My hairdresser Luigi and I have a theory. We think that Michael is still alive and well. That he isn't dead at all.
Actually, our theory goes further. We think that there's a mystery island somewhere in the Pacific (where else?) where mega celebrities retire to when they get tired of being icons. It's by invitation only. Their death is announced, they are buried, their families, fans and the world at large go into media coverage meltdown, and their estates make a a mint from the PR.
What actually happens, is that they pack a little suitcase (there's a hand luggage only policy) and board a chartered flight to this mystery island where they live out the end of their days in peace, wearing simple cotton clothing, no make-up, no entourage, no phones, no cameras, no TV's and no computers. They fish, they weave, they do yoga and tai chi. They grow pot bellies and beards (or armpit hair if they're women) and no longer care about wrinkles or bald spots. There are no mirrors, no press, no gyms and it's sunny everyday. They wear big floppy hats to keep the sun off and live in simple huts made of local materials.
They eat simple island food. No special diets, no ordering off menu.
It's a great crowd: JFK, his brother Robert, and Marilyn (but not Jackie O), Elvis (Michael's ex-father in law), Robert Johnson (he of the deal-with-devil-at-the-crossroad fame), John Lennon, George Harrison and Linda McCartney, Nathalie Wood, Lady Diana, Robert Maxwell and of course now Michael Jackson. This list is not exhaustive and there are other famous people there as well.
So that's our theory. Michael had had enough and decided to join the ultimate celebrity club.
He'll have to lose the sequined glove and face masks and the toys and antiques - and the monkey (no pets allowed). But that's ok. Me and Luigi think he's ready for a change.
Welcome to the beginning of the rest of your life Michael, rest well my friend, you've certainly earned it.