The King (of Pop) is dead

The King (of Pop) is dead. And that's pretty much that.

I liked him. From a young age I'm not ashamed to admit I thought he was ace. Yes, he was a bit odd with the monkey and the oxygen tent and the one white glove, but his tunes were good, his dancing was awesome and for a young boy growing up in the badlands of Hull, he represented the very epitome of the word 'megastar'.

I can't pretend I ever get really upset about celebrities dying, simply because I don't really know them. There's that initial 'Oh' moment, when you first hear the news, but after that, you realise your life won't change that much and you crack on (or off, depending on your workload) as before.

The media has gone into full meltdown at the news, with literally hours of footage being dedicated to his body of work, which is quite frankly incredible. Everyone's got some shonky tracks in their portfolio, but the majority of his stuff was not only quality, but for it's time, ground-breaking.

Sadly, being such a controversial figure, all hell has broken loose with conspiracies and whatnot. Suggestions of foul play and medical malpractice threaten to overshadow the occasion, when it's likely that the simple fact was he had a heart attack and died. One day, a globally-reknowned star will cark it and everyone will go "That's sad" and that'll be that. No conspiracies, no crying uncontrollably and certainly no gathering round a paving stone bearing their name instead of getting their arses to work. I doubt I'll see that day though.

Luckily, despite the tragedy, there is a silver lining. Often shunning the press, and notorious for his supposed bullying parenting style which saw Michael and his brothers thrust into the limelight whether they liked it or not, Jacko's dad Joe has suddenly turned up again, using the oxygen of his son's death to promote his new record label.

Good work - why let the death of your child get in the way of business.

God rest you Jacko. Chamone.