We fucked Pussy Riot over for a good breakfast. But at least we sported our Weekday Pussy Riot t-shirts proudly whilst doing it. If it’s any consolation (more to myself than to you, Reader), it was a nice breakfast. I’d have done many things for that macchiato, which was probably one of the best coffees to have ever wandered down my throat.
This is a Pussy Riot t-shirt, all be it inside-out and in Spain and totally taken out of context.
That morning there was an international demonstration – the one in London taking place outside the Russian Consulate – to show support for Pussy Riot and lack thereof for their sentence, indeed, an unfair decision. And mine and E’s intentions were good and pure; we would eat breakfast and then wonder on down to Riot Town. Are you a real riot grrrl if you can’t go crazy without a bit of food in your belly?
Anyway, the time came and it went and we were still eating scrambled eggs and croissants outside of Rustique, The Literary Café in Tufnell Park, just enjoying the moment. We acknowledged our poor ability to plan appropriately and we said no more about it.
We went shopping instead.
To be honest, I just fancied a picture.
‘If I seem a little edgy it’s ‘cos I’ve done a liccle cocaine,’ he said as he picked us up, panting, from Tufnell Park underground station.
We edged our way into the ex-safehouse – now factory of all things cider (the product and the culture) – where his mates were more than accommodating. But we were dead, man. I’d looked at E on the tube and she looked totally fucked up; it was the product of a mix of tiredness and a worryingly silent girlfriend. And I’d seen my own reflection in the window, fading away. So we retreated upstairs, promising tomorrow and, ‘cheers!’ and pursued sleep. We were blowing up an airbed for over thirty minutes by mouth and bicycle pump, which seemed like the kind of ironic situation that only a pair of lesbians could find themselves. We swapped breaths until our heads were floating and our mouths were dry.
Then, in the small hours, the party people came back after trying their luck in the great outdoors of Friday Night Saturday Morning. I probably wouldn’t have noticed but girls were trying to force their drunken bodies’ into our room, saying, ‘sorry, sorry.’ Are we boring?
Well, this woke one up enough to realise the dryness of one’s mouth and fullness of bladder, both discomforts I had no eagerness to quell since the ‘en suite’ looked like a bathroom that had walked off a train. So, I dosed – or fooled myself into thinking I was – and, upon accepting that my discomfort would not allow me to block out the music, I succumbed to it. It was fairly pleasantly sedative, then, ‘I wanna be adooorrrreeed.’ I was happy to hear a familiar sound but random melodies would have been better to soothe me into a slumber, which must have happened at some point because I woke up – in the same state of discomfort – refreshed. It was light outside, at least.
Disillusioned long ago by Capitalism you look to Marx’s Capital but think, ‘f*** me, that’s a big book.’ Bearing this in mind you go to Marxism Festival 2012 for answers …
Comrade for a Day | Graduate Game.