Bless.

Michael Jackson has died aged 50. Well, that's cheered me up. Not.

A final, ironic twist to the strange career of a hugely talented and troubled chap.

I really hope this isn't going to turn into another Diana saga. Death - and take it from one who knows, is part of life. The death of someone who's in the public eye, even someone who's not openly exercised their talent for many years, tends to focus the public eye on their own mortality.

I'm sure the grief is very real to his legions of fans. I find it hard to relate to myself, probably because I don't have hero's or aspirations to be someone else, or fellow anyone's lead, by virtue of personality. I'm not made that way. Monroe, Dianna and Kennedy were problems to be solved, Elvis - apparently some bloke who sung like me, (cheers for the cash mate) died of unhappiness and over indulgence.

And a frail, child like, mentally fragile debt riddled man on tranquillisers, anti-depressants, and powerful painkillers passes away from heart failure. Poor chap must have been stressed to hell and back at thought of that forthcoming 50 tour gig. No hero's to follow there.

My thoughts are with his terribly distressed family, the children without a father, and those poor, sad souls who will try to follow him. RIP Mr. Jackson.