IT was Michael Jackson’s first deathday celebration day last Friday and to be honest, it was a bigger fuck-up than that time he hung the kid over the balcony – the bloke just hasn’t got a bloody clue.
For someone who found out he’d copped for a billion quid in the twelve months since he pegged it, the fucker kept a tight lid on it all as far as the budget was concerned.
He’d promised a parade where a dozen unicorns would pull him around in a platinum chariot while he tossed After Eights wrapped in edible gold leaf to everybody. What we actually got was an open-topped bus with Jacko firing tiny statues of himself made from white chocolate out of a converted machine gun.
Kenneth Williams, who still hasn’t had a poo in the 22 years he’s been up here, was last spotted furiously shoving handfuls of them up his arsehole in a bush. Odd chap.
The food at the party wasn’t much better. The menu consisted of Battenburg cake, the obligatory ‘Jesus Juice’, a bin filled with Cheerios (no milk) and mini sausages in a big bowl (above which Bernard Manning had written a sign that said ‘boys cocks’).
By the time it came to the finale – ‘Infinite Thriller’ – everyone had more or less fucked off. The idea was that he’d get every single VIP in Heaven to join in with a spectral re-creation of the Thriller video. But after three dull hours of rehearsing, almost everyone had given up and the only ones left were a shit-faced JFK and Groucho Marx, dressed as a women and dancing around with a big keg of the old Jesus Juice.
If this is Jackson’s idea of Heaven, I’m rooting for something cast-iron to come tumbling out of his closet that will send the fucker down to The Other Place ASAP…
(Oh, and by the way he did eventually tell me the truth about his death. “Diana,” he says, “like you, my heart was just too big for Planet Earth.” Fucking bellend).
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