Michael Who?

I recently had dinner with my 68-year-old uncle. It was a vision into the future. A future not far off for me I hope. A future where, finally, my current resistance to popular culture will pay dividends in the shape of blissful ignorance to all that is going on around me; on TV, radio, internet, and mobile (or whatever forms they will have taken by the time I'm 68). I am already at a point in my life where I make a conscious effort to blot out the gossip, the charts, the reviews, and the trends.

I was laughed at recently when I asked who on Earth Rihanna was, and what this chap Chris Brown, her husband, had ever done. Annoyingly their story had sneaked into my regular main news bulletin on a TV channel more accustomed to reporting the state of sheep farming and fishing quotas. These things interest me. The state of the world interests me. Iran interests me. I am not interested, nor will I ever be, in what is under Rihanna’s umbrella, unless it is the latest copy of Newsweek magazine, or a summary of the latest algae levels in The Swan River, which are dangerously high for those of you who are interested.

The amazement of those around me when I asked about Mr and Mrs Brown’s story is nothing compared to the utter shock and stunned silence that followed my uncle’s response to my comment about the recent death of a global pop icon. He spoke two words that defied logic and elevated my uncle to hero status, in my eyes anyway. He confirmed his place amongst the elite group to which I aspire to belong. That group of people who use a computer only to email passages of news to relatives abroad without paragraphs, commas, or even spaces, and almost entirely in cAPS LOcK. That group of people who have a mobile phone for emergencies only. Who listen to classical music. On the wireless. Who add up their groceries as they peruse the aisles, who still post the odd letter, who enjoy the sight of a pelican sifting in the shallows of a lagoon, but not the sight of the pelican being disturbed by a passing jet ski. I am talking about the elderly. Or as I prefer to call them, the wise. What groundbreaking words did my uncle proffer when I mentioned the sad death of said pop icon? What inspiring point of view did he expose that made me want to, unlike most people, speed up the ageing process so that I could finally fulfil my destiny of being an old timer? Without flinching or slowing the movement of his beer glass to his lips, he quite simply said, “Michael who?”

Ironically, when we discussed the matter further and I mentioned that Michael Who had been discovered by Diana Ross, he erupted with, “Diana Ross! Now she was a great singer, whatever happened to her?” It made me realise that when I am 68 I will be engaging with my nephew attempting to enlighten him on the impact Michael Who had on the world of entertainment. In turn my nephew will be aware of Michael Who as I am aware of Bob Dylan, but will find himself in a transition phase, preoccupied by the constant nagging of his daughter begging him to buy her the new Billy-Joe-Mylie-Ray Cyrus Junior album, whilst he tries to find the following day’s UV index on his watch-mobile. Watchile? Mobatch? Who knows what it will be called. One thing is for sure, my nephew will be taught how to use it by his daughter whilst he looks upon me enviously as I pay for the bill with antique cash.

Poor Michael Who. Despite all his best efforts to make the world hate him, or not recognise him, whichever came first, he has died a hero for the simple genius he delivered in his music and dance. Many say things started to go pear-shaped when he burst into flames on a Pepsi commercial shoot. I’m not sure. I’ve burst into flames twice in my life and I am still normal. Just. Once when I was trying to impress fellow diners at the age of about 8 by running my finger slowly back and forth across a candle flame, “It doesn’t hurt, see? It doesn’t hurt.” My finger emerged after the fourth pass with a neat little flame coming off the end of it like a cigarette lighter. I stared in bewilderment before plunging it into a nearby glass of South African plonk. The second time was when I swore never to buy nylon or polyester again. I leant over a gas stove to shift a pot and needless to say got a little hot under the collar.

Fire is not to be played with. I am sure Michael Who didn’t mean to ignite his hair extensions. Despite the dangers of fire and fireworks I have noticed an increase in the number and quality of effigies being burned around the world at the moment. Australia’s Prime Minister Kevin Rudd was reduced to cinders in India recently. I am sure I caught a glimpse of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad going up in smoke too last week (although that might actually happen). Who is supplying all these effigies? Is it the Guy Fawkes industry being pushed by the economic climate to find an alternative income for the rest of the year? It’s high time effigy burning stepped out of the news and became mainstream TV. Think of the great entertainment, let alone the marketing opportunities:

Madoff. He Madoff with your money. Now he’s Madoff firelighters. Burn baby burn. The Madoff Effigy Burn, live from Wall Street, Tuesday, 7pm. Brought to you by Zippo Lighters.

Welcome back to Old Trafford, it’s halftime and Liverpool lead three goals to nil. Let’s go pitch side for the halftime entertainment sponsored by British Gas. One lucky United fan has been chosen to ignite the coals sitting underneath a giant Ronaldo figurine.

Good evening, the headlines tonight: non-smokers across the world have made a final stand against smokers by burning giant effigies of cowboys and camels in cities around the globe. Smokers groups have complained about the smoke. The irony.

Speaking of great entertainment. Still at dinner with my uncle, we were in a Thai restaurant; “I’ll have the number 69 please,” he bellowed to the shy waitress. Turning to me he whispered, “Do you know what 69 is?” I replied in the negative, a little too innocently. “It’s soixante-neuf in French.” Amused, I asked, “What do you know about soixante-neuf?” With a smirk he replied, “All I know is that it’s the sixty-ninth position the French use and I’m still working on the third!”

Ah, the old, the wise, and the burned. I can’t wait.