In a development that has sent shockwaves through the macabre fandoms of the nation, the annual CrimeCon gathering has been rudely interrupted by a bunch of killjoys known as 'victim support groups.' These party-poopers, likely clad in beige and reeking of common decency, have dared to suggest that treating real human misery as a spectator sport might be a tad, well, exploitative.
Consider the scene: a convention hall teeming with self-appointed sleuths, each one convinced they could crack the Madeleine McCann case if only the police would listen to their podcast. They gather not for justice, you understand, but for the frisson of fear, the delightful shiver that comes from examining a stranger's worst day. It's a moral car crash, and they've brought popcorn.
Now enters the charity sector, those perennial rainclouds at the picnic of prurience. 'Victim Support' and 'Samaritans' have issued statements so reasonable they positively glow with tedious common sense. They point out that behind every case file is a real human being, probably not thrilled about being turned into entertainment. They suggest that the quest for 'justice' might be better served by, say, donating to actual victims rather than queuing for a photo op with a retired FBI profiler.
Predictably, the CrimeCon faithful are apoplectic. How dare these do-gooders rain on their parade of ghoulish gawking! They've paid good money for these lanyards! Their Netflix queue is set to 'Serial Killer Doc' and by God they'll have it. The organisers, sensing a PR disaster, have hastily added a panel on 'ethical engagement' squeezed between 'How to Safely Stalk a Convicted Murderer on Social Media' and 'Grief Porn: A Beginner's Guide.'
But let's be honest. The true crime boom was never about justice. It's about the delicious schadenfreude of other people's tragedies. It's the safe thrill of peering over the edge of the abyss, knowing you can pull back. But when the abyss starts complaining about attendance fees, the mood sours.
What the victim support groups fail to understand is that their empathy is a party foul of the highest order. They're like vegans at a barbecue, pointing out that the sausages had faces. Nobody wants to hear that the corpse in the trunk was a father of three. They want to hear about the clever clues and the forensic subtleties. The gore, but not the grief.
So, as CrimeCon lurches into its next iteration, the tension is palpable. Will the ghouls in gabardine embrace the new guidelines and solemnly acknowledge the suffering of real victims? Or will they form a splinter group called 'CrimeCon: The Unvarnished Version' where they can freely drool over death without the inconvenience of morality? The future of rubbernecking hangs in the balance.
Meanwhile, this correspondent will be in the gin bar, toasting the brave campaigners who dare to remind us that true crime isn't a genre. It's a thing that happened. To actual people. Who are probably not okay with being your weekend entertainment.
