Why Syl Mortilla alias Peter Mills has removed his article on Michael Jackson at The O2 in March 2009 ?? He is afraid ?? he just signed his confession .. slanderer Michael in March 2009, a great expert in 2015 ??

Michael Jackson: An Experiment in Perception
16 Mar 2009
Written By: Peter Mills

"i am standing outside michael jackson's hotel on a frigid night in march... tomorrow, he's going to be giving a press conference to thousands of fans. he will mount the stage for three and a half minutes, giggle a lot and say 'i love you' to everybody then leave without answering any questions. so not a press conference at all then, really? more an opportunity for loads of people to stare at one man's face for a bit? whatever, i can't wait...."
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Shifty glances. Are you paparazzi or are you fan? There is a subversive code for Michael Jackson fans that determines the answer to this question, one that comes down to your alias on the fansite forum. Whisper it: Are you 'Dr. Heat'? Are you 'Chongo'? For the neutral observer this may seem a tad over the top. Nay, downright bizarre. Then you would remember, these are Michael Jackson fans. They live and breathe over the top. Nay, downright bizarre.
I am standing outside Michael Jackson's hotel on a frigid night in March; the only heat being produced coming from the engine of a car blaring out as obscure a Michael Jackson remix as you've ever heard. When an artist produces as frugal amount of material as Michael Jackson does, there is plenty a bottom of a barrel to be scraped; many a 'hee hee' to be bludgeoned to death by Tony Moran or some other such nineties, well, bludgeoner. Tomorrow, Michael Jackson is going to be giving a press conference to thousands of fans. He will mount the stage for three and a half minutes, giggle a lot and say 'I love you' to everybody then leave without answering any questions. So not a press conference at all then, really? More an opportunity for loads of people to stare at one man's face for a bit? Whatever, I can't wait.
Besides, it's got to be more interesting than what I'm doing at the minute. I'm staring at what ostensibly is Michael Jackson's window. Not a window to a world of magic or a metaphorical glimpse into Michael Jackson's soul. Simply a window. I say 'ostensibly' as logic dictates that out of all the windows in the vast Lainesborough Hotel, the one with lots of people staring at it and chanting things is surely most likely to be his? The chants are really quite something. They range from the very demanding Who do we want? MICHAEL! When do we want him? NOW! To the somewhat inappropriate Smooth CRIMINAL! Smooth CRIMINAL! With all manner of adapted football stadium chants in-between. Considering the fact that there are three children (that we know of) in the hotel with Michael, surely a candle-lit 'Heal The World' love-in would be more suitable? There is the odd fan, however, that is indeed more peaceable; they simply stare at the window whilst occasionally vocalising innocent musings such as I wonder what he's doing up there? To which the only response can be, probably best not to ask.
Anyway, it's nigh on impossible to not get involved and into the swing of things. People become deer. Sensitivities heighten to supernatural levels; heads switch with the twitch of a curtain. I found myself screaming banalities, A kid! There's a kid at the window! Yes, there had been a kid at the window. Of course, when staring at a window, there are phases of tedium. You can hear the surrounding paparazzi attempting to fill the void, muttering Michael Jackson wisecracks under their breath, the injection of real and present danger adding gravitas to a Neil Hamburger joke that incorporates the words 'children', 'eating', 'plate', 'of' and 'sperm'. It is all undeniably although inexplicably exciting. Even if it eventually turned out that it wasn't his window.
The day of the 'press conference' began at six o' clock in the morning. Despite the fact that Michael wouldn't be speaking until four o' clock in the afternoon, I had been told to arrive as early as possible should I wish to be at the front. I so wished, and so arrived at the o2 by nine o'clock. I was handed a band that guaranteed a place in the Golden Circle and was told I could wander around until nearer the time. There were around thirty people already there, most of who had camped there overnight, and they had been given the same band that I had, so they really needn't have bothered. Michael Jackson songs were playing out of every shop and restaurant; there was already a tangible buzz of anticipation. Indeed, as I walked past the fairground inside the o2, I half expected to see the man himself whizzing (in both senses of the word) around in a dodgem, convulsing in paroxysms of maniacal delight in preparation for his comeback speech, puking through his 'nose' in excitement, whooping, They're playing my songs again, children! They're playing my songs! But he wasn't.
The queue commenced at one o'clock. For literally anybody else on the planet, it wouldn't or shouldn't have done, but for Michael Jackson, it did. People waved their wrists in the air and screamed at security I've got a band!, just in case security were blind. It was pandemonium. The words no band, no entry literally affected some people to the point where they shrieked with self-loathing for not arriving early enough. As they crumpled and dissolved, you could see in their agonised eyes that they felt themselves no longer worthy of existence, the only remaining option was to go and admonish themselves superficially with scissors in the bathroom, because to actually kill themselves would be too good for them. And Michael wouldn't approve of suicide, but he was quite obviously pro self-mutilation. Besides, there was the pathetically slim possibility that he might have a new album out soon. And you wouldn't want to be dead for that.

So we stood. And stood. Then we stood some more. We just kept standing, really. Four o' clock came and went. People became deer again, although this time deer unable to perform any other physical expression other than standing and twitching their heads from side to side; deer crushed by other deer attempting to squeeze to the front to get close to a really famous deer. And then after a seeming infinitum of standing, the red curtains parted, and out stepped... Dermot O Leary.
Dermot appeared overwhelmed. He expressed his sympathies to the vast crowd for us having to stand for so long, and then he introduced the King of Pop, Michael Jackson! Cue live-feed of a bus door opening and someone, something alighting from it. Was that Michael Jackson? It certainly looked like something that Michael Jackson should look like. What does Michael Jackson look like? Does anyone even know anymore? Michael Jackson is no longer a brand, he's a rebrand. Like Starburst. Or Snickers. We witnessed 'Michael Jackson' contemplate a golf buggy that had been placed next to the bus. Most observers have put the expression on his face when he looked at it as Am I supposed to get in that? My opinion differs. I swear the expression on his face was Oh my God, I really want to get in that and dick around for a bit backstage! Maybe it was the 'real' Michael Jackson after all. He eventually made it to the stage.
So we stared. And stared. Then we stared some more. We just kept staring, really. Well, I did, but in actual fact I was surrounded by an insane maelstrom of worship. So many thoughts hurried through my mind. His face. His f**king face. It's a bona fide tragedy. I considered that in a perverse way, plastic surgery is Michael Jackson's hiding place; the man is trying to hide. For forty years his face has elicited this response wherever it has been seen. Which I suppose would have been a perfectly plausible escape route had he not also possessed the ego that both corresponds with and craves this unparalleled adulation. The ego means he cannot live without the fans, the face proves he cannot live with them. Seeing Michael Jackson's face sends your mind into freefall. You know that you're supposed to be looking at a middle aged black man. Then the paedophilia allegations creep into your thoughts and you know you're supposed to be looking at a bald, fat man in a dirty mac. Looking at Michael Jackson's face forces you to challenge your own prejudices. He seems to be nothing less than an experiment in perception.
I then began pondering the age-old debate about why Michael Jackson is more famous than Prince. And it struck me that the answer is quite simple. Michael Jackson is surrounded by an aura of enigma. We don't care what Prince is doing in his spare time because it's probably relatively normal. When Prince is having a quiet five minutes in his bedroom removing his detachable ribs and sucking himself off, Michael Jackson is most likely to be found in a pram, removing his detachable ribs and knitting animal shapes with them. Possibly. That's just it, who knows?
So, that's how those 'historic' three and a half minutes were spent, in an isolated bubble of psychobabble thoughts and musings on the benefits of detachable ribs. I heard Michael Jackson say this is it, see you in July, and then he left. I literally felt, both physically and mentally, as if I'd just finished drunkenly banging away for seven hours without ever achieving orgasm. More is that it? Than this is it. And it wasn't just me. On the way out I overheard someone pose the question, So, tell me honestly, did you enjoy seeing Michael Jackson? To which the response was, Of course... but then, I enjoyed seeing Dermot too.
Starting in July, Michael Jackson is playing fifty concerts at the o2. Fifty. Mere weeks ago a picture of his plastered face was plastered over the front page of The Sun beneath a headline suggesting he was dying as a result of, quite ironically, the flesh-eating bacteria, MRSA. It didn't appear that way at the press conference. But then, when it comes to Michael Jackson nothing is ever as it appears. Can he pull it off (the gigs, not his face)? Tickets are the fastest selling in history, and I for one have three of them. Why? Well after all, even if the spectacle is nothing more than an aged, anaemic androgyne walking round and round on the spot with the aid of a stick, fervently miming "gotta dance, on the floor, goin' round", I want to be able to say that I was there. Thrice. Because really, we're all a bit sick.

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