Jackson and courtroom dramas are indeed a heady mix and he’s back, well not him personally but I saw on the news a frightened looking doctor up in the dock getting the blame thrown on him. Not entirely unexpected, it had to be someone’s fault and anyone suggesting the King of Pop to be anything less than totally blameless is a rabble rousing renegade who deserves to be beaten to within an inch of his life by the good ol` boys of the LAPD.
Jackson has always been a bit of a nonentity for me, roughly the same age we peaked at the same time but definitely on separate stages, at no point in my hay days do I recall screeching like a daft wee lassie or breaking my own balls in a desperate attempt to master the moonwalk. But after he was mercifully dispatched from this world I did write something about him. And here it is:-
I thought the worm was turning, they were dropping like flies, two Sleb supermongs Michael Jackson and Jade Goody, gone, no more; Jackson, an abhorrent pederast more than capable of washing what’s left of his face in the leaking body fluids of a too long dead Hollywood child star if he thought it would turn him into Elizabeth Taylor and Goody, an attention seeking harridan who would’ve gladly paid a surgeon a Heat magazine fee to sculpt her fat arse into that of a pre-pubescent boy’s to put herself in the running for some of that legendary maypole Dick action.
Indeed, and that just about does it for me. But Jackson DID encroach into my life, once upon a time long, long ago in that most excellent of early opening bars The Penny Black and it went something like this:-
BARMAN THAT LOOKS LIKE THE SINGER FAE THE SWEETS DA : what y’ having?
ME: pint pal.
GEORDIE FOOL THAT’S BEEN IN SINCE 5.05 (am): reet whaat ah waaz sayin boney lad waaz that thon droomer boy from the Baaay Ceeety Roooolers like waaz a nonce…bairns man, can y’magine onythin worse?
BARMAN: nah that’s unfair he was accused yes but that was all, didn’t get done.
FOOL: whaat abooot the manger then, he waaz a reet fookin perverted nonce baastard.
BARMAN: no arguments there.
FOOL: waayaye man the seventies waaz full o them…look at Gary Fookin Glitter man day y’ wanna be in his gang ..what gangs thaat likes? A gang o fookin nonces.
BARMAN: nobody knew at the time though did they?
FOOL: waaat y’fuckin waant man, he divvn’t go and wear a fookin jacket wi AHM A PERVO NONCE stamped on the back?
BARMAN: well, no, course not but..
FOOL: but fook all man, see me, ahma reet HEAVY ROCKER me likes, nah fookin Michael Fookin Jackson records in my bag, ah’ll tell yiz thaaat fur nothin.
I wasn’t mistaken his gaze had homed in on the bag which contained my long awaited copy of the Only Ones new album I had just picked up from the shop. Surely this burly rocker who was beating his own chest like an ape, declaring his preferred musical tastes, didn’t suspect me as being in possession of a Michael Jackson recording. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out a middle-aged man in an old Motorhead t-shirt, filthy Levi jacket and sporting a greasy pony tail half way down his back was into hard rock or that the barman with the feathered hairstyle might have more than just the one glam rock record in his collection but what of a guy wearing black 501?s and a t-shirt. Was this the garb of a hardened Michael Jackson aficionado? I had no idea.
What I did know, for sure, was that the Fool’s belligerence was fuelled by a dangerous mixture of strong drink and bad cocaine and that caution should not just be the chosen but the only path. I mulled over in my mind what had just happened; sure the insult was implied rather than direct but the Michael Jackson association was too much to bear. I had to sort this out. His face was red and horrible as he stared at me incredulous that anybody would be stupid enough to invade his space when he was on a full flight rant. This is it, I thought, I’m going to die, I’m going to be killed because my stupid pride won’t let me swallow a half hearted Michael Jackson insult.
ME: do I look like a fuckin Michael Jackson fan?
He pondered this…gravely. I braced myself for the pain.
FOOL: nah bonny lad, that y’dont, hey Goldilocks get this man a fookin beer.
Outside and rushing, don’t want to miss another train. A beggar in a yellow quilted dressing gown is yelling THAT’S A FOREIGN COIN at a couple of comedians – Hearts fans who’ve got their scarves tied round their heads and sporting maroon, silky bomber jackets. Living proof if proof’s needed that … all that glitters is not gold and even serpents shine.
–Charlie Skinner