Jacko R.I.P.

Michael Jackson changed my life. Though if I’ve kept quiet about it until the age of 32, it’s because: a) Jacko fans don’t have the coolest reputation, given their tendency to stand weeping and screaming dementedly on pavements around the world; b) Jacko hasn’t enjoyed the best of reputations, what with the reports of sleeping in oxygen tanks, the hanging of babies over hotel balconies, and the rumours of MRSA, painkiller addiction, extensive plastic surgery, stage fright, skin whitening, paranoia, and sleeping with children; c) the story is embarrassing not only for me but for my brother too, and when I wrote a family memoir the other year, we agreed that in exchange for being allowed to publish certain photographs, I wouldn’t bang on about the Jacko thing; and e) there didn’t seem to be much of a reason to mention it.

But now there is, and my brother has relented, to a degree, so I may as well blurt it out, praying not to be judged too harshly, and begin by explaining that it all began in inner-city 1980s Wolverhampton, where my siblings and I followed pop artists in the way other, better-adjusted children followed football teams. One of my older sisters was a dedicated Bruce Springsteen fan. I was a dedicated George Michael fan. And my elder brother, Jasmail, was a Michael Jackson fan…

Read atTimes Online