Michael Jackson

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Stories from David Gest’s autobiography “Simply the Gest”

On Michael’s own money, he and I flew to Nashville and rented a car. He drove. I soon set about driving him mad, just totally bonkers.

In Nashville we were booked into a really nice hotel, Spence Manor. We pulled up alongside an intercom system you had to get past to get to go through the main gates. Michael didn’t know Nasville, so I sensed an opportunity to have some fun.

I told him that because we were in the self styled “Music City” we had to abide by one of the local traditions.

“Michael, you have to sing into the intercom,” I said.

“Sing what?”

“You have to sing ‘It’s Music City and I am here. I’m Mike McDonald so let’s raise a cheer.’ Otherwise they won’t let you in. You have to do it,” I told him.

He gave me a puzzled look but went along with it. The guy on the end of the intercom came on and said in his southern accent, “How can I help you?”

Michael began to sing and the voice on the intercom replied, “Sorry, we don’t let weirdos in here.”

They wouldn’t open the gates. I was laughing so hard I was on the floor. Michael didn’t quite get it for a moment but as soon as he did he nearly peed his pants too. He couldn’t believe he had been such an idiot as to do that.

[...]

Michael and I used to have so much fun playing jokes on each other. My favourite prank was to put on another voice and pretend to be someone else – I loved to do voices. In the early days of working together, Michael went to stay at a hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas. He loved to eat. He had just arrived and I knew the first thing he would do was order food from room service. So I beat him to the punch. As soon as he got to his room, I rang him up, putting on a woman’s voice, and said, “Honey, do you want to order room service?”

“Oh yes, baby, I’ll have a hamburger,” he said. He always called people sweetheart or baby.

“Ok, darling,” I replied.

“I would like some mustard and ketchup.”

“Baby, we have no mustard and ketchup.”

“None?” he asked.

“None. We just ran out and our shipment is two days late,” I replied.

“Ok, I will have some relish.”

“Honey, we’re all out of relish. We just got rid of the last of it.”

“Ok, I’ll have mayonaise.”

“No mayonaise.”

“Cheese and lettuce?”

“No cheese or lettuce.”

“Fries?”

“No fries.”

“Well, just put some butter and tomato in the bun.”

“Honey, we have no buns, just toast.”

By this point he had enough, so he just started screaming, “You have no mustard, you have no ketchup, you have no fries, you have no buns. What kind of restaurant is this?”

I started cracking up. It was then that I realized I had him. I did exactly the same thing to him 25 years later. We weren’t working together then but I knew where he was staying.

[...]

Michael used to love calling people up. He would do it when he came over to my house. He would just pick up the phone, dial a random number and start horsing around.

The person at the other end would pick up the phone and Michael would say, “Who’s this?”

They would reply something like, “It’s Lenore.”

He would go, “Oh, Lenore, listen, we’re going to have to get a divorce. I can’t carry on like this.”

“She would go, “No, no, you have the wrong…”

Michael would interrupt and say, “No, Lenore, don’t even try that on me. I’ve just had it with you. We’ll divide the property evenly and everything but it’s got to be this way.”

Then he would hang up, leaving the person on the other end of the line wondering what the hell had just happened.
 
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