The deaths of certain celebrities are momentous enough to prompt the timeworn question "where were you when so and so died?" For the previous generation it was all about Elvis, JFK and John Lennon. For us it was ODB and of course Princess Diana. The night Diana stacked it I was riding back from a party in Sebb Chew's Proton, listening to 'Only Built 4 Cuban Linx', when we passed a newsstand outside a corner shop on North End Road with a tatty late edition notice that displayed the following - DIANA KILLED IN PARIS CRASH. We turned on the radio and a special bulletin confirmed the news.
I can't remember where I was when ODB died.
However, on Thursday when the King of Pop took his last pethidine laced breath I was koching in Best Kebab waiting on a small doner wrap. Jamal walked in. He seemed diminished somehow, lacking his usual swagger and clearly agitated. His face was blotchy - his narrow eyes red-rimmed. He'd been crying. He started talking to a man standing by the counter.
"I can't believe he's dead cuz".
"What?"
"Ain't you heard? Michael Jackson cuz. He's dead. He had a heart attack, you get me. I can't believe it".
The man didn't reply.
"I swear he never touched them childlets cuz. That was just the media chatting breeze. Michael wouldn't have done that cuz. I know he wouldn't."
The man laughed. One of the brothers handed him his order and he walked out. Jamal barely seemed to notice.
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