As Jacko found, fame means trusting only cats and chimps

There were many strange tragedies to Michael Jackson's life, but an ­unexpected sadness is that, in death, this huge global celebrity makes me think, not of Thriller, not even of the Jackson 5, but of a 47-year-old Scottish woman who was allegedly last seen in a hotel in Liverpool crying for her cat, ­Pebbles. Jackson's death and Susan Boyle's all too obvious unhappiness both stem from the same source: fame.

I have never believed, and nothing in the past few weeks has altered my certainty, that one can be famous in today's world of mass media and 24-hour paparazzi and lead a happy, mentally healthy life. How could it possibly be any different? You are isolated in a tunnel of paranoia where it feels like anyone with a camera phone is filming you for the celebrity website tmz.com, and they probably are. There are many examples one can cite: Amy Winehouse, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan. All are featured in celebrity magazines daily and, in this new warts-and-all world of tabloid journalism, their self-abuse is covered far more extensively than it was in the days of Elvis Presley. Never has fame looked less fun.

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