Michael Jackson is, at the time of writing, probably maybe definitely dead.
His glove designer, his official photographer, his hair shiner, his dog walker, his childhood best friend's other best friend, his milkman, his nipple tweaker, his Uri Geller and 17 Fox News reporters have been on expressing their sadness at the demise of the oftimes singer, sometimes performer and nevertimes pederast.
Meanwhile, not one media helicopter has circled my flat wondering why I haven't been seen outside since my trip to Spar at 6pm. Not one. There hasn't been one report of my demise on Newsnow. Not one. No lovely ladies wailing at my gate. Not a fucking one. And I can't tell you the last time a candlelight vigil was held in my honour.
I'll be having a strongly worded conversation with Max Clifford.