PUSSY RIOT

Today is the judgement on the Russian band Pussy Riot. I may not get as many people taking notice of me as Gareth Cliff, but this is worth noting...

So I just came back from the Gardens Centre. Most Capetonians would agree that this small, community-based shopping emporium is one of the last to maintain some vestige of exclusivity, some strand of respectability, even though it has a Musica. It's smack in the middle of a residential area usually reserved for the well-off elderly and the well-to-do student sect. Unfortunately some hippies as well, but what can you do...
Anyway, you're more likely to find Mercedes than Unos in the parking lot, even if they let in the occasion clapped up Volla. And it's this very oversight that I was exposed to when I was there. Now I don't know if it was the sheer frustration of having to look through an unfamiliar section of a store in search of something I couldn't find, or if it was the sound of the rain outside, but I found myself reluctantly seeking to use the centre's facilities. Not being too fond of public restrooms at the best of times, I rather sheepishly entered what I assumed would at least be a nice clean, upper class space, if not a pristine monument in marble. What I found was a kick in the balls for every security guard everywhere...

...Droves of homeless people doing there ablutions. Some with their worldly possessions on black plastic bags and ALL rather the worse for wear. Which got me thinking. Your average patron who comes to a centre like this - looking to spend some money in a nice classy environment, Musica notwithstanding - would go into shock! But the bergies were at least polite - almost to a fault - as if they knew they weren't exactly welcome. I finally came to the conclusion that they were at least trying to improve their immediate situation, which showed they take some pride in themselves and is commendable. Also, I realised that human fecal matter is probably better in the designated sewage system (no matter by which conduit) rather than on the pavement outside the entrance to the centre.

And speaking of human fecal matter, I am currently once again in the office with good ol' 5FM on. I have no idea what's playing. It seems all the bands these days should be called "Working On My Tits". And this just after I managed to fix the cd player in my car, saving me from an afternoon commute with Fresh and his band of idiots. The worst, however, was the so-called song I heard this morning on my way in. The only redeemable thing about this song is that at least Gareth Cliff wasn't poisoning my soul with his inane jibber jabber. Anyway, here's to originality. The song in question used a sample of an early eighties hit looped throughout its entirety. Don't ask me which song or quote the exact time frame. Then the "artist" had the lyrical prowess and integrity to start the song off with the words "This is it boys, this is war". Ninety Nine whats? I hear you shriek...

Anyway, back to the here and now - tomorrow the intrepid troops of Team Burger King once more storm the battlements of Pub Quiz. Hopefully this time with a full complement and a winning smile!

Also, last night The Hot Girlfriend outdid herself entertaining the family (hers and mine) to an unbelievably awesome dinner. Even the other half of the DSW was well impressed. Accolades all round!

NGDG: The Randy Blythe saga is proof that the uptight freedom-hating bureaucrats who upheld the communist Czech regime found a new lease on political life in the post-Soviet dispensation. Tom Stoppard's Rock n Roll needs a restage. If only to bear me out.

Spread The Love. It's Pussy Riot Day.