I CONFESS I found it difficult to understand the mass grieving that swept the pavements of downtown Los Angeles following the death of pop star Michael Jackson.

Shock, probably; disappointment, possibly; commiseration, unlikely. It is reasonable to suppose that there were powerful influences at work, from the showbiz rumour machine using the social networking circuit to whip up an emotional frenzy, to the ghouls who sniffed out a possible gory conspiracy theory.

And let’s not forget the commercial entrepreneurs keen to make a fast buck. How soon did the Jacko T-shirt vendors hit the streets and the record emporiums scour every cellar for the late singer’s even later hits, inflate the prices and stand by their cash machines?

Even local fans had stripped record stores bare just hours after his death, contributing to the universal thirst for Jackson classics which pushed them to the top of the charts.

So how does the death of a distant, shadowy figure manage to stir up such widespread emotion?

You could argue, of course, that there has always been a degree of mass mourning manipulation: the sterile, sombre queues filing past the coffin of a deceased Royal, or the national homage to Winston Churchill. There is, indeed, the frequent prompt: ‘I bet you remember what you were doing when Kennedy was shot.’

Well I do, actually, and for that reason I can sympathise with some of the ‘shock’ and ‘awe’ that generally bubble over when a well-known figure is unexpectedly taken from us.

I can also recall the bolt that ricocheted around the BBC newsroom when the editor’s tannoy broke the news that Jill Dando had been shot, even though I had never met her. Nor, I would venture, had a large proportion of those who queued up to associate with her.

I suppose that the spectacular turning point came in 1997 when Diana, the ‘people’s princess’, met her death in that dark Paris underpass. The overwhelming torrent of grief registered a cathartic frustration and popular anger never before seen in this country.

So now, when there is a tragic death – say of a youngster and particularly if the circumstances are grim – there is the expectation of a collective expression of remorse, the ready influx of counsellors which magnifies the incident, the predictable intrusion of a prying media pack along with the swollen ranks of ‘casual’ mourners.

So it’s not surprising that we have become conditioned to being sucked into the grief industry. No surprise, then, that ‘tribute’ concerts have already been planned for the unfortunate Jackson.

Every TV channel and newspaper under the sun has been churning out pages and features charting his career and inexplicable lifestyle in order to claim their slice in the feeding frenzy. We have already begun to witness the raking over of private details by friends and foes alike. The only certain thing is that many people will ensure that they make a lot of money from his demise.

So why is there this passion to be associated with the grief machine? Maybe it’s displacement activity, a reflection of our progressive inability to focus genuine compassion on ‘ordinary’ individuals in the community. Maybe we are so hooked on the fantasy world of make-believe idols, soaps and celebs that we can’t engage with real people and emotions, so need an external focus. Pouring out emotions disproportionately may allow us to assuage the hang-up.

And in our ‘me’ culture, how often do those invited to share their reminiscences focus more on themselves than the departed? The makers of Monty Python’s Life of Brian exposed, with characteristic disrespect for the New Testament scriptures, how hero-worship carries with it a huge element of self-fulfilment.

Oddly, there seems less of an appetite to pay fitting tribute for genuine deeds of valour. It was ironic that in the latest Queen’s birthday honours list, the supervisor of the plumbing in Windsor Castle could receive a medal of honour, but in a year when the liberation of Europe was being reflected in a dwindling band of selfless stalwarts, the last two remaining First World War heroes, now in the twilight of their years, were accorded no special recognition for their bravery.

I am sure that Anthony Chambers is a good plumber and that Her Majesty appreciates being able to rely on her bath water being delivered on tap and at a decent temperature, but Henry Allingham and Henry Patch personify a debt which, with their passing, will too soon be written off.

How embarrassing, then, that it was left to the French to award them the Legion d’Honneur, the nation’s highest accolade, for their bravery.

Perhaps our response depends more on what we want to associate with than what is of real value. Watching the D-Day veterans standing with honour and gentle humility in the drizzle of a French seaside town in early June bore scornful comparison with national honours for footballers and comedians and, to be blunt, the obsequious who queue for a predictable gong to mark the end of an unspectacular career in what is termed ‘public service’.

There are, of course, obvious exceptions, such as the rewards acknowledged at dignified ceremonies on the lawns of Government House and, at last, the overt public salute now accorded the return of brave and disciplined service personnel, whether dead or alive, from pointless contemporary foreign wars.

Respect and honour are private emotions. The outpouring of genuine grief is a vital and positive element in an important healing process. Sharing that experience may depend on peer pressure, personal connection and, indeed, an overwhelming desire to ensure that appropriate tribute is paid to lives spent for the betterment of our own.