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As with the man, it got into legal trouble and experienced a period of obscurity and oblivion: seven years ago the Heal the World Foundation was suspended after it failed to file yearly accounting statements, required for tax-exempt organisations.

(According to reports, “the foundation had net assets of $3,542 and reported $2,585 in expenses; the foundation did not have a director, president or other top manager besides Jackson”.)

As with the man, there was some hint of inappropriate contact with children: the foundation regularly took underprivileged children to Jackson’s Neverland ranch, and, needless to say, on my return, the only thing my mates and teachers wanted to know was whether he had fiddled with me. (He hadn’t).

And as with the man, there were recently suggestions of a comeback: the foundation was relaunched last year under new management, and the website is now live, pronouncing a mission statement as sickly sweet as the lyrics of Heal the World, talking about “a universal charity organisation designed to improve the condition of all mankind”. (“We fight against the privation, abuse and exploitation of the world’s most vulnerable, children, the elderly and animals. We address the most urgent global problems of the day, problems like hunger, homelessness and the moral decay of mankind.”) And as with the man, it changed lives, though maybe not in the ways he intended.

In my case, my contact with the charity, via the Radio 1 competition, altered things by giving me ambitions that hadn’t previously seemed possible. Before the unexpected trip to LA I talked about becoming a bank manager or an accountant, but hanging out with media types, and subsequently being asked to write about music by my local newspaper, opened up the possibility of a job in journalism.

But just as importantly, it made me realise that my brother, who, by the way, is now an entirely sane and sober 35-year-old man with a successful business career who nevertheless still recalls the key events of his life — such as his wedding and birthdays of his children — by reference to the release dates of Michael Jackson albums, was right. As a performer, Jacko was better than Bruce Springsteen, than George Michael, than Prince, combined. He danced like James Brown, sang like Diana Ross, wrote songs like Stevie Wonder and had the presence of Charlie Chaplin.

And if, over the next few days you find yourself tiring of the relentless media coverage, questioning why there is such an outpouring of grief on pavements around the world for a man who, after all, was a suspected paedophile, I suggest that you type the terms “1993”, “Jackson” and “Superbowl” into YouTube, and, ignoring the little boy in the outsized orange blazer near the front, bouncing around with absolutely no coordination or rhythm, watch a video that will provide a reminder of why so many mourn him so desperately.

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