Bad

Last Thursday was a very important day for one of the listeners to my radio show. He wrote to tell me that his favourite star was going to make a comeback on June 10th and announce a series of concerts. Problem is that his favourite star is Michael Jackson.

His information came from an impeccable source and I’m sure that even now he’s contacting the White House and demanding to speak to his pal Obama as he says it was the American President who told him of the upcoming gigs.

Now there’s nothing wrong with living in hope that your favourite singer will come out of hiding to make a comeback, but there must be a stage where common sense kicks in. I could believe that Kurt Cobain is about to announce a series of comeback gigs with Glen Miller as musical director and James Dean selling the T shirts but I’d know deep down that it wasn’t actually going to happen – even if Barack called me at home personally.

There are some comebacks from the dead that I would kill for, like Angel Delight for dessert, Charlotte coming back to her web, and my sex appeal rising again like Lazarus, but I know it ain’t going to happen – not even to celebrate the first anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death.

According to internet theories Michael was either killed by a new experimental bio chemical weapon, had actually died years before after recording his album Bad and had been replaced by an impostor, was killed by the CIA firing an electro magnetic pulse at him because he knew something about Afghanistan, or is hiding out with Janis Joplin on a farm. Next we’ll be hearing that Dan Brown is a great writer and Last Of The Summer Wine is actually funny.

Crackpot theories are great and good fun, but they leave the embarrassment of explaining after the deadline why nothing has actually happened. I know that if I wrote back to my listener and asked what went wrong he’d say that it’s been postponed because Michael’s had to take Sheargar to the vet or has gone on a cruise on the Marie Celeste, and in his mind it will make sense. Good for him. Whatever gets you through.

The list of the more bizarre internet theories that people believe includes the “fact” that Diana told her lady in waiting that the Royal Family were reptilian aliens and could shapeshift. If that were true why wouldn’t Prince Edward shapeshift his head in to one with hair?

David Icke, former BBC sports reporter, believes we’re controlled by dinosaur aliens who need human blood to survive. So how come the blood banks don’t get raided weekly by Barney and his mates keen on a picnic?

Some believe the moon landings were faked because the foreground and background look the same in most photos. But that’s what you get on the moon – lots of barren ground and a big black sky behind. What were they expecting? Perhaps a cyclist or two? Maybe an ice cream van passing behind some trees?

Typing the letters NYC in to your computer’s wingding font brings up the characters of a Skull and Crossbones, The Star Of David and a thumbs up sign – go on, try it - so you can imagine what the anoraks make of that.

I think I prefer my route where things just happen without any logical reason rather than some grim conspiratorial fiction. That’s why we have words like serendipity, chance and luck.

As we get ready for even more conspiracy theories on Jackson’s anniversary, I’ll be reading Gullible’s Travels rather than Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

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I had the pleasure of interviewing Kelly Rowland of destiny's Child this week. For the radio interview click here, and for the video interview click here.

Elected

There’s been only one topic of conversation this week, of course, and it’s been that big, life changing and epoch making, election. All over the world everyone is talking of a time for change, a new bright future, the restoration of pride and of history being made. Yes, the Glenrothes By Election was some event.

Actually no one at all is talking about the Glenrothes by election, not even in the town itself, as it all seems small beer compared to the Obamarama Ding Dong which saw Obama and McCain cross a continent addressing millions while, here, our politicians crossed the Rothes Road for two pensioners gossiping on a street corner. In Glenrothes, where old ladies are the real big hitters, two or more parked shopping bags constitute a rally and if McCain were running here he’d be the young pin up, fought over by grappling grannies leaving teeth marks, and indeed their teeth, in opponents legs. Last election, the Scottish Pension Party polled more votes than the Socialists or Independents, and this time the Senior Citizen's Unity Party have come fifth out of eight. Toasting their success with, er, toast and warm milk, they keep changing the name of the party as they forget what it was called last time, so expect a fight from The Bus Pass Coalition next time. Probably.

But it’s not exciting is it? Unlike the States I can’t see a movie in it because, basically, politics is boring here in the UK while Obama’s story seems to have captivated people from all over the world. An acquaintance of mine stayed up on American election night last week ringing over two hundred people in Florida and urging them to get out and vote. He made the calls, at his own expense, from his house in London, preferring American designer democracy to our own crumpled charity shop politics.

Now that our Monster Raving Loony Party is more or less history, we don’t seem to have the amount of fun here that they have in the States, especially for women, where every new ‘Mama For Obama’ remembers four years ago when bikini waxing salons carried the slogan “No More Bush”. They even have better anagrams. “Sarah Palin Vice President” magically rearranges in to “Perhaps Is Devil Incarnate”.

I can’t pretend to be as committed as my friend but, despite being politically agnostic, I confess I have been an activist in my time. In fact twice; both times on the side of the underdog who, with my help, won few votes, loads of humiliation, and lost their race by a wider mile than a Moroccan Olympic Ski team.

So why did I do it? Was it love of democracy? Help for the underdog? Well, on one occasion it was because I got a free badge, and on the other it was because my mum and dad told me I had to. I guess, having admitted that, I’ll have to turn down my invitations to enter the House of Lords and join the other great cerebral swimmers in the government’s political think tank.

My first brush with politics came at school when a class mate appeared one day wearing a smart blue pin, and when I asked if he could get me one, I was directed to the SNP offices down town. I popped in with my contact details and received my badge, followed days later by large pictures of the party’s logo which had one crucial wow factor. They were bigger than my Clapton poster and covered more of my peeling bedroom wallpaper.

Of course political parties don’t leave it there and soon I had to take delivery of leaflets and flyers that I was supposed to deliver round the neighbourhood - a high price for a lapel ornament. My details were also passed to a neighbour who was active in the party and, despite never having said a civil word to me since I knocked on her door asking if I could get my Action Man parachute back from her garden, she declared herself my new best friend and I was invited in for tea and biscuits. I declined, though it was a close thing as she had those chocolate marshmallows with jam at the bottom.

The next time I was politically active, my mum and dad had become friendly with our local doctor whose mother in law was running as local Lib Dem MP and my brother and I were given hundreds of leaflets and asked to deliver them, which we did. Well, up to a point. The first few nights were OK but then we got bored with democracy and delivered the remaining bundles to the rear of a hedge.

We weren’t quite the Partridge Family in our house but mum and dad did like to occasionally have friends over with guitars, so Molly, the MP in waiting, asked them to write some jingles for playing through loudspeakers as she toured the district. As we all had to sing in to a tape recorder, over and over again, I still remember the words of those jingles even to this day. Poor Molly looked bereft when she lost the election but still had the decency to invite the grown ups to a thank you party while I stayed at home, praying she’d never find that hedge, and learning an edgy guitar riff from Wishbone Ash instead. My last brush with political campaigning was over.

Perhaps this is why I find UK politics so boring, having been spoiled with spectacular lack of success at such an early age. But, with interest in our Parliament at such a low, I was thinking this week that I should maybe drag myself out of retirement and get back in to the political fray. Just think, if Obama had called a few weeks ago and asked me to do some jingles for him, I could have changed history.

McCain would have won.