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June 20-22,2008 (Updated on post #60 for June 22)
- Thread starter SunsetDriver
- Start date
wes
Proud Member
Not much today 
I didn't know VH1 had their own awards show but now that I think of it, didn't MJ appear on stage too with BoyzII Men and perform We Are The World at the same awards show?
Thanks for posting
I didn't know VH1 had their own awards show but now that I think of it, didn't MJ appear on stage too with BoyzII Men and perform We Are The World at the same awards show?
Thanks for posting
hopespringseternal
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eternitys_child
Proud Member
Re: June 20-21,2008
I loved this article. I wish it would hit the front page of all the papers. Talk about a counter to the tabloid ish we hear. It sounds like things really are coming up "rosey".
I loved this article. I wish it would hit the front page of all the papers. Talk about a counter to the tabloid ish we hear. It sounds like things really are coming up "rosey".
Dorothy_Marie
Proud Member
Re: June 20-21,2008
Yes eternity's child I believe this article should be front page news. I will be placing it in the main site for everyone to see.
Yes eternity's child I believe this article should be front page news. I will be placing it in the main site for everyone to see.
Dorothy_Marie
Proud Member
I normally don't report things from other websites, but according to someone from the KOP board who is a member of a french forum stated that a member named Rubba stated that Michael Jackson was spotted at the George Michael concert last night in Las Vegas. According to Michael Jackson fans I know that this Rubba guy seems to be in the know and has broke news to us several times about different things.
AllTheLovelyFlowers
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Wow, I like the way Bandier talks. You know what is gonna be very interesting, indeed? If EMI/Universal or whoever it is ends up wanting to sell Motown and Bandier scoops it up and our Michael ends up being the owner of Motown, the home where he and his brothers have all of their old hits and where Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, and all those people have their hits. Now that would be very nice indeed.
Bee.
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Thanks for the news, everyone.
DM - Rubba is legit. He broke the news that R. Bain was MJ's publicist back in 2004.
Shonnon, I apologized beforehand but I just want to comment on this -
How would you know? MJ was not going to watch porn with children. It has nothing to do with how "innocent" MJ was. It has to do with values. I couldn't dare watch certain shows like "Gossip Girl" and "TMZ" with children. I think that a lot of fan need to start treating MJ like a damn man.
Again, thank you fans!
DM - Rubba is legit. He broke the news that R. Bain was MJ's publicist back in 2004.
Shonnon, I apologized beforehand but I just want to comment on this -
How would you know? MJ was not going to watch porn with children. It has nothing to do with how "innocent" MJ was. It has to do with values. I couldn't dare watch certain shows like "Gossip Girl" and "TMZ" with children. I think that a lot of fan need to start treating MJ like a damn man.
Again, thank you fans!
eternitys_child
Proud Member
I do not know who Rubba is and have deliberately not asked but in another thread Xscape guy referred to Rubba's contractual obligations to Michael and said that since it is getting so close he can't say anything anymore. In the past Rubba was more apt to comment on things like weather music would be released by a certain time. Michael sightings aren't something I associate with him but I think that may be because I pay less attention to that.
I didn't think we would hear anything about sightings now until Michael was all the way done with his part of the new music ... and who knows, maybe he is.
144000
Proud Member
Thanks for the news, everyone.
DM - Rubba is legit. He broke the news that R. Bain was MJ's publicist back in 2004.
Shonnon, I apologized beforehand but I just want to comment on this -
How would you know? MJ was not going to watch porn with children. It has nothing to do with how "innocent" MJ was. It has to do with values. I couldn't dare watch certain shows like "Gossip Girl" and "TMZ" with children. I think that a lot of fan need to start treating MJ like a damn man
Again, thank you fans!
cmon now bee, lol..let's start listening to the mods
eternitys_child
Proud Member
I agree. I just can't get over this article. It is good in so many ways. It treats Michael with absolute respect, not awe or objectification but Respect and like OMG a human being. We heard some of this before (about Bandier being worried about being able to expeditiously access Michael) and even then it wasn't DISrespectful but this is just awesome.
hopespringseternal
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I agree ATLF, and i think someone said too if EMI has to sell before the merger to Warner Records which used to be the home of both Madonna and Prince they might have to unload their catalogs for regulatory reasons too could you imagine Michael owning both Madonna and Prince music :lol: :rollin:
eternitys_child
Proud Member
Bee has it right though. More correct than the statement I made when I posted it.
Dorothy_Marie
Proud Member
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/a...ny--How-I-repaid-practical-joke-15-years.html
Danny Wallace: Revenge of the angry bunny... How I repaid a practical joke after 15 years
Why did I want to take vicious revenge on Ben Ives? Why did I hunger to humiliate a man I hadn’t seen for the best part of 15 years?
And why was I prepared to travel thousands of miles and dress up as a giant furry rabbit to do so?
Well, it’s a long story.
I met Ben on my first Saturday job in Argos. My family were living in Bath at the time.
Ben went to a different school, had different friends and lived on the other side of town.
The odds were against us from the start, but we bonded on our very first lunch break.
Someone — OK, it was me — suggested getting the phone book out to check for weird names. And we found them. And we laughed.
I think it was the moment we found the name Vernon Bodfish that we realised we’d become mates. Mates bonded by Bodfish, and the drab grey and beige world of Argos catalogue shopping.
Suddenly Saturdays became fun. After work, we’d head back to my house and watch Gladiators and Noel’s House Party and play Mega Bomberman until our thumbs fell off.
Pretty soon it was Sundays as well. We’d sit in McDonald’s or head down to the arcade for fun with a laser gun.
Besides an unnatural interest in names like Vernon Bodfish, we discovered a shared love of pranks.
When, using hidden speakers and a microphone, I convinced Mum the cat could talk, I immediately told Ben.
When Ben did the same to his mum, he immediately told me.
Our best trick of all involved the payphone opposite my house. It was in view of my window, and we had the number on speed-dial.
As someone walked past, we would ring and I’d signal to Ben to turn the radio up in the background.
As the unsuspecting stranger answered the ringing payphone, I’d shout, in my very best DJ voice: ‘This is Dave Casey from Excellent FM! For £10,000… what’s the password?’
‘Oh, I’d heard about this game,’ the person would inevitably lie, ignoring the fact that no one in their right mind would listen to a station named Excellent FM.
‘I, oh, my — ten thousand — it’ll come to me in a minute.’
Ben would be doubled over in tears by this point, watching our floundering victim through my parents’ opera glasses.
‘Oh dear,’ I’d say. ‘This is terrible. We have to give away our £10,000 before the end of the day. Maybe I can help you.’
I’d pretend to have a word with ‘Ben the producer’ and then tell the person we’d offer them a clue, give them a few minutes to work it out, then ring back.
‘OK,’ I’d say. ‘It is an eight-letter word, and octopuses have them.’
We’d put the phone down, have a sandwich and a glass of Fanta. And then, ten or 15 minutes later, we’d call back.
This is Dave Casey from Excellent FM! For £10,000 — what’s the password?’
The person on the end of the line would shout something like ‘Tentacles!’
And I’d say, ‘No! I’m sorry! The answer is ‘‘Gullible!’’ ’
Then we’d hang up and collapse into giggles, and fight over who got the opera glasses and the chance to watch the person walk away looking confused and counting the number of letters in the word ‘gullible’.
Our pranks continued for a long, warm summer. We were mates at the top of our game, a team to be reckoned with.
But then, one day, Ben overstepped the mark.
The unwritten rule in those happy teenage days was that we were a team. And the team never played pranks on each other. The team was as one.
You may find the following rather harrowing.
It was Saturday morning. I was dressed in my ill-fitting Argos slacks and grey Argos tie. My hair was badly gelled.
All was normal as Bath recovered from the Friday night before. The payphone had been smashed as usual.
And, as every week, someone had inexplicably left a single chicken nugget on top of the post-box opposite Millets.
I’d bought a coronation chicken sandwich and a can of Tizer for me and Ben on the way in.
But as I walked into Argos, I knew something was wrong. There were glances and smirks.
Then I saw it. On the notice board. A letter. With my name on it. Breaking into a sweat, I began to read. . .
‘Private and confidential.’ Eh? This was a bad start. A bad start to something that soon got worse.
‘To Dr Riversticks, The Reinhardt Private Clinic for Young Men, Chippenham.
‘Dear Dr Riversticks. My name is Daniel Wallace and I wish to point out that your assessment of the so-called “outstanding” balance on my account is plagued by startling presumptuousness.’
What?
‘When I embarked upon the genital exfoliation treatment. . .’
On WHAT? ‘...I was led to believe the therapy would be short, cheap, painless and successful. I certainly didn’t imagine that it would leave my private parts looking —’
All right. I’ll skip the next bit. You really don’t want to know.
‘Please contact my lawyers at Casey & Bodfish on all future matters.’
No! Casey & Bodfish! Dave Casey? Vernon Bodfish?? This was the work of. . .
‘Sincerely, D. Wallace.’
No! Not D. Wallace! This was B. Ives! Ben Ives! A comrade! A team-mate! A — hang on. . .
‘P.S. I am writing this at work, so I hope I don’t accidentally print it out on all the printers here, because I would be quite embarrassed by that.’
. . . a total b*****d. Ben Ives had broken the rules. He’d turned me from prankster to
prankee!
A victim! A loser! And to think I’d brought him a Tizer.
Hours later, my cheeks still burning with humiliation, I saw Ben coming down from the stockroom.
I turned away. I had work to do. Good, honourable, Argos work.
Those fancy, goldplated ‘Best Mum in the World’ sovereign rings weren’t going to sell themselves.
I would get him back, I told myself. Soon I would conquer the master. But guess what?
I never did. He was always one step ahead. He was expecting it. Then he got a job at Superdrug.
And that’s how matters rested for a decade-and-a-half. Then, on the brink of my 30th birthday, I set out on this quest to track down my old childhood friends.
It was a chance to restore lost links. Revisit the good times. Do something positive in my life.
And, as I suddenly realised one bright and sunny morning, wreak horrible and condign vengeance on a certain B. Ives.
Tapping into Google, I found out he was working as a journalist in America, on a paper just outside Los Angeles.
I read some of his stuff online and it was all rather impressive.
Outspoken opinion pieces on the links between oil and war . . . a penetrating review of a touring production of Pirates Of Penzance . . . and a feature about a strange group of people called ‘Furries’, who apparently enjoy dressing up in animal costumes — dogs, bears, rabbits, you name it — and having intimate relations with each other.
How American.
And how inspiring.
'To: Ben Ives From: Mangriff the Beast Warrior'
'Subject: Your article'
'Dear Ben Ives, I am writing in response to your article about — and I quote — "the bizarre world" of Furries.
'I want you to know that your slurs have united the Furry community of the world in outrage.
'As a proud Furry, I am coming to America in the next month and I will be calling by your offices to see you and put you straight. Can you let me know your availability. Mangriff.'
My e-mail pinged. I was filled with childish glee. Ha! This was great! Ives was mine!
But before I settled his hash, I had some other names on my list of old friends to look up.
Cameron Dewa. Michael Amodio. Akira Matsui.
I love the way whenever anyone tells you about someone they went to school with they give you their full name.
Everyone does it. It is my contention that if Jesus had gone to a British school in the 1970s or 1980s, the Bible wouldn’t simply make reference to Mark, Luke or John.
t’d be Mark Witherenshaw, Luke Fielding and John Pepperwhite from Bethlehem Junior School for the Holy.
I knew Cameron Dewa came from Fiji, and when I last saw him as a 12-year-old in Loughborough, he was supposed to be moving back there.
I tracked down his e-mail and got in touch, dreaming of a nice Pacific holiday and a chat about old times.
It turned out he was working in IT at a Dutch bank. A Dutch bank in London — right on my doorstep.
As I arranged to meet him for a pint, my thoughts drifted back to the days when Cameron and I enjoyed the height of our friendship in 1988.
The world was a very different place. There were no winters in the late 1980s, just long and hazy summers followed by Christmas Day, and then the summer again.
Iraq was a place only four people had ever heard of, all of them living in Iraq. And the children’s TV presenter Phillip Schofield was the most famous man on the planet.
He was on posters up and down the country, next to Kylie Minogue with a perm so tight she could survive a fall from another planet.
Back then, Philip Schofield trivia was like knives are now. We collected his thoughts and philosophies. I knew his favourite colour (red).
His favourite drink (orange). What kind of biscuit he’d be if he were a biscuit (a wafer).
Then one day a new man came into my life, cooler, kinder and more talented even than Phillip Schofield. Within a year, every inch of my bedroom wall would be covered in pictures of him.
I would have T-shirts with his face on. I was utterly and totally obsessed.
The man’s name? Michael Joseph Jackson. My signed Phillip Schofield photograph was relegated to the bit of my wall hidden by my desk, just above a picture of a Smurf.
I had Cameron Dewa to thank for Michael Jackson. He was the first person to play Thriller to me, whipping out a battered C-60 tape from his turquoise cotton tracksuit and slapping it into my cassette player.
Cameron did the zombie dance from the video. He explained that Bad meant good. And in one afternoon, he changed my childhood.
I’m ready to admit something to you now. There was one extra name in my childhood address book, which I haven’t mentioned before.
An extra name I’d included on my unofficial list of best mates.
And an address I’d written to on more than one occasion: 'The World of Michael Jackson PO Box 92873 Encino, California USA'
I first wrote to Michael Jackson to invite him to Loughborough. It was coming up to the school play, and I thought perhaps he might like a free ticket (I knew people).
In other letters, I asked after his chimp, Bubbles, and told him I hoped that his hair had stopped hurting after he got burnt doing that Pepsi ad.
I talked openly of my admiration for his charity work. I dissected his lyrics and told him what they meant to me as a 12-year-old growing up in Loughborough.
Well, why not? I loved the fact that Michael Jackson loved children. I mean, he seemed to really love them.
They were in his videos. In his films. Round his house. He was a grown man who seemed to prefer hanging out with boys my age! That was brilliant!
Me and Cameron Dewa, we were Loughborough’s number one Michael Jackson obsessives. And suddenly, here was my fellow fan, sitting opposite me in a London pub.
‘Are you still into Michael Jackson?’ I asked him.
‘No, that sort of faded away when we went back to Fiji.’
Cameron, it turned out, was a bit of a star in his own right. He had married a Fijian girl, played basketball for Fiji, and starred in a Coke ad. Oh, and there was a little something Cameron hadn’t told me when we were practising our Michael Jackson moondance steps back in Loughborough.
‘Yes, I’m third in line to the throne of Fiji.’
‘Third in line? To the throne? Of Fiji?’ I repeated, stunned.
‘Yes. It was never a secret. I just didn’t think it was worth mentioning. And it’s not quite
what it sounds.
'Fiji has a very extended royal family. Everyone’s in line to the throne in Fiji.’
We went to Burger King. I asked if I could read Cameron a poem I had written when his family left for Fiji.
Cameron made the kind of face all nearly-30 men make when you say you’ve brought a poem with you.
I got out my 1980s notebook, with No Girls Allowed written in it, and cleared my throat.
‘Cameron, Cameron!’ I read. ‘With your face like a plum! Skin soft as a baby’s b*m! You are my best friend! And now you must go! To Fiji! Wherever that is.’
We didn’t take geography until secondary school. I pressed on. ‘I will never forget you! We will be friends for all time! Our friendship can’t be summed up! At least not while making it rhyme.’
Cameron sat in awed, stunned silence. Then I looked to one side. There was a man staring at us.
He was wearing a blue cagoule and half an onion ring was hanging from his mouth. I suddenly realised there was no way of explaining the situation.
No way of telling him I’d written the poem when I was 11, that Cameron was third in line to the throne of Fiji and this was the first time we’d seen each other in nearly 20 years.
We finished our burgers and left.
But I woke up next morning with a smile on my face as wide as a cat. It was so good to have friends like this back in my life.
Even better, I had an e-mail from Ben.
He seemed freaked out by Mangriff’s determination to meet him, but had reluctantly agreed. I bought a ticket to Los Angeles and set off in search of vengeance.
I can’t pretend I wasn’t nervous when I got there. It had been a long way to come — but hey, friends are worth it. I sat in the corner booth of the bar where we had agreed to meet, hidden away from prying eyes.
I had a Budweiser in front of me and, crucially, a giant white rabbit head on my lap.
It was brilliant. It was huge, and furry, and had round friendly eyes and a big chuckling mouth.
The lady at the costume shop who’d sold it to me told me that if I bought it, she’d throw in a big plastic carrot for free — and that had really swung it. This was meant to be.
I would tear off the mask, and shout: ‘I never had genital exfoliation! It’s me! Vernon Bodfish! It’s Danny Wallace — and I tricked you! I win!!!’
A man walked in the door. I pulled on my rabbit head. It was Ben Ives. I pretended to read a newspaper. A moment later I heard the soft shuffle of nervous feet. This was it!
A polite cough, followed by: ‘Uh — hi?’ I put my paper down. For a split second, we were just a man and a giant rabbit, staring at each other in a bar, just as thousands of other men and giant rabbits were doing at that precise moment, all over the world.
Through the mesh of my rabbit eyes, I could see it was unmistakably Ben. Older. Bigger. But Ben.
I paused. Paused long enough for Ben to lose confidence and become slightly embarrassed and unsure of himself, like maybe he’d got the details wrong and he was in the wrong bar with the wrong rabbit.
It was just a flinch of embarrassment, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that I was here to get him back. Any thoughts of mercy slipped away.
‘Um — I’m Ben — are you Mangriff the, er, angry Furry?’ he asked. I looked him full in the face. ‘Am I Mangriff?’ I said.
He nodded. I shook my massive head. ‘Nope,’ I said, and went back to reading my paper.
In some ways, of course, I wish I could have left it at that. That would have been a real prank. A better prank. But I couldn’t.
When it looked like he was about to turn around and walk away, I let out a small laugh, and I tore off my rabbit head.
He looked at me, and a mixture of relief and happiness and annoyance flushed his face.
He gave me a hug and swore at me profusely. I returned home jubilant, to discover a satisfying e-mail.
‘OK, so you got me and we’re even. You git! I’ll be in the UK at Christmas, so how about we meet up again?
'And if we do, leave the rabbit head at home.’
Here it was! The written confirmation of my revenge! And all taken in such good spirit!
That was friendship. This wasn’t just ticking names off a list. This was... important. These were my friends. This was my history.
But suddenly my quest started hitting trouble.
My letters to Andy Clements, another schoolmate from Loughborough in the Eighties, were returned marked ‘not known at this address’.
And then I was rebuffed by someone I’ll just call Tom. He sent me a short e-mail, but it wasn’t sweet.
‘Hullo. Meeting up would be a bit weird! No thanks, mate. Hope you’re well. Tom.’
The swine! I remembered lending him 20p so he could buy some Garbage Pail Kid stickers.
For his eleventh birthday, I bought him a bumbag! Bumbags don’t grow on trees, you know!
They grow in expensive Chinese sweatshops! And now this. What ingratitude.
I tried a new tack, and tracked down a girl who’d lived next door to Andy Clements and had always been close to him.
She was sure to know where he was.
Hey — maybe they’d be married! I dialled her number.
‘You probably won’t remember me,’ I began, in time-honoured fashion. ‘I’m a friend of Andy Clements. Or I used to be.’
There was a silence on the other end, which I did my best to fill. She sounded a little shocked that I’d phoned.
I figured that was more than OK — I was asking her to think back quite a few years.
‘Did you keep in touch with Andy?’
I asked. A silence, then: ‘Daniel, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but Andy passed away.’ And I sat down. And I nearly dropped my phone.
For a few days, I did nothing and saw no one. Andrew James Clements had died in a car crash aged just 18 years old. And I didn’t know how to take it. Eighteen.
Every single second that I’d been alive since I was 18 was a second that Andy never had.
Andy had been a good friend, and a good human being. Someone who was loyal, upbeat and funny.
For a while, I stopped my search.
What was the point of continuing? Then I realised that this was the whole point. I shouldn’t be stopping because of Andy. I should be pressing on, not wasting a minute.
My search took me to Berlin, Japan and Australia. I found every remaining friend on my list — including Tom, who’d spurned me by e-mail.
I’d given up hope with Tom, but my wife, Lizzie, secretly persuaded him to come to my 30th birthday party.
The night before, Cameron Dewa took me to see Michael Jackson in concert at Earls Court. Not a bad birthday, really, given how much I’d been dreading it when I was 29.
It’s funny how life works out, if you give it the chance. Give it a go. Look someone up.
http://thecelebritycafe.com/sightings/16578.html
David Hasselhoff
21-Jun-2008
Written by: Christine Somers
[SIZE=-1]Meeting David Hasselhoff/Michael Jackson
My family and I were on vacation at Universal Studios in Hollywood, CA during the '80s. We were touring the lot and the tour director announced that David Hasselhoff was there and he was taking autographs. This was when he was playing the character Michael Knight on the show Knight Rider. My family finally got to the head of the line. My sister was 3-years-old and was too scared to say anything, but I wasn't. So, I said, "Hi, Michael Jackson." He said that he wasn't Michael Jackson. I was really embarrassed. [/SIZE]
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Danny Wallace: Revenge of the angry bunny... How I repaid a practical joke after 15 years
Why did I want to take vicious revenge on Ben Ives? Why did I hunger to humiliate a man I hadn’t seen for the best part of 15 years?
And why was I prepared to travel thousands of miles and dress up as a giant furry rabbit to do so?
Well, it’s a long story.
I met Ben on my first Saturday job in Argos. My family were living in Bath at the time.
Ben went to a different school, had different friends and lived on the other side of town.
The odds were against us from the start, but we bonded on our very first lunch break.
Someone — OK, it was me — suggested getting the phone book out to check for weird names. And we found them. And we laughed.
I think it was the moment we found the name Vernon Bodfish that we realised we’d become mates. Mates bonded by Bodfish, and the drab grey and beige world of Argos catalogue shopping.
Suddenly Saturdays became fun. After work, we’d head back to my house and watch Gladiators and Noel’s House Party and play Mega Bomberman until our thumbs fell off.
Pretty soon it was Sundays as well. We’d sit in McDonald’s or head down to the arcade for fun with a laser gun.
Besides an unnatural interest in names like Vernon Bodfish, we discovered a shared love of pranks.
When, using hidden speakers and a microphone, I convinced Mum the cat could talk, I immediately told Ben.
When Ben did the same to his mum, he immediately told me.
Our best trick of all involved the payphone opposite my house. It was in view of my window, and we had the number on speed-dial.
As someone walked past, we would ring and I’d signal to Ben to turn the radio up in the background.
As the unsuspecting stranger answered the ringing payphone, I’d shout, in my very best DJ voice: ‘This is Dave Casey from Excellent FM! For £10,000… what’s the password?’
‘Oh, I’d heard about this game,’ the person would inevitably lie, ignoring the fact that no one in their right mind would listen to a station named Excellent FM.
‘I, oh, my — ten thousand — it’ll come to me in a minute.’
Ben would be doubled over in tears by this point, watching our floundering victim through my parents’ opera glasses.
‘Oh dear,’ I’d say. ‘This is terrible. We have to give away our £10,000 before the end of the day. Maybe I can help you.’
I’d pretend to have a word with ‘Ben the producer’ and then tell the person we’d offer them a clue, give them a few minutes to work it out, then ring back.
‘OK,’ I’d say. ‘It is an eight-letter word, and octopuses have them.’
We’d put the phone down, have a sandwich and a glass of Fanta. And then, ten or 15 minutes later, we’d call back.
This is Dave Casey from Excellent FM! For £10,000 — what’s the password?’
The person on the end of the line would shout something like ‘Tentacles!’
And I’d say, ‘No! I’m sorry! The answer is ‘‘Gullible!’’ ’
Then we’d hang up and collapse into giggles, and fight over who got the opera glasses and the chance to watch the person walk away looking confused and counting the number of letters in the word ‘gullible’.
Our pranks continued for a long, warm summer. We were mates at the top of our game, a team to be reckoned with.
But then, one day, Ben overstepped the mark.
The unwritten rule in those happy teenage days was that we were a team. And the team never played pranks on each other. The team was as one.
You may find the following rather harrowing.
It was Saturday morning. I was dressed in my ill-fitting Argos slacks and grey Argos tie. My hair was badly gelled.
All was normal as Bath recovered from the Friday night before. The payphone had been smashed as usual.
And, as every week, someone had inexplicably left a single chicken nugget on top of the post-box opposite Millets.
I’d bought a coronation chicken sandwich and a can of Tizer for me and Ben on the way in.
But as I walked into Argos, I knew something was wrong. There were glances and smirks.
Then I saw it. On the notice board. A letter. With my name on it. Breaking into a sweat, I began to read. . .
‘Private and confidential.’ Eh? This was a bad start. A bad start to something that soon got worse.
‘To Dr Riversticks, The Reinhardt Private Clinic for Young Men, Chippenham.
‘Dear Dr Riversticks. My name is Daniel Wallace and I wish to point out that your assessment of the so-called “outstanding” balance on my account is plagued by startling presumptuousness.’
What?
‘When I embarked upon the genital exfoliation treatment. . .’
On WHAT? ‘...I was led to believe the therapy would be short, cheap, painless and successful. I certainly didn’t imagine that it would leave my private parts looking —’
All right. I’ll skip the next bit. You really don’t want to know.
‘Please contact my lawyers at Casey & Bodfish on all future matters.’
No! Casey & Bodfish! Dave Casey? Vernon Bodfish?? This was the work of. . .
‘Sincerely, D. Wallace.’
No! Not D. Wallace! This was B. Ives! Ben Ives! A comrade! A team-mate! A — hang on. . .
‘P.S. I am writing this at work, so I hope I don’t accidentally print it out on all the printers here, because I would be quite embarrassed by that.’
. . . a total b*****d. Ben Ives had broken the rules. He’d turned me from prankster to
prankee!
A victim! A loser! And to think I’d brought him a Tizer.
Hours later, my cheeks still burning with humiliation, I saw Ben coming down from the stockroom.
I turned away. I had work to do. Good, honourable, Argos work.
Those fancy, goldplated ‘Best Mum in the World’ sovereign rings weren’t going to sell themselves.
I would get him back, I told myself. Soon I would conquer the master. But guess what?
I never did. He was always one step ahead. He was expecting it. Then he got a job at Superdrug.
And that’s how matters rested for a decade-and-a-half. Then, on the brink of my 30th birthday, I set out on this quest to track down my old childhood friends.
It was a chance to restore lost links. Revisit the good times. Do something positive in my life.
And, as I suddenly realised one bright and sunny morning, wreak horrible and condign vengeance on a certain B. Ives.
Tapping into Google, I found out he was working as a journalist in America, on a paper just outside Los Angeles.
I read some of his stuff online and it was all rather impressive.
Outspoken opinion pieces on the links between oil and war . . . a penetrating review of a touring production of Pirates Of Penzance . . . and a feature about a strange group of people called ‘Furries’, who apparently enjoy dressing up in animal costumes — dogs, bears, rabbits, you name it — and having intimate relations with each other.
How American.
And how inspiring.
'To: Ben Ives From: Mangriff the Beast Warrior'
'Subject: Your article'
'Dear Ben Ives, I am writing in response to your article about — and I quote — "the bizarre world" of Furries.
'I want you to know that your slurs have united the Furry community of the world in outrage.
'As a proud Furry, I am coming to America in the next month and I will be calling by your offices to see you and put you straight. Can you let me know your availability. Mangriff.'
My e-mail pinged. I was filled with childish glee. Ha! This was great! Ives was mine!
But before I settled his hash, I had some other names on my list of old friends to look up.
Cameron Dewa. Michael Amodio. Akira Matsui.
I love the way whenever anyone tells you about someone they went to school with they give you their full name.
Everyone does it. It is my contention that if Jesus had gone to a British school in the 1970s or 1980s, the Bible wouldn’t simply make reference to Mark, Luke or John.
t’d be Mark Witherenshaw, Luke Fielding and John Pepperwhite from Bethlehem Junior School for the Holy.
I knew Cameron Dewa came from Fiji, and when I last saw him as a 12-year-old in Loughborough, he was supposed to be moving back there.
I tracked down his e-mail and got in touch, dreaming of a nice Pacific holiday and a chat about old times.
It turned out he was working in IT at a Dutch bank. A Dutch bank in London — right on my doorstep.
As I arranged to meet him for a pint, my thoughts drifted back to the days when Cameron and I enjoyed the height of our friendship in 1988.
The world was a very different place. There were no winters in the late 1980s, just long and hazy summers followed by Christmas Day, and then the summer again.
Iraq was a place only four people had ever heard of, all of them living in Iraq. And the children’s TV presenter Phillip Schofield was the most famous man on the planet.
He was on posters up and down the country, next to Kylie Minogue with a perm so tight she could survive a fall from another planet.
Back then, Philip Schofield trivia was like knives are now. We collected his thoughts and philosophies. I knew his favourite colour (red).
His favourite drink (orange). What kind of biscuit he’d be if he were a biscuit (a wafer).
Then one day a new man came into my life, cooler, kinder and more talented even than Phillip Schofield. Within a year, every inch of my bedroom wall would be covered in pictures of him.
I would have T-shirts with his face on. I was utterly and totally obsessed.
The man’s name? Michael Joseph Jackson. My signed Phillip Schofield photograph was relegated to the bit of my wall hidden by my desk, just above a picture of a Smurf.
I had Cameron Dewa to thank for Michael Jackson. He was the first person to play Thriller to me, whipping out a battered C-60 tape from his turquoise cotton tracksuit and slapping it into my cassette player.
Cameron did the zombie dance from the video. He explained that Bad meant good. And in one afternoon, he changed my childhood.
I’m ready to admit something to you now. There was one extra name in my childhood address book, which I haven’t mentioned before.
An extra name I’d included on my unofficial list of best mates.
And an address I’d written to on more than one occasion: 'The World of Michael Jackson PO Box 92873 Encino, California USA'
I first wrote to Michael Jackson to invite him to Loughborough. It was coming up to the school play, and I thought perhaps he might like a free ticket (I knew people).
In other letters, I asked after his chimp, Bubbles, and told him I hoped that his hair had stopped hurting after he got burnt doing that Pepsi ad.
I talked openly of my admiration for his charity work. I dissected his lyrics and told him what they meant to me as a 12-year-old growing up in Loughborough.
Well, why not? I loved the fact that Michael Jackson loved children. I mean, he seemed to really love them.
They were in his videos. In his films. Round his house. He was a grown man who seemed to prefer hanging out with boys my age! That was brilliant!
Me and Cameron Dewa, we were Loughborough’s number one Michael Jackson obsessives. And suddenly, here was my fellow fan, sitting opposite me in a London pub.
‘Are you still into Michael Jackson?’ I asked him.
‘No, that sort of faded away when we went back to Fiji.’
Cameron, it turned out, was a bit of a star in his own right. He had married a Fijian girl, played basketball for Fiji, and starred in a Coke ad. Oh, and there was a little something Cameron hadn’t told me when we were practising our Michael Jackson moondance steps back in Loughborough.
‘Yes, I’m third in line to the throne of Fiji.’
‘Third in line? To the throne? Of Fiji?’ I repeated, stunned.
‘Yes. It was never a secret. I just didn’t think it was worth mentioning. And it’s not quite
what it sounds.
'Fiji has a very extended royal family. Everyone’s in line to the throne in Fiji.’
We went to Burger King. I asked if I could read Cameron a poem I had written when his family left for Fiji.
Cameron made the kind of face all nearly-30 men make when you say you’ve brought a poem with you.
I got out my 1980s notebook, with No Girls Allowed written in it, and cleared my throat.
‘Cameron, Cameron!’ I read. ‘With your face like a plum! Skin soft as a baby’s b*m! You are my best friend! And now you must go! To Fiji! Wherever that is.’
We didn’t take geography until secondary school. I pressed on. ‘I will never forget you! We will be friends for all time! Our friendship can’t be summed up! At least not while making it rhyme.’
Cameron sat in awed, stunned silence. Then I looked to one side. There was a man staring at us.
He was wearing a blue cagoule and half an onion ring was hanging from his mouth. I suddenly realised there was no way of explaining the situation.
No way of telling him I’d written the poem when I was 11, that Cameron was third in line to the throne of Fiji and this was the first time we’d seen each other in nearly 20 years.
We finished our burgers and left.
But I woke up next morning with a smile on my face as wide as a cat. It was so good to have friends like this back in my life.
Even better, I had an e-mail from Ben.
He seemed freaked out by Mangriff’s determination to meet him, but had reluctantly agreed. I bought a ticket to Los Angeles and set off in search of vengeance.
I can’t pretend I wasn’t nervous when I got there. It had been a long way to come — but hey, friends are worth it. I sat in the corner booth of the bar where we had agreed to meet, hidden away from prying eyes.
I had a Budweiser in front of me and, crucially, a giant white rabbit head on my lap.
It was brilliant. It was huge, and furry, and had round friendly eyes and a big chuckling mouth.
The lady at the costume shop who’d sold it to me told me that if I bought it, she’d throw in a big plastic carrot for free — and that had really swung it. This was meant to be.
I would tear off the mask, and shout: ‘I never had genital exfoliation! It’s me! Vernon Bodfish! It’s Danny Wallace — and I tricked you! I win!!!’
A man walked in the door. I pulled on my rabbit head. It was Ben Ives. I pretended to read a newspaper. A moment later I heard the soft shuffle of nervous feet. This was it!
A polite cough, followed by: ‘Uh — hi?’ I put my paper down. For a split second, we were just a man and a giant rabbit, staring at each other in a bar, just as thousands of other men and giant rabbits were doing at that precise moment, all over the world.
Through the mesh of my rabbit eyes, I could see it was unmistakably Ben. Older. Bigger. But Ben.
I paused. Paused long enough for Ben to lose confidence and become slightly embarrassed and unsure of himself, like maybe he’d got the details wrong and he was in the wrong bar with the wrong rabbit.
It was just a flinch of embarrassment, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that I was here to get him back. Any thoughts of mercy slipped away.
‘Um — I’m Ben — are you Mangriff the, er, angry Furry?’ he asked. I looked him full in the face. ‘Am I Mangriff?’ I said.
He nodded. I shook my massive head. ‘Nope,’ I said, and went back to reading my paper.
In some ways, of course, I wish I could have left it at that. That would have been a real prank. A better prank. But I couldn’t.
When it looked like he was about to turn around and walk away, I let out a small laugh, and I tore off my rabbit head.
He looked at me, and a mixture of relief and happiness and annoyance flushed his face.
He gave me a hug and swore at me profusely. I returned home jubilant, to discover a satisfying e-mail.
‘OK, so you got me and we’re even. You git! I’ll be in the UK at Christmas, so how about we meet up again?
'And if we do, leave the rabbit head at home.’
Here it was! The written confirmation of my revenge! And all taken in such good spirit!
That was friendship. This wasn’t just ticking names off a list. This was... important. These were my friends. This was my history.
But suddenly my quest started hitting trouble.
My letters to Andy Clements, another schoolmate from Loughborough in the Eighties, were returned marked ‘not known at this address’.
And then I was rebuffed by someone I’ll just call Tom. He sent me a short e-mail, but it wasn’t sweet.
‘Hullo. Meeting up would be a bit weird! No thanks, mate. Hope you’re well. Tom.’
The swine! I remembered lending him 20p so he could buy some Garbage Pail Kid stickers.
For his eleventh birthday, I bought him a bumbag! Bumbags don’t grow on trees, you know!
They grow in expensive Chinese sweatshops! And now this. What ingratitude.
I tried a new tack, and tracked down a girl who’d lived next door to Andy Clements and had always been close to him.
She was sure to know where he was.
Hey — maybe they’d be married! I dialled her number.
‘You probably won’t remember me,’ I began, in time-honoured fashion. ‘I’m a friend of Andy Clements. Or I used to be.’
There was a silence on the other end, which I did my best to fill. She sounded a little shocked that I’d phoned.
I figured that was more than OK — I was asking her to think back quite a few years.
‘Did you keep in touch with Andy?’
I asked. A silence, then: ‘Daniel, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but Andy passed away.’ And I sat down. And I nearly dropped my phone.
For a few days, I did nothing and saw no one. Andrew James Clements had died in a car crash aged just 18 years old. And I didn’t know how to take it. Eighteen.
Every single second that I’d been alive since I was 18 was a second that Andy never had.
Andy had been a good friend, and a good human being. Someone who was loyal, upbeat and funny.
For a while, I stopped my search.
What was the point of continuing? Then I realised that this was the whole point. I shouldn’t be stopping because of Andy. I should be pressing on, not wasting a minute.
My search took me to Berlin, Japan and Australia. I found every remaining friend on my list — including Tom, who’d spurned me by e-mail.
I’d given up hope with Tom, but my wife, Lizzie, secretly persuaded him to come to my 30th birthday party.
The night before, Cameron Dewa took me to see Michael Jackson in concert at Earls Court. Not a bad birthday, really, given how much I’d been dreading it when I was 29.
It’s funny how life works out, if you give it the chance. Give it a go. Look someone up.
http://thecelebritycafe.com/sightings/16578.html
David Hasselhoff
21-Jun-2008
Written by: Christine Somers
[SIZE=-1]Meeting David Hasselhoff/Michael Jackson
My family and I were on vacation at Universal Studios in Hollywood, CA during the '80s. We were touring the lot and the tour director announced that David Hasselhoff was there and he was taking autographs. This was when he was playing the character Michael Knight on the show Knight Rider. My family finally got to the head of the line. My sister was 3-years-old and was too scared to say anything, but I wasn't. So, I said, "Hi, Michael Jackson." He said that he wasn't Michael Jackson. I was really embarrassed. [/SIZE]
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wendy2004
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:cheers:
There's going to be some Beatles fanatics/purists who are going to HAAATE hearing that but all it does is make me smile like dis ---->
:devil:Thanks for posting the article, Shannon. Great read!
Very very nice! Might even be historic. A member of the J5, one of Motown's youngest acts ends up owning a part of it. Talk about full circle? That would so rock. *continues smiling like dis---->
*The possibilities just keep sounding better and better.
I hope it's true.
unk:Thanks to all for the news and updates. Loved the Danny Wallace mentioning as well. Aww! :flowers:
BPYTD
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I've gotta be the laziest member on here I hate reading long articles lol, Thanks for the news
Dorothy_Marie
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http://www.lvrj.com/columnists/normclarke/vegas_update/20644724.html?normBN=true
Does anyone know who this lady is that Joe is with? She looks familiar.
JACKSON CHECKS OUT TRYST
Joe Jackson, patriarch of the Jackson musical family, at Tryst (Wynn) on Saturday. Jackson has been seen around town with a film crew, reportedly for a reality show. (Photo courtesy Wynn Las Vegas)
Does anyone know who this lady is that Joe is with? She looks familiar.
JACKSON CHECKS OUT TRYST
Joe Jackson, patriarch of the Jackson musical family, at Tryst (Wynn) on Saturday. Jackson has been seen around town with a film crew, reportedly for a reality show. (Photo courtesy Wynn Las Vegas)
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Victory2004
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Chilli was at again mentioning MJ she was chatting on hot 97. R.Reyes>>
Is there any chance you would collaborate on a song with another legendary group like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony?Chilli>>
maybe not b.o.n.e. thugs n harmony, altho I do like them, but maybe like my husband michael jackson.
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eternitys_child
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Does she normally refer to him as her husband. :rofl: Don't we already have one of those peeps hanging around?
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eternitys_child
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http://www.lvrj.com/columnists/normclarke/vegas_update/20644724.html?normBN=true
Does anyone know who this lady is that Joe is with? She looks familiar.
JACKSON CHECKS OUT TRYST
Joe Jackson, patriarch of the Jackson musical family, at Tryst (Wynn) on Saturday. Jackson has been seen around town with a film crew, reportedly for a reality show. (Photo courtesy Wynn Las Vegas)
I am probably dead wrong but she reminds me of that girl/woman who was on Celebrity Big Brother when Jermaine was on.
Victory2004
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Yup she's been doing that for years. lol
wannabestartinsomthin21
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lol, how cute can she get? I think it's the sweetest thing in the world that she calls Michael her husband, lol. She so in loooove...
wannabestartinsomthin21
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Re: June 20-21,2008
Thers isn't really. If anything, it's good for Michael, because it shows that he wouldn't ever want to watch porm with children or show it to them, which he's been accused of. It's a good story, really.
Good article on Michael and Bandier too.
Thers isn't really. If anything, it's good for Michael, because it shows that he wouldn't ever want to watch porm with children or show it to them, which he's been accused of. It's a good story, really.
Good article on Michael and Bandier too.
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eternitys_child
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Re: June 20-21,2008
The "I didn't touch him" cracked me up as well. It acknowledges what was said or what people might be saying and turns it on its end revealing the absurdity of the whole mess rather than pretending there was never a trial. It is one more step towards healing the wrongs.
The "I didn't touch him" cracked me up as well. It acknowledges what was said or what people might be saying and turns it on its end revealing the absurdity of the whole mess rather than pretending there was never a trial. It is one more step towards healing the wrongs.
wannabestartinsomthin21
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Re: June 20-21,2008
Yeah, totally. It was funny, and kinda cute even, like you said earlier. It just shows that Michael has strong values and convictions and he cares a lot about kids.
Yeah, totally. It was funny, and kinda cute even, like you said earlier. It just shows that Michael has strong values and convictions and he cares a lot about kids.
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TialovesMJ
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awww that is sooo cute, she seems like she really likes Michael a lot, since she talks about him often!!!I hope she does get to collaberate with michael someday
lol she calls MJ her husband, that's adorable imo!!!
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AllTheLovelyFlowers
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Wooah! I was not aware that EMI may have to sell off some things in order to merge with Warner. Why is this? If this is true, the the possibility of Michael owning Motown is stronger than I thought.
Datsymay
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This girl reminds me of Joe's daughter, Ja'vonnie, he often travels with her, I think.