Small but perfectly formed, Prince, the quintessential sexy motherfucker has gone from us, taken away by the flu, of all things.
The fucking flu.
Just like in France where a skinny man died of a big disease with a little name, Prince has been borne away by an illness that we dismiss as a passing inconvenience. The disease that killed more people in 1918 than all the casualties of the Great War in the previous four years.
Prince! Can you believe it? That overwhelmingly eccentric, super-sexy genius monarch bestriding music like a diminutive colossus has just died, and by “just died”, I mean exactly that.
He just died of a mundane illness with little or no drama.
It’s not right. He should have crashed a plane. He should have gone down in a shoot-out with evil guitar-wielding funk-mobsters. He should have been electrocuted on stage.
We don’t ask much of our heroes but we ask this: please don’t die of the fucking flu. We love you too much for such drab demises.
Some say a man ain’t happy unless a man truly dies.
Let the doves cry.