20 Guests, 9 Sleepovers, 0 Beds and Enough Chinese Tat to Warrant a Customs Inspection

So, here we are. The final countdown to the release of "Michael"... grab a cuppa, you're gonna need one!

I have finally reached that beautiful stage of excitement where common sense has packed its bags, fucked off and left me fully unsupervised with a bank card, a paintbrush and internet access.

The Michael movie isn't even out yet and I've already turned it into a full-scale life event.

Not just "ooh shall we go cinema?" or "I might get a new nice top."

Nope.

It's more "buy an entire row of luxury sofa seats at my local Odeon, repaint my whole garden, assign a DJ like I'm launching Ministry of Sound, test the acoustics in my back garden like a menopausal sound engineer, and spend an unholy amount of time trawling Chinese websites for Michael Jackson-themed tat" something no normal person should need, want or even be aware exists.

Because apparently Michael Jackson straws, cushions and bunting are now absolutely essential.

This film release happens to coincide with my birthday (give or take a few days) which has only added fuel to the already "over the top" fire.

One event clearly just wasn't enough for me. I had to merge "MJ movie release" with "birthday celebrations" and create one giant chaotic production with the energy of a family reunion, a themed festival and the sort of mild breakdown that starts off looking fun and ends with you comparing eight shades of black ribbon at 1:13am.

There are 20 of us coming together for this.

Twenty.

Some are coming from nearby towns and villages.

Some are travelling from other counties.

And one is literally flying in from another country.

Another country.

That is not a casual night at the Odeon.

That is an international summit with snacks.

People are not making that kind of effort because they think they're popping over for a quiet film and a handful of stale popcorn. They're doing it because they know how much I love Michael, how excited I am for this film, and because they know for certain that anything I organise ends up being less "small gathering" and more "this could either be brilliant or featured in a future insurance dispute."

And to be fair, they'd be right. None of us will know until the day after which one it will be.

My plan was methodical. The first thing I sorted was the cinema.

I am not having my people scattered all over the place like divorced parents at a school play. Absolutely not. So I bought up a whole row of luxury sofa seats because if we're doing this, we're doing it properly.

We sit together. react together.

We cry, laugh and judge other people's snack choices together.

That is the standard.

I don't want one of my people stuck two rows back next to some bloke opening a family bag of Doritos like he's excavating concrete.

No thank you. So an entire row purchased the second the tickets went on sale just before midnight. Yes I stayed awake!

Then we come to the garden.

Or, more specifically, the garden bar and entertaining space, which was perfectly acceptable until my brain decided it now needed to be redesigned, rebuilt and completely repainted to complement the incoming party decor colours.

So that's what I've done.

The whole fucking garden has been repainted, cleared, tidied and spruced up.

Because obviously when most women prepare for a birthday and a trip to the cinema, they buy a nice outfit or maybe a bottle of prosecco.

I apparently apply for my own episode of Grand Designs.

The bar has been sorted.

The seating area has been sorted.

The colours have been sorted.

The DJ designation is complete.

Yes. DJ designation.

Because I refuse to let an evening like this be ruined by somebody fading from Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' into fucking Ed Sheeran. Not in my house and definitely not on MJ day!

I have also carried out a full acoustics test of the speakers from different angles, because if I am hosting people in my garden after the film, they are going to hear the music properly.

Not "sort of" hear it.

Not "if they stand by the barbecue" hear it.

Properly.

I've walked round my own patio checking sound levels like a pissed-off producer who's just lost faith in the venue.

One minute I'm standing by the fence assessing bass spread.

Next minute I'm in the seating area muttering about clarity like Quincy Jones with hot flushes.

The results, for the record, are excellent.

I have not at any point, however, considered how the neighbours will hear it but I'm sure they'll let me know if Billie Jean starts blaring through their living room walls.

Disclosure: I can promise them only one thing, I definitely won't care.

Then came the decor hunt.

Now let me tell you, the British high street is weak.

Weak.

It will happily provide you with "birthday bitch" sashes, rose gold nonsense, giant inflatable prosecco bottles and enough tacky shite to decorate a hen do in Basildon.

But ask for Michael Jackson party bits and suddenly everyone acts like you've asked for a live tiger and a crane.

So off I went into the dark underworld of weird Chinese shopping websites, where the product photos look like they were taken during a hostage situation and the descriptions are clearly written by someone who learnt English from a haunted sat nav.

And yet... this is where the magic lives.

This is where you find the glorious shit the world never knew it needed.

Michael Jackson straws?

Necessary.

Michael Jackson cushions?

Vital.

Michael Jackson bunting?

Load-bearing, quite frankly.

At this point I am one suspicious parcel away from customs kicking my door in to ask why I appear to be building an unofficial shrine out of polyester and plastic.

Then there's the outfit. What does a 47 year old menopausal grandmother of 3 wear to the cinema?

I know what you're thinking, "You're not going to wear MJ inspired clothes in public Tash surely?"

I can wholeheartedly assure you I definitely can and I will! Life is shit 99% of the time so I take those small pockets of fun and joy seriously! Round here we either go all in or we don't bother.

With this in mind, I have spent far too many hours on Vinted convincing myself if I just keep scrolling, Michael Jackson's actual Grammys jacket may somehow appear for £8.50 under "ladies formal military blazer" from a seller in Wolverhampton who just "doesn't really wear it anymore."

I know how that sounds.

And yet every single day, there I am.

Scrolling.

Hoping.

Every sequinned item gets inspected.

Every black jacket gets a second glance.

Anything with a military shoulder gets treated like it's just arrived from Neverland itself.

At this point I'm one impulse buy away from looking less like "subtle MJ-inspired glamour" and more like a tribute act booked for a pub refurb opening in Romford.

Still... not off the table.

And then, because apparently I'm not busy enough, my brain has now latched onto another pressing question:

Does anyone know how to make MJ-shaped chicken nuggets?

Asking for a very sane and balanced friend, one who definitely hasn't sat there wondering whether a fedora shape can be achieved using processed poultry and blind optimism.

Because if this party doesn't involve moonwalking beige buffet food, then frankly what are we even doing here?

But here's the really lovely bit underneath all the chaos and piss-taking.

One of the best things about this whole film build-up has been seeing families planning cinema trips together.

Proper family trips.

Toddlers.

Teenagers.

Mums.

Dads.

Grandparents.

Kids dressing up.

Parents introducing songs.

Different generations all getting swept up in the same excitement.

And I've genuinely loved that.

Because for all the bullshit, all the tabloid crap, all the weird industry politics and all the thick bastards who've spent decades reducing Michael Jackson to lazy headlines, the truth is this:

Michael mania is back.

Properly back.

Not in the forced media circus way or the old "look at the freak show" way.

In the real way.

In the music way and memories way.

In the "you can't fake that reaction when the beat kicks in" way.

You can absolutely see it.

Kids who weren't even born when he died are dressing up, learning the moves, arguing facts online, sharing clips, asking questions and taking the time to understand who he actually was.

And that matters.

Because the British tabloids, as usual, still can't help themselves. They never miss a chance to drag up the same tired 30-year-old bollocks like it's fresh journalism instead of recycled arse slop for people who can't think for themselves.

Same shit.

Different font.

But it's not hitting the same now.

People are waking up.

They're less gullible.

Less willing to swallow whatever hateful crap gets slapped on a front page by some sweaty little goblin with a deadline and no soul. (Daily mail I'm looking at you!)

They're realising what many of us already knew.

That Michael Jackson was one of the most misunderstood and disrespected people of our time, while also being one of the most gifted, generous and culturally untouchable.

And that combination does something.

It lasts, travels and survives.

The music is still everywhere.

The influence is still everywhere.

The joy is still everywhere.

In the vocals.

In the choreography.

In the stagecraft.

In the fashion.

In the ambition.

In the sheer fucking audacity of the standard he set.

And what I love most is seeing younger generations find him without the baggage of the old media machine.

They didn't grow up in the peak era.

They didn't live through the tours, the premieres, the chaos, the excitement, the global hysteria.

But they still found him.

That's impact.

That's legacy.

That's what happens when somebody changes culture so deeply that even people born long after the noise still end up hearing the signal.

And I see it in my own family too.

My grandchildren are fully taking part in this whole thing, but my youngest granddaughter in particular is proving herself to be an icon in the making.

She is 17 months old.

Seventeen months.

And she has already memorised every word and every musical key change in the Michael teaser.

At 17 months old I was probably chewing a table leg and clapping at a lamp.

She, meanwhile, is out here serving teaser accuracy, musical instinct and better commitment than half the people writing think pieces for the fucking Guardian.

As she should.

So yes, while I have spent the last few weeks behaving like a deranged event planner with no concept of scale, no spare beds and a suspicious amount of imported tat on the way, there is something genuinely lovely sitting underneath all of it.

People are excited again.

Families are making memories.

Kids are discovering the magic.

Older fans are feeling that old buzz in their chest again.

And Michael, seventeen years after his death, is still doing what most people can't manage while they're alive.

Bringing people together.

Starting conversations.

Setting the standard.

And reminding the world that real icons don't disappear just because the tabloids chat shit for a living.

So by all means keep your headlines, your cheap shots and your tired old bollocks.

The man's been dead nearly two decades and still half the industry is wearing his influence like borrowed jewellery, nicking his homework, copying his moves and acting like nobody's noticed.

And somewhere in the South of England, I'm repainting a garden for a film screening, hunting for a sequinned bargain on Vinted and trying to work out where the fuck nine overnight guests are going to sleep.

And when you think about it, that obsession with perfection is ironically, the most Michael Jackson thing of all.