Michael Jackson nearly killed me once. It was a dark and stormy night and I was motorcycling back on the M4 to London having been sent to cover one of his excruciating “Heal the World” concerts in Cardiff, when all of a sudden I was blown by a gust of wind across the rainswept carriageway into the path of a mighty pantechnicon.

“Ohmygod!” I remember thinking to myself in those slow-motion seconds. “Is it really my fate to be killed in so cruel and random a way? Not after a concert by Radiohead or Led Zeppelin but by the pop star I loathe more than any in the world: Whacko bloody Jacko!”

Yes, I know it’s sad that that the poor, troubled man has gone so young. But do please let’s get a sense of perspective. Sure, he was nimble on his pins. Sure, that werewolf video was really quite scary for its time. Sure, he sold millions of records. But the fact still remains that the self- styled “King of Pop” was responsible for some of the most excruciatingly dreadful music in history.

And some of the worst lyrics too. “Sunshine. Moonshine. Good Times. Boogie”. Why on Earth would anyone ever have thought to have blamed such very odd things for anything? “I’m bad. I’m really, really bad.” No you’re not. You’re a wuss. “Heal the world. Make it a better place for you and for me.” No! Please!

The first time I encountered him I would have been about 10. That was when my mother bought a soppy single called One Day in Your Life. Mother used to play it a lot: she had a real passion for female-sung soul ballads and I naturally assumed that this chanteuse Michael Jackson was just another girl only with an oddball name. But then mother bought the piano sheet music for the song, showing not a girl but a boy with his hair in an Afro. Stranger makeovers were to come: much stranger. But I can congratulate myself that even in those early stages, I had spotted that something wasn’t quite right with this eerily hermaphroditic kid.

Next thing I knew he was the biggest pop star in the universe, and all thanks to an album called Thriller. This was in 1982, a musical annus horribilis (post-Joy Division; pre-Smiths) when not a single album of enduring merit was made apart from maybe Human League’s Dare. But was it any wonder all the decent pop musicians had gone on strike? What would have been the point when the only thing the kids seemed to be interested in was this cream-faced loon and his funny little dance and his screechy pop songs?

No, go on then: if you think his music is that great, try humming me Thriller. You can’t. The melody goes nowhere. It’s a dirge. The only thing that propels it along is the jerky backbeat, which you could only dance to comfortably if you spent every waking hour with a choreographer. Most of Jacko’s stuff is like that: dance music that only he could ever actually dance to.

And who’d want to try stuff like the moon walk anyway? No self-respecting teenager, that’s for sure. The very last person you want to emulate is some facially reconstructed lady boy who prances about making high-pitched squeals while scratching his crotch like some gibbon with a bad case of fleas.

At the peak of Jackson’s fame — 40 million copies of Thriller alone; 750 million records in total; you don’t get any bigger than that — I did sometimes feel a bit like the little boy in the story of the emperor’s new clothes. Here was this massively successful international pop star, singing songs about lurve and romance and being really tough and streetwise — like he was a cross between Casanova and Ice T. Yet the sad reality was that the only way he could ever pull a girl — in the unlikely event that he might be interested in such things — was through liberal use of his enormous royalties. Had nobody else noticed this bizarre contradiction, I wondered. And if they had, why did they go on buying his records? Isn’t all the best pop music about either sex or authenticity? Poor Michael Jackson never possessed either.

We haven’t even got to the spectacularly emetic Heal the World stage of his career yet. Nor do I wish to dwell on those unfortunate child sex allegations, for it seems to me that Michael Jackson — for all his many talents — had done quite enough damage by that stage already.

Look, I know if you’re a fan you’re going to disagree with this violently, but I also know I’m not the only one who feels this way: the man was a freak; his squeaky voice maddening; his lyrics lame; his music abysmal; and I’d rather be torn apart by werewolves than have to listen to Thriller or Bad, let alone the later stuff, ever again.

James Delingpole is the author of Welcome to Obamaland: I Have Seen Your Future and It Doesn’t Work

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