NOT MOURNING BUT FEASTING.

There is an awful, dark asymmetry to this, this is not what is supposed to happen,  the man supposed to make people safe instead making them dead; a cautionary re-balancing, this, of the mythology surrounding the pilot; the man who is supposed to pull back, Hollywood-style, on the Great Joystick of Life  instead pushing forward, down into rocky Death's  shattering impediment.

  Brazenly defying the conventions which keep modern life airborne, Andreas Lubitz mocks us all. Where now our safety regulations double and triple-locked, where now our back-up systems, failure-proofed, our cut-outs and our over-rides, our sensors and detectors? Smashed, in a million pieces of wire and plastic and aluminium, mingled and fused with limbs and heads and eyes and entrails, that's where they are, scattered all over Mutiny's mountainside.

And the gob-experts, les aviateurs scientifique, the black-boxers,  the industry insiders, the security experts, in-ruling  nothing  and out-ruling nothing, regiments of grey John Majors, gobbing cliche and dribbling platitude;  like the poor, they are always with us. It's a caravan, now, of fat ladies singing, moving from accident to outrage to  shooting-down to disappearance, gobbing for all its worth, it ain't over 'til it's over. 

Well, Herr Lubitz caught them all out; not a terrorist but a nutter on the flight deck, not too many experts in applied pilot craziness studies. But there will be. 
Next time, imagine, 


 this is Kay Bully here for you 
with skymadeupnewsandfilth at the top of the hour,

and in a moment we'll be talking to Professor Barrington Jibber, a leading expert in Jilted John Suicidal Pilot Studies at the University of Cradley Heath.  It seems, Professor Jibber, that it's not so much the fucking terrorists we have to guard against, it's achelly  the fucking pilots.  

I mean, there was that fucking dope of a captain on the Air France crash in the Atlantic, he fucked-off for a kip, leaving the teaboy at the wheel, is it a wheel, a handlebar, a stick, right, a stick, woddever, right at the most dangerous time in the flight;  God knows what happened to that Malaysian plane, the one  that just disappeared like the Marie Wotsaname, did it disappear, fuck knows, I'm just a journalist, something odd happened to that ship, anyway  but the AirPineapple 'plane, the  smart money is on someone in the cockpit being responsible;  and there was that Hermann the NutterGerman, last time, flew every bastard into a fucking mountain at the speed of sound. We all know what the Germans are like, I mean, look at them the wrong way and they start a world war;  this bloke, he was probably poking at his turds that morning, like they do, the Hermanns, with a stick, checking that his Camillas were working properly, maybe found a piece of undigested sauerkraut and thought, Ach, Gott in Himmel, meine arsche, it ist kaput, all must die, ist better zat all perish zan zat I live mit meine arsche all fucked-up, Heil Hitler.  
What's it all coming to, professor? 

 
I mean, am I safe to fly to Miami for my Spring Break, 
or what?

Well, Kay, that's an interesting question and all I can say, as the world's leading authority on the Jilted John Aeronautical Consequentials thing, is that at this stage we can rule nothing in and nothing out but we will know more when we know more, jibber, jibber, jibber, jibber......

That was Professor Wotsit,  there,  sharing his insight with us, stay tuned,  after the break - Is Ed Miliband a paedophile, our political editor, Adam Lard, reviews the evidence.......

It is a frightful Journey'sEnd to contemplate and while one would hope to sit Zen-quietly in such final moments, hoping that instantaneous meant what it said - split-second oblivion - it is more likely, of course,  that one would scream and swear and pray and bite and shit and it is this dreadful imagining with which Andreas Lubitz has slapped us in the face. Just imagine, being on that 'plane;  the captain locked-out, ranting, banging on his own door and a nutter at the wheel.

The community and national leaders were all as banal and shamelessly opportunistic as you would expect, Frankie Cock, Angie Hausfrau and that Dago prime minister, all  pulling their mourning faces and flying to Mont Mutinee, as though their presence meant anything.  

Ve must punish ze Greek partisans.
Do you want for me to get out mon cock grande et chaude, cherie, an' we 'ave some ooh la la, 'ere, on ze mountainside?
Ole, Ole, viva Espana.

They all do it; here, in Scotland, best part of England, Gnasher Sturgeon did it in Glasgow, before Christmas, 

when a bin lorry mowed down some shoppers; all preachy and know-it-all, Gnasher gave us the SNP's uniquely Scottish view on road traffic accidents, more sincere and meaningful that that of those discredited, scaremongering Westminster parties, the horrid, repulsive little cow. Tragedy, anyway, the politicians best photo-opportunity, fawts'n'prayers; CallHimDave, he must spend his every spare minute finkin' and prayin' his scabby arse off for people he never heard of before; must be sick as a parrot that he couldn't muscle-in on Mont Mutinee.  
The headteacher at the school affected, he was like all headteachers in the Western world,  when a pupil dies;
 
the deceased kids were all extremely popular, loved by all, destined for great careers, the school will never recover.  I don't know what he'd do if there was a fucking war on, like in Syria. And the wretched pupils, hamming it up for the cameras -  I just so can't believe it, that Gunther and Hildegard are dead, I have told all my followers on Twitter and stuff and they're all just in bits 4 me.

 Television has led us to this, everybody now mourns on cue. I blame Diana, if she'd kept her trap shut maybe she wouldn't have suffered that mysterious accident and grieving for the cameras might not have become a global pastime.  Diana, the Clintons, Geldof, a maelstrom of counterfeit emotion into which so many have been pulled, never to swim free, eternally drowning in fawts'n'prayers.

Everybody's been feasting, apart from the pastor of Lubitz's  village quietly distinguishing himself,

 Andreas and his family are ours, he said, living the Gospel which sustains him, we love them and pray for them. 

 Here, in Ruin's vain and greedy land,  Soham's lickspittling, cowardly cleric, Tim Alban Jones,

The Reverend Media Slag demonstrates Ruin's progress, waving a bauble he accepted merely for doing his Saviour's bidding,  his job; well, part of his job, not the hard part, the loving the sinner part, he didn't do that part.

  reading from the Gospel according to the Daily Mail, Tim  had no Christian words for the soul of the media-accursed Ian Huntley. His cowardice got him a medal down here, from Ruritania plc,   but I don't know what his Heavenly Father will make of him, even less than do I, probably, if that's possible.

I really admired the Kraut cleric, for saying what he did.

  I fly a few times a year, on those rusty, old, thirty-seat LoganAir Saabs,  ancient prop engines banging and thumping, exhaust fumes  pouring from them,

half- and three-quarter-hour flights to Inverness and Aberdeen and I always wonder why the pilots are done-up like admirals of the fleet from a comic opera,



 all shiny, 

in brilliant white shirts 
and peaked caps, ring after ring of gold braid on their sleeves;  you don't get that Ruritanian chic on a train driver although  he can be responsible for many more lives than the pilots of these  old nails. It must be - the costumery, the fancy dress, the militaria - to reassure the air passengers that their lives, more important than those of travellers on the smelly old Virgin train,  are safely in the hands of, well, people like Admiral James Tiberius Kirk.

No, viewers, the gold braid, it really does prevent crashes. 
And the epaulettes.
No yourself, Jim, jeans and tee-shirt'd be much safer.

mr mike  informed us recently that in Australia doctoring is demystified and the medic is looked upon as just another service provider, like a plumber or a mechanic;  quite shocking, really, to those of us who still timidly venerate those in what we formerly called the professions - everybody, now, instead of decent wages, receives the nomenclature of professional; professional lorry drivers,  extremely professional police constables, professional fast food operatives, all, now,  professionals with careers, not jobs. And with colleagues where once they had workmates. The proper pros, the doctors, the lawyers, though, still manage to lord it over the rest of us,  and  the para-professionals, like the pilots, especially, try to do so,  with the gold braid and the Micky Mouse captaincies and the This Is Your Captain Speaking speech.  Maybe if his captain had been less the professional and more the service-provider he'd have noticed that Andreas wasn't the full pfennig.  I don't know how professional it is, anyway, being locked out of your cockpit and dying, screaming along  with all your helpless passengers; not very, I suggest.  

It is part of the rigidly-segregated-yet-all-in-it-together shit lie beloved of our masters;  the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, God made them high and lowly and orders their estate, Zero hours for one and a million pounds bonus for another;  that's the way God planned it.

And  the world goes around driven by the impellers of divided labour and the alienation of each from his neighbour;  the professional and below him the hard-working families and below them the loafers and the niggers and the disabled. If you live in Scotland it's all that lot AND the fucking English to blame for you not owning a ten-thousand acre loch-side estate. Divide and rule, makes the world go round.

Andreas Lubitz's murderous mutiny - and the words of his pastor - hint at a different truth; one of which  mr mongoose reminded 
  us recently,  a salvation maxim from before-before - if you see your neighbour carrying something, help him with his load.

 Nobody helped young Andreas and so he helped himself, harvesting a hundred and forty-nine others, en route  not to their destination but to his.  Maybe he hid his turmoil where none viewing informally could see and I misjudge his associates but even if he did you would expect there to be some employer-devised supervisory health and safety procedure aimed at unearthing such conditions. Some, typically,  are enraged that lawnforcement sees his action as manslaughter and not murder, as if he could yet be punished;  to rage at him, however, is to miss the point, again and again and again.  Feasting thus, as he intended, we become accessories ourselves, after the fact;  feasting thus we are all become Tim Alban Jones, Kelvin McKenzie in a dog collar, whimpering, whistling in the dark, pissing in the wind.

It is probably naive and foolish to suggest, as I do, that a less brutal, more neighbourly and informal approach towards each other would prevent this sort of thing, the US high-school massacres, the spontaneous mass murders on our own streets, the crazy pilot siezeing control but even if it didn't I can't help but feel that overall things might improve.  Gnasher, however, and Ed and Dave  and Nick and Sid and Caroline, together with skymadeupnewsandfilth are doing their very best to persuade us that hatred of each other is the only way, is actually fun, entertaining and worth every penny we pay for it, hectored and coralled, bullied and kettled, spied upon and lied-to, strangers, in a strange land.

Maybe, after all, there is some symmetry, some reciprocity  in the Germanwings falling-from-the-sky event,  maybe, for an increasing number,  the pilots are losing their grip, the Rewards of Obedience their lustre.