The clouds rolled back and the sun burst through. It had been drizzling only a moment before: how had they stage-managed that? A few of the thousand fans waiting on the roof of Heathrow Airport's Terminal 2 knew what they were looking for and began to shriek knowingly as soon as a dot among the clouds resolved itself into an Airbus in Lufthansa blue and grey.

Instantly the cry was taken up all along the line and the fans at the railings were borne down by others craning forward from behind. ``Where is he? What's happening?'' they cried, with a note of panic, between their shrieks. Nobody in earshot seemed to know. The noise died down and frantic spirits from the left-hand end of the roof ran at top speed towards the right-hand end, and vice versa.

Wembley, Hounslow and Dagenham had given up their youth this afternoon. London schoolteachers must have been haranguing empty desks. And among the teenagers were a few mums and dads who had brought carrycots and pushchairs so that their toddlers should have something to boast to their grandchildren about.

A smaller Lufthansa jet cruised in to land close behind the first and they shrieked at that, too, just in case. The first plane taxied back to gate 15 where it was surrounded by police cars and fire tenders. Michael Jackson's fans could hardly hear their own screaming above the noise of the aircraft's engines, a hundred yards from where the police had pinned them, out of harm's way and three storeys above the action.

The doors of the plane opened and a radiance seemed to shine from within. It was like the last scene of Close Encounters.

The airport authorities had decreed that the star should leave the aircraft and drive straight off, to avoid a near-riot like the one that broke out when Madonna came to London a few months ago and passed through the regular arrival channels. But Jackson was having none of that. Suddenly there were people running in all directions down there. Had the fans broken through at ground level? A tide of jealousy flowed along the roof. But no, most of those tiny figures were running backwards, with cameras over their faces.

Out of the melee shot a yellow airport bus. An ordinary, beaten-up airport bus can they put a blue plaque on a bus? It squealed to a halt just below usand a man in a top hat emerged, who seemed to be known to everybody but me. Was this their god? Only another John the Baptist, it seemed. Still more men were running backwards in all directions.

Then another figure sprang out of the bus, sprinted over the tarmac, and leapt up an embarkation ladder just below us. He was in a kind of black uniform with scarlet and silver flashings rather like something that Colonel Gadaffi might wear in one of his more Western moods.

I could not see the cleft in his chin, because someone had his elbow in my eye. Someone else threw himself over our shoulders, and would have vanished over the parapet if we had not grabbed him.

Jackson raised both arms towards the sky from which he had come. I had the impression that flashes of radiant light burst from him. Then in an instant he was down the steps, into the yellow bus and away. The British leg of his 12-nation tour had begun.

Waves of teenagers rushed to and fro along the raised walkways, trying to catch a last glimpse.

The clouds closed in, and the drizzle prepared to resume. The luckiest of us had about 15 seconds' view of the star. Many had not seen him at all, after waiting four hours.

I looked for someone who might be able to tell me whether Jackson had gone through the ``nothing to declare'' channel.

Two spindly 15-year-olds from Dagenham came lurching away from the railings, laughing and hugging each other. There were real tears on their cheeks. And on mine too, for that matter.