Michael Jackson Notebook

Hollywood

The news cycle of a dead celebrity is a curious thing. One minute I am calmly watching Kelvin Mackenzie laying into Julia Goldsworthy about a rocking chair on Question Time, the next minute Michael Jackson is dead and I’m on a plane to LA. Los Angeles is a terrible place for a celebrity to die. It is an 11-hour flight and an eight-hour time difference, which naturally runs the risk of the celebrity being too dead by the time you land. Locked in airspace — in ignorance — you never really know how a story is playing out on the ground.

12 hours later

We arrive to find the OMG! (ohmygod) text-speak of shock already gone, but the fans are out in full force. We head to Hollywood Boulevard where they cluster around his star on the walk of fame. They are a happy bunch, actually; his music is everywhere and his sudden death has liberated people to embrace the 1980s with a benevolent buzz of nostalgia. Overnight, white ankle socks and hush puppies will become de rigueur. The breakdancers on the strip are now moonwalkers, the T-shirts (RIP Michael — 1958-2009) are hot off the press and hawked on the streets as we pass, and people queue up to receive therapy by voxpop. They tell me how they grew up with Jackson, went through puberty with Jackson, broke up to Jackson, got married to Jackson — in essence he is part of who they are. Tonight, for 24 hours only, no one will mention court cases, his delight in the company of young boys and monkeys, or even his nose.