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| Letters From London |
| Humorous Views on London Culture, Royals, Gossip and Politics |
"The Kid is Not my Son" - 25 June 2009
Anonymous fan: “My life is ruined. It will never be the same without my Michael. He was part of
my family.”
Jordan: “Do you think LaToya will give me the name of his plastic surgeon?”
Another anonymous fan: “My soul is suffering. I can feel it.”
Lisa Marie Presley: “Hey. Only my dad is allowed to have died from an addiction to prescription
drugs.”
Another anonymous fan: “He’s with Jade in heaven now.”
Rev Al Sharpton: “A role model equal to Martin Luther King…for a white woman.”
Another anonymous fan: “It’s Princess Diana all over again.”
O2 promoter: “Fuck. Now I’ll have to do the moonwalk myself for those 50 concerts. Somebody
get me a white glove fast.”
Another anonymous fan: “I loved him more than life. I may have to overdose.”
Mandela: “Michael was black?”
Madonna can’t stop crying, Jane Fonda has lost her new best friend, Liza Minnelli is going to
mourn him every day for the rest of her life, Elizabeth Taylor can’t speak, but Uri Geller surely
can and so far, they can’t get him to stop…he’s coming up to marathon 24 hours. “My little
brother gone. I didn’t know. The spoons failed me.”
Every pathetic politician and a - z list sycophantic celebrity has called on the press to express
their love and more importantly their special relationship with the self-proclaimed King of Pop.
A grotesque ventriloquist’s puppet, skin whiter than Snow White, a false nose, transvestite make-
up, little boys in his bed, hedonistic, decadent, indulgent, my-father-beat-me self-pity, arrested
emotional development, dodgy parenting regarding 'his' children, drug addiction, the soft voice
put on, messianic… blind in one eye, bleeding intestines, in need of a lung transplant, body
dysmorphic disorder, lupus, anorexia, cancerous patches on his neck, pre-cancerous patches on
his face… everybody’s hero, role model, idol. Time to separate the man from the myth and the
music.
Flawed to the point of creepy, an inspiration and icon of the era, an exceptionally talented song
and dance man – with special thanks to Quincy Jones – living in a fantasy world like most of his
fans.
Anonymous fan: “My life is ruined. It will never be the same without my Michael. He was part of
my family.”
Jordan: “Do you think LaToya will give me the name of his plastic surgeon?”
Another anonymous fan: “My soul is suffering. I can feel it.”
Lisa Marie Presley: “Hey. Only my dad is allowed to have died from an addiction to prescription
drugs.”
Another anonymous fan: “He’s with Jade in heaven now.”
Rev Al Sharpton: “A role model equal to Martin Luther King…for a white woman.”
Another anonymous fan: “It’s Princess Diana all over again.”
O2 promoter: “Fuck. Now I’ll have to do the moonwalk myself for those 50 concerts. Somebody
get me a white glove fast.”
Another anonymous fan: “I loved him more than life. I may have to overdose.”
Mandela: “Michael was black?”
Madonna can’t stop crying, Jane Fonda has lost her new best friend, Liza Minnelli is going to
mourn him every day for the rest of her life, Elizabeth Taylor can’t speak, but Uri Geller surely
can and so far, they can’t get him to stop…he’s coming up to marathon 24 hours. “My little
brother gone. I didn’t know. The spoons failed me.”
Every pathetic politician and a - z list sycophantic celebrity has called on the press to express
their love and more importantly their special relationship with the self-proclaimed King of Pop.
A grotesque ventriloquist’s puppet, skin whiter than Snow White, a false nose, transvestite make-
up, little boys in his bed, hedonistic, decadent, indulgent, my-father-beat-me self-pity, arrested
emotional development, dodgy parenting regarding 'his' children, drug addiction, the soft voice
put on, messianic… blind in one eye, bleeding intestines, in need of a lung transplant, body
dysmorphic disorder, lupus, anorexia, cancerous patches on his neck, pre-cancerous patches on
his face… everybody’s hero, role model, idol. Time to separate the man from the myth and the
music.
Flawed to the point of creepy, an inspiration and icon of the era, an exceptionally talented song
and dance man – with special thanks to Quincy Jones – living in a fantasy world like most of his
fans.
