The King of Pap…

It’s with a bit of a heavy heart that much of the music world greeted the news of Michael Jackson’s series of concerts at the o2 this July (and, after ‘massive demand’ more in August). While it’s undeniable that, in his 70s and 80s pomp, there may not have been a better performer on the planet, since Bad, his career, and his life, have been one slow, painful descent into the abyss. Albums retreating further and further into schmaltz and saccharine pop, a shadow of his former self, and that was the good news. Sexual abuse allegations, failing health, baby dangling. It was a car crash that you couldn’t even bear to look at.

So, you have to ask the question: are we flocking to see him instigate a career renaissance, or to laugh at the freakshow? It’s no secret that, while this is billed as a gift to his many UK fans, The King of Pop is broke, so this is as much to probably pay his tax bill as much as give his die-hard (and probably blinkered) fans one last chance to see him. Compare it to Prince and it’s not hard to see where the pathos is heading.

Mind you, it could be worse. You could have to sit through U2’s latest album.

Who needs a kitchen really?

 

Ok, so yes, I know that I’m already deep in middle-class urban improvement quagmire having my flat redecorated, and in an ideal world it’d have been done while I was on holiday, but that’s only partly the case. Having endured 24 globe-spanning hours in air-conditioned, pre-packaged and reheated airline drudgery, I arrived home dreaming of shower, food, and collapsing in front of the tv. This all went very well until I glanced dustsheets on my sofa as a gazed down the hall having staggered in clutching my bags. 

Well, let’s start with the positives: my new kitchen is, at least, taking shape. 

That’s it really. 

Not only did I not have a kitchen, insofar as it’s an empty room with a few pipes sticking out of the wall, that’s fine. Even tolerable that the contents of the kitchen is in the lounge, and the contents of the hall were in (well, thrown all over) my bedroom. But not so good that the water was off. So no shower, no drink, no nothing. And this was capped by finding 2 days worth of waterless, workman-filled toilet. Oh the joy. 

Now of course I shouldn’t complain, of course, as in 7 days I should have a spanking new kitchen, but this wasn’t exactly what I planned in my tired homecoming fantasy when I walked through the door on Tuesday. And until the weekend I’m confined to my room, scared of entering the bathroom at all, and until the end of next week, I’m living on sofas and in gyms whilst trying to study for job interviews and longing for a meal that doesn’t come wrapped in plastic. I never thought I’d long for a microwave meal….. 

And while I’m here…. I’ve been back 3 days and not a workman in sight. Hmmmm.