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I can't take anymore. No sooner have we come out of mourning for Jade Goody, it’s straight back on with the sackcloth and ashes for Michael Jackson. Perhaps there is an argument, after all, for us women to wear those burkas? That way we could simply jog along from one funeral to the next, not having to worry whether we are appropriately dressed or not.
These days it seems that every celebrity that dies has to outdo the last and put on a show (funeral) to remember. I was well and truly annoyed with the Jackson family; they only went and staged Michael's funeral slap bang on my birthday. How selfish and inconsiderate of them was that? I ended up going to bed with the hump as, unbelievably, most people I invited felt it inappropriate to celebrate on such a sad day and preferred to stop in crying in front of their TV sets. However, I did try and call the Jacko PR people to ask them to reschedule, but they were all far too busy trying to decide what nose Michael should wear for his big send off to bother getting back to me.
Hello? Clearly I never met MJ. He made a few good records, granted, but he was no friend of mine. Yes, I am sorry another celeb has bitten the dust, as I feel sorry for anyone that dies. But am I such a bad person that I don't feel the need to go into mourning? Living with Him Indoors is enough to make me weep into my Cornflakes every morning as it is, without having some celebrity to cry over as well. Nor have I had the urge to download any of his records onto my iPod, or rush out and light a candle, or frantically bid on eBay for a sheet of his ‘unused’ toilet paper.
As they carried his coffin into the arena, Jackson's brothers, you couldn't help but notice, were all wearing single white rhinestone-studded gloves. It’s a bloody good job no one thought of this when Elvis died or the pallbearers would all have been decked out in plastic quiffs and white rhinestone jumpsuits.
I could also never understand why Wacko felt the need to constantly grab his crotch whilst dancing. Surely, with all those doctors around him, someone could have given him something for that itch? Apparently, the number one preferred torture for extracting a confession in Guantanamo Bay is for prisoners to be made to dance at gun point like Michael Jackson. Now that is what I call real torture.
MJ claimed he’d had so much plastic surgery to make himself look like Diana Ross, but judging by the end results, I think he must have mistakenly given a picture of Bubbles to his surgeon.
Meanwhile, Wacko's records seem to have been playing day and night almost everywhere. I often wished he would ‘Just Beat It’ myself, and now he has. It seems that in the Wacky World of MJ, actually burying him after the funeral was never going to be a forgone conclusion, because surely there’s still pots of money to be made. After all, the show must go on and the ‘World Tour’ is said to be kicking off still, apparently, with Jacko being driven here, there, and everywhere this past week, his cortège even making a brief stop outside Wal-Mart so that MJ could posthumously fulfil his contract to promote their brand to the last.
As The Edge goes to print, old Jacko is currently residing in Elizabeth Taylor's crypt, but will be moving to Lionel Ritchie's crypt in the next few days. After that, who knows where he’ll end up in a celebrity crypt merry-go-round. The aptly named ‘Never Never Land’, where it appears MJ bought everything on credit, is now about to get a much needed boost when he finally stops touring and ends up there for his grand finale. Only I never could tell whether he was the ‘Boy Man’ or the ‘Man Who Liked Boys’? Either way, let him finally rest in peace.
Only what is it with us nowadays? Where has our stiff upper lip gone? Instead, we all seem to go mad with grief the moment a celebrity dies. Flowers pile up. People take to the streets clutching candles. Not to mention the wailing. Oh yes, funerals and grieving are bang in fashion. They’re right up there with Jimmy Choo shoes.
I read last week that a book of remembrance had been opened for two police dogs that died and that the Police Station had had to assign grief counsellors and extra staff to cope with several hundred floral tributes. Can you imagine what’s been written in that book? ‘Thanks for sinking your teeth into my ankle.’ ‘I will never forget having you hanging off my arse. RIP Rover.’ Have we finally got to the point where we need to fill our days with weeping and wailing for celebrities and animals? The only people who seem to be profiting in these hard times are Interflora.
Someone asked me last week who I reckon is up for the next celebrity funeral and my money’s on Jordan/Kate Price aka Katie Andre, or whatever she's calling herself these days. Apparently, she's the odds on favourite to kick-the-bucket next, due to the fact that Jordan's celebrity clout is dwindling. My theory is that she needs to reboot it with the same sort of attention her bitter rival, Jade Goody, received when she met her maker and was on every magazine cover on the shelves, the lucky so-and-so.
Apparently, according to her latest press release, Jordan is considering dying too. “I'll die,” she initially volunteered. “I can do that. I'll do it tomorrow, in between writing one of those books I don't really write and buying something pink.”
But instead, she’s been persuaded to try her luck with an interview or two first and then yet another trip to Ibiza/to see her plastic surgeon.
Remember folks, you read it here first!
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