'QUAKE PORN

Natural disaster, noun, any event or force of nature, such as earthquake, flood or avalanche which has catastrophic consequences.

C'mon, now, I put it to you that you're all rubbish. Why aren't you doing better? Anyone'd think there'd been a fucking earthquake, or something. You do know who I am, don't you, the eminence grease of a British broadcasting dynasty?

Of course there are bodies on the street, of course it is nigh-on impossible to deliver food and medicines, this is because the Haitian Earthquake is a natural disaster and it is also because, presumably, even on a good day, the place is a chaotic shithole or what we call a Third World Country, a Developing Nation but such obvious facts do not deter the boys and girls of skymadeupnewsandfilth. Jon Socks, the lifetime proprietor of the taxpayer-funded Channel Four News, is looking and sounding his age, a bit of a natural disaaster himself, as he querulously attemps to berate anyone he can find about how all this shit isn't getting to where it needs to be, fuck, he seems to say, if I wasn't here it'd be a total fuck-up, best thing he could do, of course, best thing all of them could do would be to shut the fuck up and roll their sleeves up, dig some bodies out, bury some bodies, something useful, instead of carrying on like Time and Fucking Motion experts. Bunch of cunts, journalists.

If you took all the to-camera people, the producers, the photographers and the soundmen you could form a labour batallion and maybe accomplish something, also, of course, it would free-up some US Marines to get on with their traditional role of shooting-up Afghani weddings and gang-raping teenagers, semper fides, like.

As we said a while back, the forlorn and dispossessed of Haiti are not crying-out, in their anguish, for Gordon, the Great White Snot-Eater, to come and preach at them, the horrible fucking bastard but as long as Jon Socks is there, agonising, the useless gobby prat, we Brits can relax, someone, on our behalf, is meddling and nit-picking, pushing himself, front and centre, into Sergeant Death's Spectacular Extravaganza.

In a stampede for an image or a soundbite, these clowns, the paparazzi of Doom, shame us all; the mountains of dead, the oceans of sorrow, just a backdrop to the career of some cheesy hack; in a few months they will be giving each other awards for their courage, their integrity; bless.