I didn’t happen upon Michael Jackson till a few years ago (yes, really – it appears I had other things on my mind in his heyday eighties) but, by god, when I finally watched CD “Michael Jackson Number Ones”, ca 2003, I fell in love with the guy.

His dancing, the choreography, the stories his videos tell in such a minimalistic way – absolutely fantastic. But, of course, and so very sad for him, he was a BOY inside what was a very attractive man’s face and body (so unfortunate that, eventually, he shaved off his nose completely).

Why a boy? Visually he was sex on legs: Look at, say, the testosterone fuelled “Beat It” or “Bad” but watch the terror in his face right at the end of “Dirty Diana” when he climbs into the car of, yes, Diana. Whatever promise he made on stage it most certainly won’t have been fulfilled that night.

Michael Jackson, a lost and abandoned soul, touched my heart. I wish I could have made him better. It sickens me to now have his father and his siblings snivel and drivel in front of cameras. Where was that disfunctional lot when it really mattered?

On a high note: How many grown men can get away with wearing white socks outside the tennis court – other than Michael Jackson?

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