Blowing Bubbles

He flew so high. The whole world is in mourning over the Prince of Pop's premature passing. A truly great musician (couldn't play an instrument), extraordinary vocals (annoying), peerless dancer (OK, fair enough). Away on a pile of prescription drugs, allegedly. No more unusual antics with his little friends, or inevitable acquittals. No more contractual obligation albums. Aged just fifty, Michael Joseph Jackson has died.

Tickets for his final comeback tour, now cancelled of course, are becoming collectible. Refund or souvenir? It's a difficult choice to make.

Those left out of his will are transparently bitter, their greedy, furious eyes captured by the never-ending media coverage. Now wait for the shameless fight over the cash machine: album and media royalties, merchandising, music rights.

Already, RIP memorabilia has mushroomed. We can choose from T-shirts, badges, posters, even fridge magnets. Oh, and watch out for circulation-boosting conspiracy theories peddled by the fourth estate.

The poor lad. For years, he hadn't looked himself.