Peter Wilhelm speculates: Juju in the nip, Lady Godiva and a Banting spider
Another knife's edge, chuckle-worthy recount of current affairs from the satirically minded regular, Peter Wilhelm. This week, Peter summons up (far too effectively) the mental image of Julius Malema strutting around parliament in nothing but a beret and a smile following the current debacle taking place around the EFF's insistence on wearing their statement red overalls to official meetings, much to the chagrin of the Speaker Ntombi Mekgwe, amongst others. This, coupled with the denouncing of young things' short-shorts and cellphone decorum, as well as the ambling down Jackie Selebi boulevards of a little spider called Matilda make for a very entertaining read altogether. – CH
I know the subject has become about as appetising as the limp, decaying asparagus stalk in your Banting octopus-eye salad. Yet the threat of the Economic Freedom Fighter's Julius Malema to stroll into Parliament naked if some form of dress code is enforced provokes philosophical reflection.
The last time anyone used nudity as an axis for protest was in the 11th Century, when Lady Godiva rode a horse from her estate through the town wearing nothing but her long luxuriant hair. Like JuJu she was on the side of the people – whom her aristo husband was unfairly taxing.
So she entered legend as a primordial species of unclothed sans-culotte, imposing price controls and getting women's rights into some or other codicil. And legend is where she remains, since she was instead a pious, prim lady.
The EFF's famous red breeches, gumboots, domestic worker's apparel – plus red hard-hats or berets – have been furiously rejected by Ntombi Mekgwe, the Speaker of the Gauteng Legislature, and Richard Mdakane of the Parliamentary rules committee – ultimately on the basis that they flout "decorum".
Malema has said this about the fracas: "We are not going to dress like colonial masters … I am wearing an overall. It's clean and I am not smelly. I'm actually smelling better than many other people who are wearing suits there."
We don't want to go there. However, whatsoever his body odour, JuJu fails to grasp that those selfsame colonial monsters invented the proud habiliments in which he postures like an old wino dressed like Santa Claus. He and his red-faced orcs (notwithstanding their fine-honed economic theories) all look like special effects from The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.
And (warning: plagiarism ahead) think of the ridicule to which they will be subjected if they strip off and wander into Parliament with their pudenda and reciprocal reproductive apparatus flapping in the heated chamber. What will happen if the instruction blares out: "Will all Honourable Members be upstanding!" (© Max du Preez.)
However, should the EFF wish to cavort as a Chinese-clad roundelay of dolts, who are we to object? When my friends and I sip coffee in a noisy joint called Down South, we're invariably surrounded by the young – Generation Y, alias the Millennials – in their neo-classic garb of men's khaki trousers that reach just below their hairy knees and women's badge of honour: teeny, raggedy, cut-off shorts that tend to lewdly rear upwards into their graffiti-spattered T-shirts.
They knead cellphones.
Again, since the Restoration of Charles II, British legal minds drape themselves and their bald spots in £1 000 wigs and appear (according to one contemporary witness) as if they're "wearing a fur coat and something like a woman's dressing gown". Consider how silly and ignorant the protagonists of the English version of Law & Order look draped in animal skins.
Even Matilda, the obese rain spider who has taken up residence outside my study window laughs at outré dress styles — a tinkly, wee chitter as she awaits a cowering, tiny male with whom to mate and then to eat to give her eggs essential Banting protein. She doesn't wear a floral nightie to attract the bumbling, doomed targets. She just waits, six or eight legs and fangs twanging her web until they creep in range of her cephalothorax — queen of the night.
Pondering the EFF's buff challenge, I took Matilda for a walk. This is my daily exercise, aside from pulling on my socks. Matilda lopes beside me as I traverse the minuscule key point where I maintain my own nest. She particularly loves the fractional, filthy, tin-can plated cul-de-sac I sidle past.
From this foul alley, as always, emanates the stench of spilt sherry and homemade pineapple beer, of unwashed rags and the occasional pile of obscure matter possibly of human origin. I once tripped over just such a smouldering tip and it roused faintly and croaked: "Hi Ducky! Want a good time?" I could only respond: "I'm afraid that's not possible."
The yellow grass, weeds, and decomposing stuff makes of this grim pathway a landfill, and even seagulls sometimes swoop to inspect and veer off revolted. It even has a name: Jackie Selebi Boulevard. This legend could be found tucked in the heart of the gang insignia and scrawled obscenities.
Times change. Someone (probably a dissident cell of the Democratic Alliance) has scribbled over the original name and inscribed instead: "FW de Klerk Boulevard." No wonder the EFF feels itself marginalised and subject to colonial cultural tropes. They feel more at home with Palaeolithic clan tattoos that offend those depriving them of their modish bum-bags and hoodies.
Noting the politically incorrect name-change, Matilda shook her palps and demanded to go home to eat a mate. The EFF should avoid cannibalism in Parliament.