It took only a few days. The wave of compassion is going to be exploited. Time to settle some scores and drop some bombs. FOR AYLAN.
No doubt it’s what he would have wanted. If nothing else, the heartbreaking image of that little boy’s tiny body might at least manage to fluff our permanent bombing hard-on and get an about-turn from those pesky squeamish liberal milquetoasts who dared to question a war last time around.
FOR AYLAN. Let’s cheapen his memory to make sure we can drop some ordnance.
These newspapers are not your friend. These people are never your friend. If it looks like they’re doing the right thing for once, they’re not, or they’re only doing it because they’ve got an angle. They couldn’t care less about the plight of refugees. They want a war.
FOR AYLAN. Our faded mediocre glory could be polished up one last time with another military adventure, sorry, humanitarian intervention. Another new plaque on the November 11 memorials. Another minute’s silence. While other countries welcome thousands of refugees warmly, we begrudgingly let in six for each parliamentary constituency, and look to solve things in the only way we know how to solve things: bombs away, chaps.
For Aylan. Up pops the next Prime Minister, George Osborne, getting ready to send off the jets. Time to look statesmanlike and kill a few.
If it does happen, could I ask one thing? Seeing as images of dead children are now on the table, print them on the front pages, the charred broken corpses, the spines sticking out of bloody rubble, the severed little heads, when our bombs dropped by Our Brave Boys go astray. Just so we know. Seeing as we’re happy to see that sort of thing now, let’s not be shy.
For Aylan, apparently.