HE wasn’t always the shuffling, simpering, spectacle who appeared in public with his veiled offspring, or any of the other antics which bloated the tabloids for two decades. Michael Jackson was beautiful, once.

Even viewed second-hand through the television, his performances were mesmeric; minutely choreographed and immaculately interpreted by a man to whom perfectionism was second nature.

To witness them first-hand, according to a friend who saw him on the Thriller tour, was awesome.

And then there was the music; the iconic backbeat to Billie Jean, the chorus to Thriller, the soundtrack of my younger life and of millions of others.

We all loved him then, before the abuse allegations, the relentless plastic surgery, the sheer, pathetic weirdness of it all.

When you read of his stressful upbringing you realise why.

But that still couldn’t excuse the worst of his excesses.

I’m sorry for all the fans who have forked out hundreds to attend his O2 gigs but honestly, 50 performances? With his infirmities? I never believed it would happen, it was insured to the hilt, and the omens weren’t ever good.

No one ever went broke pedalling Jacko rumours and recently, they’ve come thick and fast.

He faked his high voice. He had cancer. He was stressed. He was planning to only do three numbers and let the dancers do the rest. Or there would be a body double, yadda, yadda, yadda. The only thing no one ever talked about was a dodgy heart, yet that is what we are told has killed him – although, even as I write, the conspiracy theorists are working overtime.

I didn’t like what Michael Jackson became but nothing can ever – or will ever – take away what he was.

Officially he died at 2.26pm Pacific Standard Time on Thursday. But the real Michael Jackson died many, many, years ago. And he’s the one that I miss and the one we’ll all remember.