A child of the 80s, I grew up to the sound of Thriller and Bad and I was introduced to the digital age of music when my dad bought his first CD player and a copy of Dangerous to ‘test it out’ (we did a lot of ‘testing’ back then – I’m not entirely sure why, this is something usually undertaken by the manufacturer). Unlike many lads of my age, I didn’t want to be Jackson, more I wanted to be a part of the MJ Bandwagon. Kick out Slash, Van Halen or Jennifer Batten and let me bash out that Beat It solo next to him on stage. Get rid of those backing dancers in the Thriller video and let me have a go.

Of course, I wasn’t up to task for either of those jobs and attempting the latter would almost certainly have earned me a punch from one of my peers, but such was the spectacle of the Michael Jackson era, I simply couldn’t resist dreaming. The huge concerts, the self indulgent solo dances at the beginning of videos, the grated wind tunnels he stood on at Wembley… he was seriously cool.

It all got a bit weird after that. Resembling something of a wax work doll and putting out odd naked videos featuring his fake wife, I quickly lost interest, as did the majority of the non-hardcore fans. Later, kiddy fiddling accusations helped little as did that ‘spoon bending motherfucker’ Uri Geller who inexplicably began to follow him around like a particularly uncomfortable child abuse case.

Michael Jackson - died last week. Pop died a long time before.

I’m not an emotional man and I’m not from across the Atlantic, therefore I won’t gush about how he was a part me and how that part has now died as a result… No, I’ve realised the sole reason I’ve felt a tinge of sadness this week is because of the music. It really was a massive part of my growing up and we won’t ever return to pop of that brilliant kind ever again.

I’ve never been ashamed to admit I watch Big Brother and can think of nothing better to while away these freezing cold winter nights than watching ailing, desperate stars attempt to revive their flagging careers by giving us an intimate glimpse into their state of mind.

Shooting stars regular Ulrika(ka-ka-ka-ka-ka) Johnson certainly got off to an intriguing start, comparing Verne’s dwarfism to her recent bout of ‘a bad back’. I can see the similarity, and I’m sure Verne could appreciate her somewhat ham fisted gesture of support – it certainly made for addictive, if infinitely uncomfortable, viewing.

However the early shining star, without a shadow of a doubt, is 45-year-old Coolio who on entry to the house expressed his desire not to find any ‘ugly chicks’. He may therefore have been a little dismayed on entry to find unpronounceable ex-Sugarbabes backing vocalist Mutya discussing something doubtlessly chav-based with Tina Malone. I have no idea who Tina is, but it appears she has been plucked from a land where the words ‘fuck’, ‘fucking’ and ‘fucked’ are substituted for every second word of every sentence. She’s also far too keen on telling us about her sex life: ‘this is my shagging hair’ – something I would rather spoon my eyes out than think about.

I’m looking forward to this one; in particular the unravelling of another Jackson which is sure to take place. ‘This is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me’ said Latoya on the second day. I’m not entirely sure what she was referring to, but I doubt it was Coolio’s incessant Michael Jackson impersonations.

Coolio to win!