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Let’s get this straight, right from the start: I have NEVER been a fan of Michael Jackson. I was a tween when Thriller was huge and, for whatever reason, it never appealed to me. A teenager when Bad came out, I just didn’t get it. Man, I was a rocker through and through and even the inclusion of the odd Eddie Van Halen guitar solo wasn’t going to turn me on to him.
But, I respected his genius and, as I got older and wiser, respected his humanitarian actions. I truly believe that he was a good man at heart that only wanted to love and be loved.
I never jumped on the anti-MJ bandwagon when the child abuse scandals emerged. I wasn’t a fan but I actually found myself defending him. Not his actions (if the accusations are true) but him as a product of his upbringing. We are all twisted in some way due to traumatic events that have occurred during our lives. I have been left scarred by the fact that my biological father left me and my mum when I was 5 - despite the fact that my mum remarried the man I call and consider to be my Dad. However, a lot of my thoughts, feelings and actions are tainted by this one event.
So, how can any of us even begin to comprehend what went through the mind of this person who has been a superstar since he was 5? On one hand, you have the trappings of fame. The money, the Yes Men, the luxuries. All of these things tend to unbalance most people. Then you have an abusive father. Is it any wonder that MJ spent a lifetime trying to recapture the childhood he never had?
Yes, you have ignoramouses the world over who say things like “boo hoo, it must be tough being a multi-millionaire superstar” or “it was years ago, get over it”, but they are just highlighting their ignorance. Anyone with even the most basic grasp of pschology can see exactly why Michael Jackson became the “freak” we have seen over the last 10-15 years. Fuck, look at Britney Spears, shaving all her hair off and going a bit bonkers! She has had only 10% of what MJ has experienced for 20% of the time and it has screwed her right up.
Like most people, I came to learn about MJ’s sad demise online, last night. The rumour soon became fact and I was pretty shocked. I remember when one of my true heroes, Freddie Mercury died. It had a profound effect on me. I taped every news report and made press clippings and fell in to a depression that I didn’t understand. I guess I was grieving about a man I never knew. I was lucky enough to meet Brian May a few years later and spent most of the time trying to convey my emotions to him. He probably thought I was a nut job.
Last night was one of those “where were you” moments. Like Elvis, John Lennon or Diana. A historical moment in our pop culture. I am glad to see, for his families’ sake, that his memory and career is being treated with the respect it deserves. The bandwagon has moved on I see; the same news reporters who spent years slagging him off are now his biggest fans but, that seems to be the accepted form these days. You know, hypocrisy.
I remain true to the feelings I had: never enjoyed the music, never quite understood the hysteria and I’m not about to now declare that I was always his biggest fan. I wasn’t. But I am a human being so, from one human being to another, Rest In Peace.
I was thinking earlier on about the dumbest thing I ever did. I included absolutely everything from every age and every circumstance. The answer is actually work related, ie, it is something that I did for money. I guess many people do things they would rather forget for money but how many people out there, I wonder, would do what I did..?
Would YOU employ THIS MAN to be your children’s entertainer?!
Yes, that’s right, for one night only, I was a children’s entertainer in a private home. I believe the small person in question was celebrating their 5th Birthday.
Here is the full story.
I was skint. I mean totally brassic. Zero money, bills to pay, had just left home, was completely clueless. My brainchild occurred one, cold night (bare with me) when I decided to advertise in the local paper:
“Children’s Entertainer available for private parties. Call XXXX XXXXXX”
Unbelievably, someone phoned. Perhaps more unbelievably, after speaking to me, that person actually booked me. “What do you do?”, they enquired, “All the usual. Puppet shows, games, that kind of thing”. And, no, I wasn’t on drugs.
Now, I have always been one to dress in a particular way. I look the same whether I am on stage entertaining an arena or plodding my way around Tesco’s buying Maltesers. So, imagine the look of sheer horror on the faces of the parents that opened their door to me that fateful day. In those days, I had mad Vince Neil style bleach blonde hair. All standing up and bonkers looking. Naturally, I had my facepaint on (eyeliner, a bit of lippy) and, of course, I was clumping around in my cowboy boots, skin tight jeans, various belts, buckles and some kind of band T-shirt. In short, I was barely indistinguishable from the hundreds of children’s entertainers that enter people’s houses week in, week out. Not!
I am nothing if not professional so, a good 2 or 3 hours before I was due at this house, I had been to my parent’s house and raided my old toy box. I found some kind of game where you chucked balls at skittles, some stuffed animals, a Sooty Bear and a sock puppet. I was now armed, dangerous, clueless and, quite obviously, completely mad.
What these parents thought, I will never know. I would love to know but, naturally, I didn’t ask them. I just sauntered in, a bit cocky (as you have to be if you dress like me), said Hello to the parents of the invited party-goers whose combined look of horror was quite amusing and asked where I should perform.
I was taken to the front room and was now confronted with the full realisation of what I was about to try and do. Because, in front of me were about 10 small people who looked remarkably like children. You know that scene in Parenthood where Steve Martin has to take on the role of the clown? And all the kids look on in mass disappointment because it’s not a real clown, it’s the Birthday Boy’s dad? Well, imagine that, but replace Steve Martin looking vaguely clown-like with me, looking a bit like a Glam Rock Superstar armed with some rubbish toys.
The next hour is a blur. Amazingly, the parents left me to it, unsupervised. I set stuff up and encouraged kids to throw balls at it. I got them to kind of wrestle with eachother a bit. I attempted a puppet show. I read from a book with the sock puppet. All of this consumed about 10 minutes so, in a panic, I just kind of yelled “Bundle!” and laid on the floor, letting them beat me for the next 50.
And then it was over. I got up, dusted myself down, congratulated myself on a job well done, collected my £30 and got to eat that week. Funnily enough, I didn’t get a recommendation from that party and, thankfully, whatever deranged braincell arranged that idea never reared it’s ugly head again.
I sit here writing about this and it is like I am writing about somebody else’s life. I honestly was not drinking or taking drugs at the time. I was, however, actually properly mad so, I guess, that is my excuse. I often wonder though if those parents still think about that day and, more amusingly, whether the children remember it at all.
Can you beat that?!
A couple of weeks back, Vikki and I assumed responsibility of a new little friend - a 5 month old white kitten, who is deaf. We have a policy regarding animals, that we get ones that are from animal shelters and need re-housing and the thought of being able to re-house a poor, rejected deaf kitten - who has to be a house cat - appealed to our noble senses.
What no-one told us what that deaf cats are totally bonkers.
I guess, unlike most moggies who jump at the slightest sound, she crashes her way through life with fearless abaddon. The first day we bought her home, we thought it best that she was restricted to our bedroom for the first night, so not to overwhelm her. Previous experience had lead us to believe that it would probably take her several hours just to venture out of her basket and into this bigger, new world. So, we opened her cage expecting a cowering wreck of an animal and, instead, found a nosey little bugger who promptly waltzed out of her confinement to gingerly explore her new surroundings.
Within an hour, she was scratching at the door to try and leave the bedroom to see what else was around but, as we’d not yet kitten-proofed the house, we thought it best she stayed in with us. And, for the first night, she was a delightful guest. Sleeping on our bed only to wake to lick or faces or do other cute “i love you” kitten-like things. A similar pattern occurred on night 2. OK, she did explore a bit more halfway through the night but, on the whole it was very pleasant.
Night 3, Terminator Kitten arrived. For the first few hours, she was doing the adorable “look at me, I’m a cute kitten asleep” thing, but then she woke up and proceeded to trash the place, knocking everything over and generally keeping us awake. It was during this sleepless night that we concurred it was probably OK now for her to be left alone with the dog downstairs at night.
In the intervening time, she had been allowed out, supervised, to explore elsewhere. Within a few minutes, she had disappeared up the chimney and had to be pulled out in a very undignified manner. She was now a blackish-grey cat and is still a grubby little creature as I write. She has also discovered the toilet. OK, admittedly, it is quite cute to see her peering over the edge of the bowl in an inquisitive manner, it is less endeering though to find her sitting in a puddle of toilet water, cleaning herself after her exploratory took her down into aforementioned bowl. So now we have to remember to keep the lid down, just in case she decides to repeat this adventure.
It is the dog I feel sorry for. She was a happy-go-lucky mongrel, about 14 years old who lead a contented life, full of fun and doggie like things. Now she has a look of torment about her and eyes that scream “what is this thing you have bought in to harrass me?!”. At first, of course, the kitten was a little bit wary of the big ginger furry thing with sharp teeth. After all, the dog has the potential to gobble her up. However, she soon discovered that Bolly (dog) wouldn’t harm a fly. Well, OK, yes, she would harm a fly but she certainly wouldn’t harm a defenceless little kitten. In fact, Bolly being a dog that never had a litter, sees the new arrival has her own odd looking offspring. And, like most mothers with newborns, lets her get away with murder.
The tail was first. Bolly has a big, furry, waggy tail. I think it might also be stuffed full of Catnip as the kitten attacked it almost immediately. This was when we first saw “that look” on Bolly’s face. Within a few days, as the kitten got braver, she saw Bolly merely as some kind of activity centre or adventure playground, with legs. “How convenient, she is portable.”
I was in the front room, minding my own business when I first witnessed the kitten’s stealth moves. From her vantage point on the back of a chair in the front room, she launched herself off of it, running toward Bolly, ducking under her belly to leap up, take a couple of friendly swipes at her face before darting off again, leaving a bewildered dog wondering what the fuck just happened. These attacks were back and forth and went on for an hour or so with the kitten finding new, more inventive hiding places. I should stress, these attacks aren’t aggressive ones, she is essentially just trying to get the dog to engage in a bit of playful rough n’ tumble, as is the kitten’s wont. The funniest incident though was when she actually jumped onto Bolly’s back, whilst she was standing, to try to fell her into submission. If I had it on camera, it would be on You’ve Been Framed. The sight of this white blur jumping on something 5 times it’s size is rather humerous.
She does have a vulnerable side though. For a start, as she can’t hear anything, she is forever startled by our arrival. She sleeps VERY deeply so all attempts to wake her up result in her jumping out of her skin. We have placed a bell on her collar, so we can hear when she is around. Unlike most cats, she won’t get out of the way quick enough if we nearly accidentally tread on her. And, last night, we discovered that she was, in fact, a bit of a scaredy-cat, spooked by the high winds outside that seep into our rickety cottage. We discovered this because everything that could be knocked down, had been knocked down. I could hear crashing and banging at 4am, went to investigate to find a freaked out pussycat and the front room upside down. She ran over to me and leaped on board, purring away like I had just saved her. Very heartwarming. So, I bought her upstairs with me, imagining the rescued kitten relieved, curled up, fast asleep. This lasted 5 minutes and, soon, she was like a wrecking ball in the bedroom as well. I was back downstairs within 10, securing everything before putting her back, distracted by some food.
So, there you have it. Life with a deaf kitten, so far. She is very sweet and cute but this destructive, clumsy nature has meant we have found it hard naming her. Nearly 3 weeks hard, in fact. The rescue centre called her “Snowy”, which is an abomination (pun intented). Her character does not resemble a snow flake in any way, shape or form. She is more Boudica than Snowy. But that’s not a very feline name. I think we might settle on “Roxy” - the glam rock kitty-kat. She is all-white (in a grubby, sooty kind of way) but has a funky pink leapard print collar on (complete with a skull n’ crossbones dangly thing), so looks very glam. We’re also fans of Chicago (Roxy Hart), so think it might be the one.
Anyway, I’m rambling now, this story has finished but I am sure our adventures have only just begun. If you’re thinking of getting a cat, just do it. They are daft as brushes and great fun. Rescue one though, there are thousands that needs homes 
Cat’s Protection League - http://www.cats.org.uk/
And this is what Killer Kittens look like. BE WARNED!!
