This is how these things always start. A patient and pervasive propaganda campaign, a bit of image-enhancing plastic surgery, a penchant for military uniforms, relentless recruiting of an army of mindless and adoring acolytes. And then, when we least expect it, wham, he'll make his move. The signs have been there for a while. Michael Jackson is hellbent on world domination. Today it's MTV and moonwalks; tomorrow, revolutions and Reichs. He wants nothing more than to be the lisping Fuhrer of Planet Wacko.
Cast your minds back over his recent music videos. The guy - and I use the term loosely, because I remain to be convinced he and 'sister' LaToya are not actually the same grotesque hermaphrodite - sees himself as dictator, deity and saviour rolled into one. See Michael save Eastern Europe. See Michael save the trees. See Michael wipe away poverty in Rio. See Michael obliterate racism. See Michael save the kids.
In his latest single, Blood On The Dance Floor (which, incidentally, has been a major-league flop in the US but doubtless will be huge everywhere else), he plumbs new depths, even by the most megalomaniacal Wacko Jacko standards. It starts with a fawning cyberbabe conjuring up Jacko from some kind of virtual reality machine. This is appropriate, in that reality has been a virtual concept for Michael for some time now. It is also ludicrous. Does Wacko really believe there are actually any women on the planet who view him as a sex object? Well, excepting Australian nurses, of course - even Jacko looks good when you wipe old men's bottoms for a living.
Then, as he squeaks, grunts, crotch-grabs and wheezes through a crass and belated attempt to cash in on dance culture (even wrinklies like David Bowie were quicker to jump on the bandwagon), we are treated to images of lunar landings, world leaders and momentous events, punctuated by Wacko striding around looking important and frequently checking that his genitalia is still in place. The shrieks of approbation from the Jacko Jugend herald the message: Michael Jackson as omnipotent, epoch-making, earth-shaping being. HIStory In The Mix, his new album proclaims. More like brain in a blender.
And when is he going to learn some new dance steps? It doesn't matter whether he's banging drums in South America, turning into a werewolf or offending Jews - the face keeps morphing but the moves remain the same. The flicked kick, the tipped hat, the spin, the robotics. And the dreaded moonwalk, which looks to me more like someone trying to ice skate backwards through superglue than any lunar perambulations.
If he has his way, we'll all be riding around on llamas with melting faces, babbling like helium junkies as we worship at the foot of massive Wacko statues. He wants nothing less than our tributes, our adulation, our obeisance. And he won't stop till he's got enough.