I never actually MET The Prince Of Pop, but I did once have a laugh at his expense.
The occasion was when he was appearing in London. He was staying at a famous hotel in Mayfair and his fans blocked every street around it. I was a night-time West End taxi-driver at the time, while my then-wife worked on the switchboard of said hotel.
Thus, when I found myself immovably blocked in by several thousand screaming pre-pubescent teens and got out of my car to see what the fuss was about, I was privy to the fact that the WHITE GLOVE waving out of the hotel’s sixth-floor window – thereby generating HYSTERIA from the mob – actually belonged to a WAITER with a perverse sense of humour.
Michael was on the SEVENTH floor.