(The screen shows a clock, a sombre voice declares that we are all going to see some news whether we want to or not. Globes spin, a serious orchestra plays serious music, silhouetted adults shuffle pages and whisper sweet nothings in silence, the lights go up, the adults stare out at us as if they have just caught us masturbating and intend to tell us the dangers of such filthy pursuits.)
Geoff Beigeslacks: Good evening. I’m Geoff Beigeslacks…
Muriel Cheesestrings: …and I’m Muriel Cheesestrings. These are the headlines.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Yet another Malaysian plane has fallen out of the sky. Some people are dead, but more importantly, they were white people and, even more importantly, some of them were British.
Muriel Cheesestrings: Skybombs from Bond Villain Vladimir Putin are presumed to have hurtled from a fibreglass volcano, smashing spectacularly into the civilian aircraft, hurling soft bodied flesh people earthwards. As Geoff has already said, some people are dead, but more importantly, they were white people and, even more importantly, some of them were British.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Governments across the globe are shouting at each other in a giddy frenzy of self righteousness. The Malaysians are frightened the world will take away their wings forever. British Airways are pissing themselves laughing.
Muriel Cheesestrings: Everyone is blaming Russia. Experts say it is too early to say, but caution is too weak a force to stop the awesome blind onslaught of the News Juggernaut.
Dum dum dum, DUM DUM.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Good Evening.
Muriel Cheesestrings: Good Evening.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Yes. It is. But it isn’t. The main story this evening is that Malaysian airliner MH17 flying from Amsterdam to Oompa Loompa has been shot down over Ukraine. All 298 passengers on board are thought to have died. Some Eastern European types who are cross at each other, and they always seem to be so cross at each other, for some reason or another appear to have fired bombs into the sky and the bombs hit the plane and the plane went boom and smashed into the ground in a glorious rainbow of broken metal, flailing limbs and infinite, uninformed column inches.
Muriel Cheesestrings: We now go live to the crash site where our Spectacular Disaster Correspondent Felicity Griffon-Vulture is at the scene. Felicity, what is the situation on the ground at the moment?
(Camera pans to Felicity Griffon-Vulture blinking seriously, her mouth a thin slash of vermillion, hair slightly tousled, clothing immaculate. Behind her the debris smolders, wailing Russian peasant women stumble through the wreckage of their homes in bewilderment. Griffon-Vulture grips a microphone, her fine knuckles are white. Her nails match her lipstick. This is HER moment.)
Felicity Griffon-Vulture: Thank you, Muriel Foreskins…
Muriel Cheesestrings: *muttered, almost inaudible* Fucking bitch…
Felicity Griffon-Vulture: …here on the ground the atmosphere is tense. The Russian Separatists blame the Ukrainian Nationalists, the Ukrainian Nationalists blame the Russian Separatists, Colin Phillips from his bedsit in Doncaster has tweeted that The Illuminati are responsible for this carnage and Les Dennis is denying he has any knowledge at all about the event. We will be streaming Les Dennis’ opinion about this tragedy on the website as it comes in.
Here is a report we made earlier. There is flash photography and there are scenes that some viewers may find deliciously disturbing.
(The camera pans over the wonderful, glorious, spectacular horror. A soot smeared wing sticks out of the ground, an engine vomits black smoke into a grey sky. Suddenly we are in the air, looking down on the scarred ground pitted with airplane bits and human bits and rubble. Now we are back on the ground, picking through the pieces. Focussing on a charred passport, a handbag, a child’s toy. A pale hand peeps from beneath a blanket. All the while the voice of Felicity Griffon-Vulture drones about death tolls, blame, theories, the names of politicians, the names of missile systems. The pale hand is back only now the blanket is pulled back slightly, revealing a little more flesh, a little more gore. Cameras flash voyeuristically. The voice of Felicity Griffin-Vulture lowers slightly in faux respect. Somebody’s mother, somebody’s daughter, etcetera… etcetera…
Camera is now back on Felicity Griffin-Vulture. She almost manages to hide her grin.)
Muriel Cheesestrings: Those are terrible scenes you are showing us, Felicity. What is the situation right now?
Felicity Griffin-Vulture: Tense, Muriel. Very Tense. The various parties are in a shaky stand off right now, and we know it might explode into violence at any given moment.
Muriel Cheesestrings: Are you talking about the Russian Separatists and the Ukrainian Nationalists?
Felicity Griffin-Vulture: Neither, Muriel, I’m talking about the various news agencies. There are no troops present at this time and as such the media are in a frenzy. I personally have had to shoot two Satellite News 24 reporters who tried to encroach onto our turf and believe me, there are more where they came from. There are no catering facilities here at the crash site and it is now almost twelve hours since any of us had a half decent coffee. The outlook is very bleak. Beautifully groomed news anchors are crumbling into weeping heaps of caffeine withdrawal and starvation is a very real possibility. I don’t want to go into too much detail but I can report that if it wasn’t for a hint of aviation fuel, the passengers taste a lot like chicken.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Things are obviously at a crisis point there, Felicity. Is there anything the viewers can do to help? Is there a disaster fund?
Felicity Griffin-Vulture: Not at the moment, Geoff, although if anyone wanted to send me a skinny latté and a crayfish salad sandwich from Pret a Manger I would be deeply grateful.
Geoff Beigeslacks: Of course, Felicity. I’m hearing now that David Cameron will be holding a press conference outside number ten at any moment, so if you’re able to keep on the line for a few more minutes, Felicity, I’m sure you will be nourished by his plummy voice, his wet, Optrex’ed eyes and his pink, disturbingly lubricated skin.
Felicity Griffin-Vulture: I’ll try hold the line, Geoff.
(Felicity turns suddenly and raises a large revolver. She squeezes off a few rounds at a sound recordist who is attempting to plunder the dead. He stumbles and falls. Tries to rise. Another gunshot and he remains still.)
Felicity Griffin-Vulture: (turning back to camera, a strange light in her eyes) This is Felicity Griffin-Vulture, Evening News, in the Ukraine.
(Camera returns to Studio)
Muriel Cheesestrings: Thank you, Felicity. And we go now, live, to our camera outside Downing Street.
(David Cameron stands before the hordes of caffeine enriched, sandwich nourished reporters. He stares out at the world with wet, glassy, sympathetic eyes, his lips part, moistening, always moistening. A small noise like the mewling of a distant kitten emerges from his larynx. With the back of his left paw he smears a waxy secretion from a gland behind his left gill and massages it across his skin. Cameras flash, silence reigns, Cameron’s tongue laps across his eyeball, keeping it moist, so moist… and still there is silence. Messages seep into the minds of the enlightened from the countless television screens, while…)
I turn off the telly. It is never good news. Never ever. I decide to read a book instead but end up doing the washing up.