Bored to death

Some weeks I get so bored with writing this column that I felt like slashing my wrists instead, if only I could be bothered.

Not that I have nobody but myself to blame for this state of terminal tedium. In fact it serves me right.

I should be more selective, or at least a lot less repetitive, in my choice of topic.

Forever focusing on the banalities and venalities of Barisan Nasional is, let's face it, too dull and depressing for words.

Usually, when this mood strikes me, I can jolly myself back into BN-bashing mode by reminding myself things could be worse, as in Burma, North Korea, Zimbabwe or wherever.

Or better, as when Obama replaced Bush as president of the US.

Or else I can find some frivolous or even family issue to briefly break the deadly monotony of droning on and on about the dire state of government in Malaysia.

But no such luck this week, I'm afraid. No silly days like April Fool's or St Valentine's in the offing as far as I can see, to serve as light relief.

And as for my family situation, my wife and daughter are both stricken with the flu and thus unlikely to see the funny side of any levity on the subject.

In any case, I used the flu as a diversion the last time I needed a break from banging my head up against the BN brick wall, just a couple of months ago.

Jackson is dead

And I blush to recall that my wits were so dulled on that occasion that in my rush to compare the swine strain and common whine flu, I completely omitted to mention the morning after threat that hangs over heavy drinkers, the dreaded 'wine flu'.

So now, having already done the flu to death, and determined to avoid BN like the plague for the moment, I've little choice but to mention that other pandemic that's currently raging around the world, Michael Jacksonmania.

No personal disrespect intended here. While admittedly, I was never too wacko about Jacko, his music or his dance moves, I'm truly sorry to hear the guy died.

Despite his alleged unhealthy affection for underage children and the infamous incident in which he dangled his infant son over a balcony, I really don't believe he ever intended or did any harm.

To anybody but himself, that is. Self-mutilation by plastic surgery and self-medication with pharmaceuticals may well be another story.

But surely they are more cause for compassion than condemnation.

So, compared with many people I could name if I weren't studiously avoiding mention of politicians in general and BN in particular this week, Michael Jackson surely didn't deserve an early death.

But maybe, just maybe, it was a blessed release. Maybe he was as sick of his life as I've been for decades just hearing...hearing about it.

Maybe he was sick of looking more and more like a clown in his increasingly ridiculous pose as Peter Pan.

Maybe he was as revolted by the endless round of rumours, and as sick to death of the agents, personal assistants, attendants, courtiers, spin doctors, bodyguards, sycophants, leeches and all the other hangers-on, predators and parasites that infest every species of celebrity.

Terrified by no luxuries

Maybe he was terrified of going broke and sponging off Middle Eastern potentates and other super 'rich riff-raff ' who had been keeping him in the kind of luxury he knew he could never again afford.

Or maybe he just didn't have the heart to go through 50 UK concerts as a faded and freakish facsimile of his former self.

Fortunately, at least, he was spared the spectacle that's followed his passing and that will endlessly torture the rest of us for as long as we survive him.

The wave of hysterical mourning by the fans, for a start.

All the millions of idol worshippers bewailing the death of a 'star' they never knew.

Then, of course, the family, the dysfunctional if not abusive clan that spawned and often spurned the boy who never enjoyed a childhood and consequently never grew up, already questioning the cause of death and contesting custody of the children of the deceased almost before his corpse is cold.

The merchandisers are wasting no time either, cashing in on the cult with any item or image that might bring in a quick buck for as long as they can milk the dead man's memory.

But most sickening of all in their role as head mourners, are the media.

And it's not just the hag mags, gossip glossies and fanzines that are giving Jackson's death the full Elvis/Princess Di treatment.

Self-styled 'serious' broadsheet, the Sydney Morning Herald, transformed itself into the 'Sydney Mourning Herald' with an issue headlined "Farewell, the King of Pop" and containing a free poster and six pages of pictures and articles.

Down-under connection

One of the articles even proclaimed Jackson's connection with Australia, recalling under the heading 'Married, with children and a koala' the singer's 1996 wedding to Debbie Rowe and his visit to the Adelaide Zoo.

But as smarmy an effort as this was, of course the tabloids in Australia and the UK totally eclipsed it, with more salacious stories like 'Kids are not his' and 'Jackson a suicidal closet gay'.

This latter example was excerpted from a tale in the UK - or maybe that should be YUK -Daily Mail by someone named Ian Halperin, who described himself as an 'award-winning freelance journalist and filmmaker' and claimed he had spent more than 'five years' inside Jackson's 'camp.

Maybe so, but he then went on to give the clear impression that he had never seen or spoken to Jackson himself as the whole sordid story he wrote was riddled with quotes variously attributed to anonymous sources like 'other witnesses', 'one of his (alleged) gay lovers', 'Jackson's handlers', 'one aide', 'a member of his staff' and even, most ridiculously, 'Fox News'.

With the likes of Halperin so hard at work fabricating the story of his life, no wonder Michael Jackson died.

If not of a heart attack, or even a broken heart, out of sheer, unadulterated boredom.

And I fear I might very well die of boredom too if I'm stupid enough to read any more of such dreary tabloid trash.