Big Screens, Beslan and the Bus Home (2/3) By Joe Hakim

1/3 2/3 3/3

It's my mate's shot. He looks at the table, sizing up his next move. He says, 'It's all crap really. I feel like there are opportunities out there, a lot of shit happening in Hull..but I just can't to seem to get involved. I'm just looking for a way of getting into something.' 'I think I'm just a cynical bastard. Even though on the surface there appears to be things happening, all the building developments and stuff - y'know, everything from Victoria Dock, to the BBC building and Endeavour school, all that - but it's all seems superficial. We're told by the council that these places are being built for our benefit, to improve our quality of life and all that shite, but..' I say.

I pause and try and line up a shot. It's a simple plant, a red in the centre of the table into the top left hand pocket, but I've been missing easy shots like this all afternoon. The podgy woman is sobbing. She's saying something about how she misses her daughter. I try and ignore her. It isn't difficult; It's a Kind of Magic drowns her out. I tap the ball and it hits the red at just the right angle, and it trickles into the pocket. 'But what?' my mate asks. 'Things like that are built so someone, somewhere can make a hell of a lot of money. Any project, scheme or building developed in Hull at this current point in time is being developed solely for that reason. The greed-heads have arrived,' I say. 'Wow, you really are cynical,' my mate says, laughing. 'You're right. I think it's the beer talking,' I say, 'I better make this one my last.' I bid farewell, sup up and leave. I'm at work later on in the night, so I need to get home and sober up a bit.

I'm not drunk, but I have a bit of a beer buzz. My head feels a little cloudy as I walk through town towards station. The lager sloshes around in my stomach, and I light up a cigarette. I feel the bile rising. I stand in the town centre, and I watch the big screen television in Queen Victoria Square. It's showing footage of the siege in Beslan. A continuing loop of the moment it all fucking blew up. People stand around in groups stroking their chins and muttering, 'Terrible, terrible.'

BBC News, reporting from the scene, beaming pictures from Russia to the gathered masses in Hull town centre. We stop and watch. The pornography of gratuitous real-life violence. Pre-pubescent girls in torn clothes being carried to safety. The crying mothers and the explosions. Images of mangled and maimed children. The gunfire and the screaming. Journalists saying, 'The horror, the horror,' and other assorted movie style sound bites. I realise that events like this need to be documented, if only so we can try and Make Sense of It All, even it's just in a historical context - but this is something else entirely. Live pictures transmitted from the scene, showing us the tragedy unfolding in explicit, graphic, unflinching images. Reporters shoving cameras in the faces of the parents who are weeping over the corpses of their children, edited and summarised, underscored with music and the hollow words of the newsreaders.

It resembles a twisted reality TV show. It has been produced in a certain way in order to manipulate us into experiencing the visceral thrill of first hand death, destruction and chaos. Like the latest Hollywood blockbuster or the new ride at Hull Fair, it makes our brains and body's generate certain chemicals and elicits emotional shifts that produce physiological effects.

In other words it's designed to give you a rush. Do we really need to see this kind of stuff to get off? Experience something - anything - that validates our own sorry existence? Have things really come to this? Deep down, everyone stood around is thinking the same thing, but they would never admit it, not even to themselves: Thank fuck there are people a lot worse off than me. I watch the people watch the news. I feel nauseous. It's fucked up on so many different levels, and I can't even begin to get a grip on it. I'm trying to rationalise it, and there's nothing there. No reason, no rhyme. I have to leave. I know I've witnessed something. And it's not just the siege. It's the consumption of it. Devoured like the contents of the empty burger wrappers that flap around the Square. Just across from the screen, posters in Game's window advertise war games set in the Middle East. The American soldiers you control come equipped with all the current weapons, and the screen shots on the posters could have been cut straight from a news report about Iraq. It makes me wonder how long it'll be until a game is released where one of the levels involves ending a terrorist siege within a school set in Eastern Europe. Sometimes I hate myself for thinking things like that, but I can't help it.

Continued .. Next Page

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