Editor Holly Meadows shares her story of being a Michael Jackson superfan

‘We’re after any excuse to dress up, glow up and get the hell out of the office.’

Holly Editors Letter Michael Jackson superfan

Have you ever been a superfan? When I was little, I was next-level obsessed with Michael Jackson. My bedroom walls were plastered with posters of him. Michael with his Bad leather biker jacket; Michael Jackson with his white Moonwalker gloves; Michael with his red Thriller shoulder pads. I saved up everything I had to subscribe to his official fan club. And, every month I waited eagerly for my Michael merchandise to arrive in the post. I watched all the box sets and all the documentaries, and I choreographed dance routines, forcing my parents and their friends to watch my solo performances at Sunday lunch.

I genuinely thought Michael (and yes, first-name terms felt appropriate then) was destined for me, and that one day he would see me in the crowd at one of his concerts and tell me he felt the same. I remember June 1995, the day he came to London, and a giant statue of him, the King of Pop, was floated down the River Thames to promote his HIStory album. My parents, confused and concerned by my frantic, stan-ish behaviour, refused to let me go. I screamed and I sobbed, threatened to run away, and locked myself in my room for days.

In December – just because it’s the end of the year and, well, we’re after any excuse to dress up, glow up and get the hell out of the office – we themed the December edition of our Boujee Issue. Enjoy being extra this December, and if you (like me) are a clandestine superfan, pop me an e-mail, holly@assocmedia.co.za, and share your tale of hopeless devotion; your secret is safe with me, promise.


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