George seems to labour under the misapprehension that he had some kind of life changing experience that we are privileged to share with him via the medium of his tedious dance-pop. He claims there is some kind of mythical “white light” waiting for us as we ascend to the spirit world. Of course, George isn’t claiming to have got religion: he’s got the pop star’s next best thing, the uselessly vague term “spirituality”. Excuse me, Mr Michael, but what exactly does that mean? Spirit of what? The only spirit I remember from hospital is possibly the white spirit they used to swab my catheter. I mean, get Catholicism or something: at least it’s a creed.
Why pop stars insist of assigning some kind of spurious significance to any major health scare, as if every bump in the road was a readymade epiphany waiting for the juggernaut of their massive ego to thunder over it in a blaze of self-regarding publicity, utterly eludes me. I can confidently assure anyone who is interested that there is no white light waiting at the gates of paradise or elsewhere. All I remember is confusion, nightmares, hallucinations, a feeling of being choked and an endless beeping sound from the various machines I was hooked into to keep me alive.