Satan no longer has all the best tunes

After a long and painful battle with a particularly nasty bum-cancer, blonde 70's sexpot Farrah Fawcett has died. Shortly afterwards Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) popped himself into a coma and was pronounced dead of not breathing two hours later. Earlier this month David Carradine was found hanging neatly in his closet, so the rule of celebrities dying in threes can sit back in its chair with a smug look plastered on its fat face as it reaches over to the honey roasted cashews on the side table.

As is to be expected, this is very sad news. Death is like that. Though if Jackson (other Pops are available) was hoping to drum up excitement for his 50-date 'This Is It' O2 residency, I can't help but feel that dying was a rather poor marketing decision. I feel for his fans. Especially as they wailed great troughs of tears when they saw him perform, so as news of his death is beamed across the globe we are sure to see entire continents disappear beneath tsunamis of boo. I'm also concerned about congestion in London as 170,000 Jacko (other Popos are available) fans queue outside the O2 Arena seeking a refund. But then, as I don't live in London, my concern is about as short-lived as MJ (other KoPs are available)'s coma, which at two hours was really more of a nap. But let's not get dwell upon semantics.

Squeeking on the BBC website, Jermaine Jackson has asked for the media to respect the family's privacy during this difficult time. This shouldn't be difficult for the media, especially since Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) spent so much time out of the limelight anyway, and it's not as if the public has ever consumed Jackson-based conjecture like builders at a burger van. Jermaine always seems like quite a pleasant sort of chap to me, despite his painted on hair and the ethereal quality that comes with being part of the Jackson family. When he appeared in Celebrity Big Brother a few years ago he managed to avoid the whole 'Shilpa Popodom' idiocy by hiding behind dinner-plate sized Ray-Bans, and we all respected him for it. He was the voice of reason in a house riddled with imbicilic woodworm.

"And Allah be with you Michael".

I'm sorry?

You see as well as wafting through life like a celestial being, Jermaine Jackson has religion. Specifically he is a Muslim (according to Wikipedia, since 1989). Fortunately Michael (other Kings are available) also cuddled up to Islam, otherwise this Allah bloke could be making himself very unpopular with the recently de-lifed, turning up at funerals like an annoying neighbour, only to be turned away because "Ben never knew anyone called Alan".

Steering Clear of Pig Puns

These aren't good times to get out of bed. Even walking home has become an extreme sport since you might get caught up in some enthusiastic opinion-sharing, in which case you have to run away for fear of being forcibly persuaded to the ground and dying of internal bleeding. Not that you will necessarily, you might die of a simple heart attack. Possibly brought on by the surprise of not having internal bleeding. A fellow could be forgiven for wanting to go on holiday.

Holidaying is a risky business though, mostly because you'll risk (more) death from swine flu. What is swine flu? I found this helpfull diagram on the BBC website which explains it for those who think 'swine' is simply someone that comes from Swindon:

I can feel smug vegetarian faces bearing down on me already, suggesting that if I had spent less time eating pigs/cows/chickens then they wouldn't insist on retreating to their barns with chemistry sets to create new and terrifying ways of ruining our summer with germ warfare. The cows' attack was the worst of course, infected as they were like bovine suicide bombers. However they weren't counting on the farmers' secret weapon: disinfectant-soaked straw. "Drat" they mooed as they were herded into fields of burning cattle, from which the press gave us images that resembled a holocaust illustrated by Gary Larson. Now the pigs have unleashed swine flu upon Mexico (soon the world) and we don't know what we're going to do about it so we'll all just have to stay home and eat grass that still smells faintly of sunday roast.

Of course, it's really not all that bleak. If it was, then the following wouldn't be true:

Blue are reuniting for a summer concert.

I know. Brilliant. Is it Christmas? It must be because I can't remember the last time I felt this lucky. More grass?

Damn You Boyle

The poster for ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ declares it to be “the feel-good film of the decade”. Oh dear, things don’t look good for my holocaust musical.

Tapping into Eternity

Things look bleak for light entertainment. Bruce Forsyth has collected a lifetime achievement award from the Royal Television Society and dropped a rather unpleasant bombshell.

He doesn't plan to retire.

I imagine that when he made the announcement it was greeted by roars of silence followed by one solitary handclap, and that would have been from Wee Jimmy Tarbuck pissed on free lucozade and glad not to be the most irrelevant dinosaur in the room. His agent's face will have sagged lower than Ulrika Jonsson's nipples since he was counting on Forsyth, having received a lifetime achievement award, taking the bloody hint and ending his reign on prime-time tat. "People have been asking me for ten or fifteen years if I'll retire, it's getting to be an old question- I'm nearly as old as the question!" chuckled Bruce to an ocean of despondance. No Bruce, you can sleaze over Tess Daly as much as you like, noone is going to look at your stuttering fizog and see a sprightly fifteen year old gearing up for his GCSEs. Due in no small part to the cavernous wrinkles that line every feature, wrinkles so deep that tourists ought to be offered plane trips into them in order to fully appreciate the geography.

Bruce is 81. "But I still feel 30" he declares with gleeful insanity. This is bad news, because by my calculations that means there are 2.7 Bruce-years to a human's single year. Even if he retires at Bruce-age 65, that makes him over 175. That's 94 more years. We're not even half-way!

There's only two options open to us. Kill ourselves or leave. As the saying goes, will the last person to leave the country please turn out the light.