The silly world of Claridge's

A programme on BBC Two took us into the hallowed portals of posh London hotel Claridge's last night, "for the first time ever!"

In this old-fashioned, fusty looking place rooms cost around six thousand pounds a night.

The guests are the uber rich:  Arab royalty, little known US designers and popstars  ("Mr The Edge" has lost any edge now we know this is where he holes up).

No guest's request is ever refused. It's as if the abundance of money has rendered common sense and good manners redundant.

Some of these rich guests demand for their room, nay suite, to be redecorated! At their own expense, of course. It reverts back to beige blandness afterwards  (the uber rich are not very tasteful - look at the Trumps, the Ecclestones). One imagines an Arab princess stamping her foot like Veruccae Salt and demanding a new carpet for her stay.

Talking of Arab princesses, Claridges' staff were hard at work transforming a whole floor into an Arabian palace. They weren't sure when the retinue was arriving: the guests were too busy flitting around on planes and no-one had the decency to lock down on an actul date  (how suburban!). In fact it was possible they could cancel. But in this fiercely competitive world, Claridge's just has to grin and bear it in case the spoilt family went somewhere else. So bedrooms were turned into banqueting halls and kitchens, and two rooms were set aside just for the shopping.

The rich guests sometimes stuff safes or carrier bags with wads of cash, we were breathlessly told. And leave it behind! Hmm, I would be a bit suspicious of that. The late Michael Jackson carried cash because he was in such debt that anything paid into his bank account would have gone straight to creditors.

Does all this money buy you happiness? Well, no-one does much work, it would seem, and they spend their time flitting from one gilded cage to another. Paris today, London tomorrow. The only one who seemed content was Sammy the dog, whose Botox'd owner told us that he liked coming to Claridge's where he has his own bowl and basket. The concierge was probably less happy when she gave him what looked like a coin for the privilege of walking Sammy.

This hushed and hallowed world seemed very vacuous and silly. These people can teach us nothing about humility and good manners. They should take a leaf out of the book of Bill and Melinda Gates, who have dedicated their lives post-Microsoft to spending their fortune on good causes. They travel a lot too but it's not to race tracks or fashion shows. They travel to places where women are forced to give birth to children one after the other because their corrupt governments don't spend on women's health or contraception.

I suspect we would not find Mr and Mrs Gates arguing about their carpet being the wrong colour or needing a room set aside for atrocities purchased in the Egyptian room of Harrod's.

All aboard the Michael Jackson bandwagon

There are 15 books about to be published on Michael Jackson. The first is published today and according to BBC Breakfast News, it's broken the record for being written and published in 2 weeks from start to finish. Apparently, and Harper Collins were quite unabashed about this, a freelance writer was incarcerated in a room until he had written "new material" so they could be the first to cash in on Jackson's demise.

I'm intrigued to know what new material can be generated sitting in a room. A "re-interpretation" of recent press articles I would suspect. Last night's Channel 4 documentary about "what really happened to MJ" was a waste of time. Some reporter who claims to have known MJ well, who had the most monotonous voice in christendom, took us to places where he rehearsed and talked to the people running AEG. And guess what? Nobody told us anything new. The title of the programme was grossly misleading.

I'm not going to buy any books on Michael Jackson until there is one that quotes definitively all the members of his family (including his father), the children and parents who were involved in the legal actions, his two ex-wives, his superstar friends Diana Ross, Elizabeth Taylor and Liza Minnelli, doctors who were treating him at the time of his death and the pathologist who did the post mortem. In other words, the only people who actually know the truth.

I won't be buying any books from tell lurid tales patched together from former mnagers, former agents, former dancers or former nannies.

Wendi was robbed

We were gutted that Wendi Peters lost out on winning Celebrity Masterchef. Jayne Middlemiss should never have won. Didn't the judges take into account all her histrionics and tears every time she had to step outside of her confort zone? I am beginning to wonder if Messrs Torode and Wallace are unduly influenced by female charm, given that last year's winner Liz McClarnon was someone who had never even cooked before she turned up in the contest --- and just happens to be a gorgeous blonde.

Will there ever be a true version of events?

Sitting on my sunbed and wading through the UK papers today, I am struck by the contradictions surrounding the life and death of Michael Jackson.

One paper quotes a "writer" who was "close" to the singer for the past five months, saying that Jackson was an anorectic homosexual pill popper who had a lung condition and could no longer sing and was preparing to mime his way through the O2 concerts.

Another paper quotes the respectable married osteopath and former child actor Mark Lester who was godparent to Blanket and apparently a good enough friend to Jackson to speak to him every week. He claimed when he saw Jackson in March he was fit, lively and looking forward to the O2 gigs. He ate fish and chips and didn´t seem troubled or neurotic.

We also read that around 50 people saw a rehearsal of the show a few days ago and Jackson was apparently at his best, singing with his own voice and dancing like a good ´un.

So who do we believe? It´s going to be increasingly difficult as the weeks go on and the louses/lice start crawling out of the woodwork. Former nannies, former doctors, former chauffeurs. Maybe if we´re lucky, former wives and Elizabeth Taylor.

I can´t say that Michael Jackson ever made much of an impression on me. I was too much a David Bowie fan and I thought he was a bit naff, the white gloves and moonwalking and shrieking. But I did try to get tickets for the O2 gigs and I couldn´t because the Ticketmaster site was down on the first day and after that I lose interest.

What I feel about him now is immense sympathy. A hugely talented boy, he said he was was brutalised by his father and teased by his brothers about his nose, and being so sensitive, it wasn´t water off a duck´s back like it usually is with family teasing. Convinced his childhood had been stolen and never at ease with adults he regressed to a world of children and chimps, and plastic surgery to change the way he looked. His interactions with children probably were quite innocent, although I expect any number of his former "friends" will be emerging to say the opposite, motivated by cash as Jordan Chandler and the others were. He seemed to be a naive and childlike character who hated swearing or raised voices.

It seems this frail, gentle character was mightily conned and abused in a different way by his advisors: lawyers, doctors, quacks, managers. Nobody seemed to give him straight advice and tell him to pull himself together and come off the meds. And now they´re all circling and I fear we will never know the real story.