Uh-oh, he’s about to speak about a dead celebrity. Michael Jackson fans, run, run away! Now! But the thing is – hear me out, here – my fascination and condemnation of the frenzy that follows the death of a celebrity has nothing to do with the actual celebrity. Everybody carries on in this bizarre state of delusion - one that pretends to be about the dead celebrity in question, but is nothing of the kind. And it is no more illustrated as such, as when someone dies who has had, let’s just be real here, as questionable a life as Jackson’s. I pointed it out with Irwin’s death, because he was simply unremarkable and largely unimportant until his death. Ledger’s neared closer, as we all chose to romanticise a damaged Hollywood heart-thob who partied just a little too hard. But now, we have the death of Michel Jackson. It seems bizarre to write it. But he’s dead. And when he was alive - for the longest while now, at very least – he wasn’t the kind of man we rejoiced the merits of. He was one of the most hated celebrities of the last decade – and, beyond that, for the last few years we had basically forgotten him (although it would seem he did not forget us). Every now and then, he would pop up (on places like Australian Idol - of all things!) to be indulged as nothing more than a fleeting symbol of yesteryear – we would consume him with a fondness every bit as self-indulgent and meaningless as symbols of yesteryears are for us. But now, he’s dead. And open up any paper, and you’d think it was one of the most shocking turning points of modern civilisation itself. I mean, really. Michael Jackson, the tortured, fucked up monster that we made – the guy who had all but mutilated his body in a manner that wasn’t anywhere near as amusing as we so viciously exploited him for - died. Go figure. If anything, that he made 50 astonishes me.