Those lovely folk, the Professional Mourners.

A few days back, something nasty happened somewhere and some folk died. No, I don’t remember what it was either, but right on cue, all the crocodile tears started flooding into social media, prompting this from me:

Ah, those lovely folk, the professional mourners. 

Risking life and limb in their headlong rush to they keyboard after every nasty event anywhere in the world to prove just how caring, worthy, moral and virtuous they are. Never flinching from the just cause of narcissistic self-promotion, the more people killed and in more gruesome ways – ideally on television in HD in a never-ending news loop – the happier they are. “Look at me, I can use the death and suffering of others in shameless advertising of myself and as a pathetic validation of my own existence”. 

They are the exact equivalent of the crowds around the gallows in a Hogarth painting; tutting and muttering about how terrible it all is, but wondering if they have time to go to the toilet before the next one comes along because they really don’t want to miss anything. 

Do they really care? Who knows? They certainly care about being seen to care, that much is clear. And as in so many modern things, image is everything and that must be protected at all costs, even if it is only a delusional self-image. 

To whom does all this sharing and caring make any difference? 

Does London give a shit that you’re “praying” for it after some “mass” stabbing? No, of course not. It doesn’t even notice. 

Does Nice or Paris or any other nice cozy Western town who has experienced an attrocity notice that you are Je Suis-ing at them with all your might? No, of course not. They are too busy clearing up, getting back to normal and working out how to stop it happening again. 

Does “Remembering the 96”, or whatever the number was that week, several decades after the event represent anything but wallowing in a much-missed tragedy? No, of course not. It just makes them feel better about themselves in a guilty and barely disguised “thank goodness it wasn’t me, that *would* have been tragic…” 

So what does all of this self-indulgent self-flaggelation actually achieve? 

Nothing. Nobody really gives a toss when the crocodile tears start to flow because they’re devoid of meaning and thought and use. They have no value, utility or merit. It is cheap X-Factor emotion, turned on and off at the flick of a switch and as genuine as Simon Cowell’s suntan.

Which says everything that needs to be said about those whose hobby is to demonstrate their humanity to disinterested strangers. It has no value. So stop it.