Third Rogue's Corner wasn't one individual, but rather a light-hearted look at the Villages at any global sporting event (i.e. Olympics, Winter Olympics, Commonwealth Games etc).

Cos - let's be honest...you put thousands of the planet's elite, fittest, healthiest young men and women all in one place, from all over the globe, and they've done no normal fun stuff that most people their age do..nothing but work their asses off for a brief moment at these Games..and then...

Well I reckon you can guess. Mix in a little bit of alcohol..

What's notable ten-odd years from when I wrote this, is the evolution of communication apps (i.e. Tinder)...it doesn't bear thinking the insane thrashing Tindr has/will have be getting at these places...

LET THE FUN BEGIN

With both the winter Olympics and the Commonwealth Games happening during the first quarter of 2006, we in Rogues Corner have begun nodding at each other with knowing, wry smiles.

“Why?” you may ask. Well, at both these events, and the summer Olympics, the participants all live together in the athletes’ Village which emerges like a utopian
mirage for the duration of said Games.

The Village houses thousands of elite athletes who embody the absolute physical potential of the human race. Each finely toned individual is the result of not only phenomenal genetics but a lifetime spent training relentlessly to peak during – you guessed it
– the Games.

This sounds pretty good to us but, sadly, it’s a very exclusive club. Only coaches, trainers and competitors are allowed in.

Nelson Diebel, a double gold medallist at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, described it as “a two-week-long private party for thousands of hard-bodies”. It has also been described as “an adult Disney World”.

Further spiking this potent social cocktail is the dynamic which inevitably develops at Villages – that between the serious Olympians (there to compete for medals) and the “Olympic tourists” (the vast majority of athletes who have no realistic medal chance and
are there just to make up the numbers).

Stunning American high jumper Amy Acuff told Playboy magazine: “One of the big misconceptions is that every athlete is 100 per cent serious about being there. A
number of athletes in the Village – people who know they don’t have a chance – are there to have a party.”

American shot put medallist John Godina reveals: “Athletes who are knocked out early have basically a two-week, all-expenses-paid vacation with nothing to do, and that’s when things happen.”

So, what exactly does happen when you put up to 15,000 of the most physically perfect human specimens in one place at the same time, with their glycogen levels skyrocketing and energy practically bursting out of their skin?

Sex. Lots and lots of it, that’s what.

American javelin thrower Breaux Greer, who competed at the 2000 Sydney Olympics, says:

“There’s a lot of sex going on. You get a lot of people who are in shape and, you know, testosterone’s up and everybody’s attracted to everybody.”

Condom machines had to be refilled every two hours at the 1990 Albertville winter Games in France.

Seventy thousand condoms were allocated to the Sydney Olympic Village and went so quickly that another 20,000 were shipped in. Even then they’d run out three days before the end of the Games. This number ballooned to 130,000 for the 2004 Athens
Olympics. You get the picture.

Modern technology has made getting together even easier. All athletes have access to free internet connections in Villages. Alpine ski racer Marco Buechel revealed that during the 2002 Salt Lake City winter Olympics “everybody used it” and, despite not being able to speak a word of Greek, he arranged via email to meet a gorgeous Greek skier. “We tried to talk, which wasn’t very successful.”

But this small linguistic hiccup failed to thwart their chemistry. “It was very beautiful ... a beautiful international incident.”

After many failed leads, Rogues Corner managed to find a great Kiwi athlete willing to spill all. He has not only represented New Zealand at both Commonwealth and Olympic level, but (after a few beers) told such outrageous stories that we had no option but to cloak him in total anonymity.

“If you don’t get laid at least three times while you’re there, you must be a complete munter,” our still-buff stool pigeon claimed.

He revealed that he bedded a lithe Australian gold medallist from his sporting discipline.

“The medallists did even better. Two or three different partners per night was quite possible for them and some of them took advantage.”

Luckily for our man, his discipline typically finished early-ish during the Games, leaving him and his mates plenty of time to get stuck in.

As it is with us mortals, alcohol is the athletes’ social lubricant. Years of alcohol deprivation come crashing to a halt as virtually all athletes let loose.

The drink gets drunk either at venues outside or is smuggled into the Villages (booze is officially banned inside).

Our Kiwi Rogue and his room-mate took turns “rotating” – letting one another have their room to themselves – and this generous privacy policy helped no end for New Zealand’s finest. These guys would often head out of the Village to local nightspots and would mingle with other athletes – different nationalities but typically from the same sporting discipline – and the fireworks would begin.

There is a slim window of opportunity for the rest of us. Some crafty characters worm their way into the Villages under the guise of being “Village volunteers”, performing rudimentary duties such as showing athletes where to go.

Our chap assured us that many of the volunteers were quite sexy, too, and plenty of athlete/volunteer carry-on went on.

But like everything that sounds too good to be true there is a downside to being in a Games Village and it was summed up ever so eloquently by Diebel:

“The only thing you’re deprived of is fat. If you’re the rare athlete who likes sedentary bodies, you’re out of luck.”

Games Villagers, Rogues Corner salutes you!

My second Rogue's Corner was an absolute pearler - George Best. Pretty much one of the very top handful of men ever to play football in it's entire history AND a handsome funny devil AND a merchant of carnage on a catatonic level.

It beggars belief his story hasn't been made into a major motion picture.

I really got a kick out of writing this one, tinged with sadness just a short time after his death.

SIMPLY THE BEST


Only George Best could have graced this issue’s Rogues Corner. He is arguably the greatest sporting rogue in history.

For most New Zealanders, though, chances are (especially if you’re under 40) you wondered what all the fuss was about a few weeks ago when his untimely death at 59 was followed by the biggest funeral in Irish history.

Rather than grope awkwardly for superlatives to describe him, it seems far more apt to quote others in the know. South Americans Pele and Diego Maradona, widely acknowledged as two of the greatest soccer players of all time, respectively said: “He is the best player in the world” and “He is my all-time favourite player."

Legendary Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson gushed: “He is unquestionably the greatest.” Best’s manager while at United, Sir Matt Busby, uttered: “You don’t coach him – he’s a genius.”

You get the picture. In his glory years with United from the mid-1960s until 1974, Best’s phenomenal talent exploded like an atom bomb on the British then the European football scene.

What made him so great? For starters, his gravity defying, trapeze-artist balance, feet which seemed attached to the ball, devastating pace. Then there was his clinical finishing (179 goals in 466 matches for United). He had pinpoint-accurate passing, tackled and headed exceptionally, and had surprising strength for a slim man of average height. Add to this his spirit, arrogance and courage, and few authorities argue there has ever been a better white player in football history.

This talent saw him take United to glory with English League Championships in 1965 and 1967 and the European Cup in 1968, the year he was voted European Player of the Year. For these reasons alone, Best’s name was destined to be etched in history.

But there is more. As well as his talent, Best was beautiful; blessed with ridiculously good looks. These combined factors made him the first real superstar of the English game.

After a mesmerising display against Portuguese champions Benfica in 1968, his piercing blue eyes and mane of unkempt hair saw him dubbed “El Beatle” by the Portuguese press, bringing him global fame.

He couldn’t have timed it better. Britain’s Swinging Sixties cultural revolution was in full swing and Besty was deified as a bona fide icon of the era along with the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Twiggy.

As the world watched on in awe, Georgie Boy was having it all. He began biting off as much as he could chew of all the exquisite pleasures his massive celebrity attracted. Nightclubs, cocktail parties, fashion boutiques and modelling appearances.

Oh, and the women. Best loved them as much as they loved him and he began riding an endless carousel of beautiful, blonde, mini-skirted babes, including more than one Miss World (“I used to go missing quite a lot ... Miss Canada, Miss United Kingdom, Miss World”).

When asked once by friend Michael Parkinson in an interview how near to kick-off George had made love, he famously replied: “Half-time!”

Best’s energies gradually evolved from football to hard-core partying. “I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered” is probably his most famous quote, showcasing his impish sense of humour so celebrated and mourned at his funeral.

Another famous Best anecdote occurred the morning after another gargantuan night of playboy hedonism, when a young hotel bellboy was beckoned into the room and discovered Best in bed with the current Miss World, a magnum of champagne and tens of thousands of pounds in cash won gambling. 

He exclaimed: “George, where did it all go wrong?” Where it went wrong depends on your definition of wrong. At the time, Best was living a life that the Rogues team is very, very envious of. Aside from his humorous quips, Best’s philosophy on it all was intriguing. “I was born with a great gift,” he said, “and sometimes with that comes a destructive streak.”

Right up until near the end, he maintained that nothing went wrong, as countless commentators would have us believe. He said that he simply got sick of it all. “Just as I wanted to outdo everyone when I played, I had to outdo everyone when we were out on the town.”

Best was well aware of his failings and once tellingly said: “If I had been ugly you never would have heard of Pele.”

Rogues Corner will not be drawn into yet more conservative tut-tutting. Yes, Best paid the price for his gradual descent into serious alcoholism (and all the negative consequences) with his untimely demise.

Yet he retired from football aged 27 after nearly a decade of legendary soccer and packed more life into his 59 years than we can begin to dream of.

George Best, Rogues Corner salutes you! 

In 2004-2005 I wrote a stand-alone column in a New Zealand sporting magazine called 'Player'. I was absolutely delighted with my idea for the column getting accepted:- 'The Rogues Corner'. It was to be all about sports-people who had reached global infamy for their sporting talent, but were also a bit troubled and/or naughty.

It was a bit more orderly and edited than my earlier web stuff which was pure writing anarchy and a bit sloppy.

I know my old boss Jim Boult (currently Mayor of Queenstown!) was a fan!

There was only one to kick it all off.....

DAVID BOONE - 52 NOT OUT

Extreme excellence and extreme hedonism in sport are like petrol and water. They’re just not meant to mix. But some very special individuals have risen to conquer seemingly insurmountable odds and excel – simultaneously – in both.

Here at Rogues Corner we’ll be performing a monthly doffing of the PLAYER cap to those special souls whohave inspired awe with their sporting greatness while behaving like utter rapscallions.

One illustrious sporting rogue pretty much chose himself to kick off our sports varlet hall of fame: David Boon. Why? Well, because of one particular record achieved by the cricketing legend from Tasmania.

Boon is one of Australian cricket’s favourite sons. His batting prowess was awesome. He made more than 7400 test runs in 107 tests averaging 43.65, with 21 centuries and 32 half-centuries. In addition, he played 181 one-day matches, averaging 37 and scoring just under 6000 runs. Yep, despite being short and rotund, he really was one of the world’s most prolific, consistent and successful international batsmen.

But his most famous knock is 52 made in 1989 ...52 cans, that is. Unbelievably, Boony consumed this monstrous amount of beer on a flight between Sydney and Heathrow en route to England to compete in the Ashes series. Of course, he subsequently denied the
incident ever took place and he apparently “‘never set out to break the existing record” (held by Rod Marsh, 46 cans, 1983).

The Australian Cricket Board worked furiously trying to keep the whole matter under wraps. But there were way too many witnesses, particularly the main sell-out,

Dean Jones, who sat next to Boon on the flight and later roomed with him on the tour. Jones had taken his dad’s advice to sit next to Boon, so as to soak up as much cricketing information and advice from him as possible. Some chance.

The other stool pigeon was veteran Geoff Lawson, who claimed to have kept the score on the back of flight sickbags. Airline staff, far from discouraging this laddish behaviour, must be credited with keeping count early on (the tradition was apparently as entrenched with flight staff as it was with the team). 

Like true professionals, they kept the supply coming as Boony mercilessly punched through the cans, “well on target” on the first leg from Sydney to Singapore.

Twenty-two beers down and his walrus moustache now well soaked, Boon started dispensing advice to Jones as the next flight left Singapore. Jones, however, was
fading fast after his relatively modest consumption and retired to the upper level of the plane to sleep.

The keg-shaped Tasmanian was settled into a steady rhythm and without Jones he still had great support from team-mates Mark Taylor, Carl Rackemann, Merv Hughes, Geoff Marsh and Tom Moody.

Some eight hours later, Jones was jolted from his sleep by a tumultuous eruption of applause as the flight captain congratulated Boon over the loudspeaker for decimating Marsh’s 46-can record with the new total of 52.

Furious team manager Bob Simpson turned “purple with anger” and Jones cheekily suggested to selector Laurie Sawle that he send Boon home so Jones could bat in his place.

Just thinking about it makes us at Rogues Corner feel bloated. Over about 24 hours, Boon averaged at least two cans an hour, every hour. And before boarding at Sydney airport, he’d had a few which didn’t count.

Lawson hilariously lamented that his greatest regret was that he never rescued the sickbags upon which he’d kept the score. “They would have been worth a fortune,” he correctly noted. “You can imagine Tony Greig selling replicas of them, summer after
summer.”

Despite his intake, Boony somehow “kind of managed to walk” unaided from the plane at Heathrow. He successfully refrained from chundering and/or falling over (as opposed to Marsh, who in 1983 was rolled off the plane on a baggage trolley).

There was still the British press conference gauntlet to run, however. Mercifully, although the Aussie media had been tipped off about the record, they made a collective pact not to question the near-comatose batting stalwart. 

This protection and the sheer miracle that the British media pack failed to notice the wobbly little Tasmanian (much less smell the alcohol fumes wafting from his breath and pores) saw him escape scot-free.

Boony then pulled off the unthinkable: he went straight to a sponsor’s cocktail party with his team. Incredibly, while there he chewed through what must have been the three ugliest pints of his life.

Back at the hotel, a boozy Boon lapsed into a 36-hour comathon, snoring like a tortured walrus. He slept right through the team’s first two training sessions.

Jones later recalled that Simpson suggested that “when David [wakes] up he should come and have a quiet chat with me”. Already on probation (along with a chastised Merv Hughes, who had leaked the story in a few interviews), Boon was fined $A5000 by a furious Simpson. He came within an inch of being sent home but luckily for the rest of the team he wasn’t. 

Dried out, Boon went on to average 55 and make more than 1500 runs for the tour, helping Australia reclaim the Ashes which they held until earlier this year.

Despite countless attempts by professional sportsmen and heavy boozers alike, there are no reports of the record being beaten. English rugby player Mike Tindall apparently came close to 50 cans while flying back to London from Sydney after the World Cup win.

David Boon, Rogues Corner salutes you 

Michael Jackson | My View

Michael Jackson's tragic death the other day has been probably the most discussed thing across the globe the past few days, generating much more than even major world events such as the Iranian political problems, North Korea's seemingly frightening nuclear ambitions and poor old Farah Fawcett who's death was compltely over-shadowed.

His fame stretches far beyond his career and the realm of popular Western music. He's a bone fide popular culture icon and with his untimely death is now enshrined into immortality like Elvis and Kurt Cobain, Marilyn and James Dean.

I am incredibly saddened by his untimely demise. I grew up as a kid listening to Michael. I sincerely hoped he would have a career renaissance which would remind everyone (even if only once more) of his genius and all that was wonderful about the man. Sadly that's not to be.

I wrote a big feature on Michael at the start of 2003 for an internet magazine. In the last line, I made a sad almost prophetic prediction that Michael might meet an untimely death, and sadly I have been proven right.

Here is the feature, re-printed in full. and I seriously wrote the last sentence then too! I did a lot of work on it, and think it still is a really interesting look at him.

Did He or Doesn't He?

Well - being the start of 2003, it may well be trendy and all that to talk about the Middle East and Iraq blah blah Rummy and George W blah blah North Korea 'axis of evil' blah Columbia blowing up etc etc......but the really big news as we all know, is that certain documentary on Michael Jackson byBritish journo Martin Bashir who also 'did' Princess Di. What- a-corker!!! Truly the most riveting two hours on TV in recent memory when it hit our (NZ) screens in early Feb 03. On so many angles, so many interpretations ...whatever you may think of Jackson, there is no denying it - he is fascinating!! We sat truly aghast as the crafted, methodical ( very British) documentary unfolded and Jackson become more and more ....riveting.
It screened here on a Sunday night, and since then conversations have been peppered with debate and interpretation of what each of us have taken from it. For those of you reading this who somehow managed to miss this mesmerising documentary - it is the culmination of Bashir's unprecedented 8months or so spent in the life of a certain Mr. Michael Jackson.....a slice of this extraordinary man's bizarre fantasy life, which has to be seen literally in order to be believed.It is well possible that this documentary, following hot on the heels of his macabre baby-dangling incident in Berlin, will be the personal life straw that breaks the camel of his pop career - certainly his eccentricity is now tragically the fundamental media portrayal of him rather than focusing on his phenomenal, once-in-a-lifetime talent, which really peaked between the late 70s to the early-mid 80s.
Firstly, I was fascinated as to why the notoriously reclusive, media averse Jackson would allow a journo into his life at all, let alone to this extent. Maybe it's because Bashir presents as so soft, friendly and passive that he's like a cuddly middle-aged, Anglo-Indian teddy bear. Maybe it's because he is British, and somehow Jackson found a level of trust in him lacking in any of the caustic American press for whom he is number one whipping boy. Maybe it's because Jackson - so convinced there is nothing particularly wrong with his lifestyle and life ethos - saw it as an opportunity to win back the empathy of the world public-at-large, tarnished by the 'wacko Jacko' 'scum' ( as he called them) stories of the last 15 years or so.
In any event it is clear that Jackson is relaxed and happy to have Bashir in his home when the doco starts, offering him a level of warmth and gentle openness which in the first section of the documentary enamours you to Jackson in a kind of 'he's really-just-a-super-rich-eccentric-genius-with-a-Peter-Pan-complex' fashion...he is painfully shy and has to be coaxed to dance, explains how he wrote the epic 'Billy Jean', and even tries to teach Bashir how to moonwalk. He is definitely odd, but seems sweet and childish as well as lucid and bright. And very, very a-sexual.
It's when you start to tour with them around Jackson's Fun Park 'Neverland' that you can see where he has really sunk his serious lifetime bucks, and really see the eccentricity in it's full, unexpurgated glory. This is a fully sized amusement park with massive ferris wheel, racing cars, carousel, even ice cream guy...and not something that most chaps of his level of wealth spend their dosh...this is when the first real realisation hits; that his is truly a child's mind in a grown up's body. The Peter Pan thing is discussed with Bashir, and it's then that Jackson's essential dysfunction surfaces in all it's weirdness - he tells Bashir 'I AM Peter Pan'...pausing to then elaborate that he is Peter Pan 'in his heart'.
While there are probably other adult Peter Pans scattered around the globe, chances are this is the only one to literally live it for real - because he has the massive budget to do so. His dysfunction is a bought-and-paid-for, three dimensional type, wrapping and caressing him in it's fantasy. And this makes the fantasy reality for him, and the certain people (mostly kids) in his life a reality of sorts. Clearly to Jackson (as shown by Bashir), it's a reality. The Amusement park, the Zoo. Rooms packed with Peter Pan characters, games of all types, larger than life wax figures, all the stuff of children's craziest imaginings, there literally...a kind of wacky Walt Disney.
But Jackson folds like wet cardboard when Bashir questions him about his childhood...painfully intimate and intensely private but gently probing questions about his violent control freak father Joseph Jackson. It is already well documented - according to the recollection of many of the famous Jackson siblings that they lived in an intensely dysfunctional world of discipline which usually spilled over into actual violence; beatings with items like jug cords, being thrown against walls for failing to dance just right, making little mistakes during musical practice, or just as being kids. Due to his talent Michael often escaped the beatings his other less able brothers received. If this is to believed, then Michael Jackson's bizarre adult persona can be explained to a point. Sexual abuse was not raised, but if he had been abused then I would not be at all surprised. If it occurred horrifically, for years (either at his fathers or someone else'shands) then I would not be at all surprised. You don't need to be an expert in psychology to establish the link between all this, if it happened, and Jackson's dysfunction as an adult.

What might further explain the dysfunction and wasn't covered in as much detail by Bashir (due to time constraints and the personality-oriented theme of the documentary) was the freakish goldfish bowl world that MJ has survived through since he was just ten years old! Everywhere he has ever gone in public since early childhood - he has had to deal with the intense glare that his blazing talent attracts. His fame from the late 60s (when the Jackson 5 first signed with Motown) was not that much different to what it is in 2003. To live like this for just a small chunk of time is a highly pressured, un-human way to ive...even over a short period of time it would be and is too much for many (check Bashir's other famous subject), let alone for an entire lifetime - unabated. Living from hotel to hotel. Airport to airport. City to city, country to country. No school. No real peers/friends apart from siblings. No learning to mix with girls, make friends of similar peer group. Nothing remotely normal, year after year. Those few people that have lived in this glare - i.e.. Elvis - are so removed from reality that any small frailty is enough to turn their life into a surreal circus and even destroy them.
However, to watch Michael Jackson as a child performer is something else - eloquently summing himself up in the documentary as 'a 42yo man in a child's body'. His perfect voice, funky sublime vocal phrasing belying his youth, radiant face, and (even at this young age) mesmerisingly fluid dancing, are all freakishly good - his relatively talented siblings seem like clunky bit-players when performing with him. He exuded that magical thing that captivates all of us regardless of nationality, class, intelligence, musical appreciation. He is a genius at performing and entertaining in a rare universally inspiring way, in the same way Maradona shone in soccer. Sure, artists such as Sinatra, Lennon and McCartney, Jagger, Cobain et al have all had an explosive ' X' Factor in their ability to entertain, but they were all grown adults before they felt the heat of mass recognition, and not all even survived that heat, literally. In our lifetime probably only Prince can reasonably claim to have had comparable mass multi-genre, racially open appeal as well as being a certifiable musical genius. Jackson in my opinion peaked aged 19 when he released the Quincy Jones-produced 'Off The Wall' around 1979. I was about 10 and remember seeing the video for 'Don't Stop Til you Get Enough' at number one on TV...even then I knew it was something else, and to this day I still think it's about as funky as a song can possibly get. His crackling energy, amazing voice and freaky moves over the excruciatingly funking rhythm and bass of the song fully justified his fame. He looked then like a healthy normal young Afro American guy.
I would urge anyone reading this to get this album if you haven't got it already - it is truly fantastic, and not the cheesy computer pop you may associate with him. It is well funky and stylish, and his breadth of talent is made apparent with the sweet ballad 'She's Out Of My Life'. It easily avoids cheesy cliché, but is very simple and genuinely, achingly sad; you actually hear him genuinely break up crying in the last chorus. It could have been written by the Bee Gees, Paul McCartney, or David Gates.
The '83 album 'Thriller' was the monster, so 'Guinness Book' I don't even need to talk about it, you all know it as well as any human in the developed world - let it only be noted that as well as the music, he basically invented at this time the modern pop video. It all pretty much started to turn to shit after this - both his personality and his efforts musically would never improve, and the filthy money came in and started it's dirty work on the music - cheesy, ultra-produced, increasingly synthetic in soundand soul. It was also this decade his face started changing...and changing...and changing
.....And it's about here where I pull back to Bashir's documentary...
It's quickly apparent that Jackson is fully immersed in a Peter Pan fantasy/reality...but things step up in the odd stakes when Bashir asks Jackson about his face. We know he can easily afford any procedure he desires, many times over. It is totally, utterly wholly apparent from the documentary that he has altered his face almost literally to breaking point to achieve a racially neutral, child-like and ageless look, to be the outward manifestation of his obsession with eternal life and youth . The wretched, sad reality (especially up close) is that his face is a heavily made up, stretched, carved half-death mask - synthetic and almost zombie-like. He is forty four years old now, but the bleached Geisha skinis tighter than a drum - he makes nothing that slightly resembles a facial expression, His cheeks are garishly angular, un-naturally carved under the powdered skin. His painted lips have clearly been thinned out, a dimple has been designed on his chin....the eyes are heavily tattooed with mascara. Thehairline looks very un-natural and like he is wearing a wig.
Oh, and the nose. The little pixie-ish Neverland-ish, too up-turned, too pointy, ravaged nose. this is the part of him most obviously and dramatically altered over the last 18 years. It is massively re-constructed - end of story - and is perhaps the defining symbol of his madness. We have all watched it over the years turn from a quite natural flared Negroid shape to the alien pin-point it is now.
But he lies without blinking to Bashir about his face. Jackson claims his facial features are all part of the natural ageing process, and that he has had nothing whatsoever done ( in the final interview in the documentary he changes his story, and confesses to two operations ever, and only on his nose for the purposes of helping his singing voice). Here is where my full empathy/sympathy turned into a furrow-browed suspicion, such is the hopelessness of his denial with the evidence there for all to see. As agrown adult in 1979, he had chocolate brown skin, a wide nose, full lips - tighter than tight classic black afro hair...basically, a very normal and appealing looking Black American guy. We know he had acne issues as a younger guy, and was massively insecure about it. We all know though, that the changes that we can see have occurred dramatically, and after he reached adulthood. It all seems to be a very adult lie, and it follows then that if he can be so deluded about his face, then what of other, more seriousmatters....?!?
Bashir quite rightly is bothered by this, and then takes us on the road with Jackson as he re-locates to seven luxury suites in Las Vegas just to hang out for a while. Jackson's limousine is outrageous stretched beyond belief, grotesquely decadent. Very adult. When we arrive in Vegas, we see thatJackson has transplanted wax figures, arcade games - all manner of weird and wonderful things from Neverland - to the hotel. Bashir surmises that Jackson has gone to Vegas out of sheer boredom, living in total isolation from any semblance of the modern western world which he has entertained for decades. What struck me is that Vegas - the most garish, excessively surreal, over-the-top city in the US (if not the world) is the ideal playground from Jackson outside his own gates, and probably it is only thatun-reality which he could handle to live in for more than a day or two, as opposed to jetting in and out of (i.e. a city like New York would be too overwhelming in it's stark reality).
The two startling things in this segment were firstly his USD$10.2 million shopping spree, buying up hideously Vegas-tacky re-creations of original paintings, vases, furniture - even a full-size replica of Tutenkamen's gilded coffin...simply because he could. As he moves around the shoppingcenter, pandemonium breaks out, and crowds quickly gather. Jackson barely notices, and is nonchalant and non-plussed, stopping to wave, sign etc.
Secondly is the introduction of his two alleged children, heavily masked as they follow him around. This is where things get bizarre to the point of disturbing. The children were apparently conceived by Jackson's skin specialist Debbie Rowe, a very, very normal Caucasian woman by all accounts.It's immediately apparent however that the children appear to be completely European in skin tone and facial shape, even under the disguising masks. The bleached hair of both is long and straight. If Jackson was in fact the father, surely his decidedly un-plastic surgeryable Afro American genes would have given some of those features to his own children??
The documentary then shows Jackson and entourage heading to Berlin for a Lifetime Achievement award at a German presentation. Bashir accompanies him, and we see the sadness of this unusual, dysfunctional character struggling to cope. Most notably the introduction of his new infant PrinceMichael II or 'Blanket' (born by another, un-named woman) being hoisted and suspended over a six story balcony, dangling, with some material draped over it's head. Major major crack in the facade presented to Bashir on many levels.
Having talked to friends who have small children, they have all convinced me that to do what Jackson did goes totally against the grain of every genetically stamped parenting instinct. Parents just don't do things like this. Jackson is frenzied, with a maniacal grin on his face whilst doing it, and immediately afterwards is totally oblivious to the issues arising from what he has done - most importantly the massive risk of certain death to his child if he had slipped, but also the immense PR disaster that it wasfor him....The next day Bashir interviews him and he justifies what he did as OK and normal, claiming he 'was holding the baby tight' and that it was in-conceivable he would ever have let go. This does not wash at all, and while giving this part of the interview Jackson has his infant feeding on his legs, furiously, nervously jiggling....he looks like an awkward,self-concious and very very nervous.
We then watch Jackson take his other children to the Berlin Zoo, oblivious to the massive media throng and public waiting for him. The visit quickly descends into chaos, with very real safety concerns for the children, but Jackson insists on staying walking around, besieged and bustling frantically through a huge, growingly frantic throng, determined to see what he wants. Bashir is rattled and rightly so. Again following the visit, Jackson sees it as no big thing, and doesn't consider it to be an issue for his children.What is now apparent is that Jackson's parenting instincts are at the least very questionable, in that he is recorded putting all three of 'his' children into situations which poses very real potential physical harm to them...and he does not and can not see that.
It gets worse. His real down-fall in the documentary comes in the last section, where Bashir documents the most on-going controversial aspect of Jackson's life - his relationships with children. We all know about the child sexual abuse allegations with which he has been plagued , that damaged him so badly, that he settled out of court with a huge pay-off. Maybe he saw the documentary as a nice easy way to clear the air, to set the record straight and show that he really does love children in all the right ways.
He is then shown taking a group of under-privileged children around Neverland, train rides, ice creams and is obviously at his happiest with them. There is no doubt that he has a genuine heart-felt love for children, and their innocence. But it is obvious that the well-meaning love has mutated into obsession, and that he is as much as he can be, a super-ultra child himself.......paintings of Jackson adorning his home depicting him in pseudo-Renaissance period Biblical style - surrounded by cherubs - are disturbing, and very telling. His heartfelt comments that if there were no more children left in the world he would 'throw himself off a balcony', re-iterate this.
What put it beyond belief though, is the creepy interview with Jackson's twelve year old friend Gavin Arviszo, lying like a lover with head lolled languidly on Jackson's shoulder, hands clasped like lovers. Way, way too intimate. The impoverished Hispanic boy had conquered cancer, and obviouslyJackson had made an unforgettable impression on the boy's life; but the revelation that he and other children over the years sleep over in Jackson's bed somewhat negated all this good stuff. Again, a completely un-witting PR debacle for Jackson. The very inappropriate intimacy, whether actuallyinnocent or otherwise, was a self-crucifying nightmare, and either he has no consultancy with PR people re: these interviews, or he has chosen to ignore their advice.
The insistence by Jackson that there is no sexual connotation to the arrangement has a frail veneer to it, because at this stage we know that we have already been lied to by him about his facial reconstruction.
Bashir's final interview with Jackson is tense. Jackson has his own special lighting crew to favourably light his face, rightly anticipating that it was going to be a core point of discussion. Bashir is hard but firm and puts to him that his face has been massively changed by surgery, and again Jackson lies and claims all the changes are due to normal physical growth when, so clearly, they are not. The strain shows when the issue of his relationship with his and other children is brought up - Jackson cracksup momentarily, nearly crying, but defending himself vehemently, claiming he has only the purest platonic love for his and all children. Maybe this is true. Maybe not.
The fascinating conclusion of this documentary is that some things about Jackson are undisputed:- he loves children only and truly, he is highly dysfunctional with a Peter Pan complex, he is immensely talented, and he has altered his facial features substantially. It's the things not proven whichare more interesting - despite his best unwitting attempts to hang himself in public again and again, I have a feeling that the world may still be accusing this man of being things he is not and doing things he hasn't done.
There is no doubt though that Jackson (unwittingly or not) has created smoke which may well be linked to a blazing fire..only he really knows - but then again - maybe he doesn't..or doesn't want to..??
Reaction by Jackson has been pretty swift and his PR people are kicking into super damage control - an alternative documentary is in final production by his people, and is likely to be far more favourable towards him...but will it convince us any more of his innocence, following the damage he hasclearly brought upon himself in the Bashir doco??
Jackson's official response to the documentary, and those of his children's mother, and friends and parents have been immediate and fascinating: -http://www.allmichaeljackson.com/newsfeb03.html
One can take them at face value and question Bashir's angle...but one can also (perhaps cynically) argue that it is PR spin and money in action to smooth a sugar frosting on a shit cake.
The most certain thing is this:- mortality is going to hurt Jackson more and more and more, and if he doesn't get real help, his life may very well slowly disintegrate as Elvis Presley's did...and he may like Elvis, pay the ultimate price.