It’s Saturday night, and schedules are bloated with conflict and collateral damage, where even the continuity announcers are itchy-fingered mercenaries, drunk on capricious liquidation. Nuclear families pack round for Strictly War Dance, The H-Bomb Factor, and I’m a Civilian, Get Me Out of Here, each abomination algorithmically targeted for the lowest human denominator, straight to the mainline of feral thrills. It’s the Colosseum for the touch-screen age, the dark web made mainstream for the quick, bloodstained buck. Each channel is charnel, churning out atrocity, derisive laughter in the face of slaughter, and the ratings go through the roof like a surgical strike. Of course, I’d turn away if I could, but there’s nothing else on, so, with a hand that doesn’t feel like mine – perhaps it belonged to that child in the ruins? – I punch in the number to decide who’s eliminated next.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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