No Rock And Roll Fun

URI... WE'VE GOT BAD NEWS: In her admirable run-through of matters arising at the MTV VMA, the wonderful Miss Bamboo neglected to mention only the Michael Jackson incident. There's Britney - dressed in the sort of unsexy type of fetish gear that bored housewives and office bores buy in Anne Summers because they're scared they might get drugged and bottom-poked if they go into one of those shops where you can't see through the windows. Then there's Michael - looking like nothing else on earth, and nothing like he looked the last time he went out in public. Britney, for some reason, is overcome and awestruck - this is rather like a bottle of Pepsi being nervy at sharing the shelf with a can of R Whites Lemonade - and babbles that, in her mind, Michael is "the artist of the millennium." She doesn't say if she's thinking of the current one, or the one that ended a couple of years back, but it doesn't matter, because Michael seems to think that he is, in some way, the artist of some millennium as well. (Bear in mind this is the bloke who once pulled his records from radio stations that refused to call him The King of Pop. And who has just lumbered the kid he's rustled up from somewhere with the name Prince Michael II). So he starts to make an acceptance speech. Not only this, but in between thanking his parents and God, he also thanks his magical, mystical consort. David Blaine. Now, obviously Uri has been busy peering down Tara Palmer-Tompkinson's top for I'm A celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here and suggesting that Rhona Cameron is stroppy because "she's a lesbian", but he surely doesn't know that Michael has moved on to a new nutso wizard bloke to hang out with. You have to pity the poor bloke - two weeks in the australian jungle with Darren Day, and you come back and find your mate's dumped you. We expect him to appear in ten years time, bearded, shouting "but Blaine... he's a bloody conjurer..."