Here’s a story which got my teeth on edge:
A Dublin singer has allegedly been sexually assaulted for the second time while on tour with her band.
Karla Chubb, the lead singer of Dublin-based grunge band Sprints, was allegedly groped and harassed while performing at one of the band’s recent gigs.
Sprints posted a statement revealing that Karla had been assaulted for the second time on Saturday.
The statement said: “Yesterday, Karla was sexually assaulted for the second time while on the Letter To Self tour. The fact that this has occurred twice is abhorrent, the fact it still happens at all is disgusting. We will not stand for it and we will not stay silent about it. Female performers should be able to engage with their audience, step off the stage or perform without fear of groping, unwanted touching, cat-calling and harassment. The fact that this is still an every day occurrence for most women is beyond reprehensible. To those who noticed and called out the behaviour yesterday, thank you. To those of you responsible for the behaviour, shame on you. Do better.”
Actually, the last bit is what got me reaching for another gin.
You see, this is a common thing, and I don’t know why some assholes think that just because the girl looks sexy or whatever, that they can cop a quick feel or worse.
I have spoken before of Gilly, our band’s vocalist, and her skirts:
Needless to say, she got a lot of attention, but we looked after her and made sure that there was always one of us with her at all times before, during and after a gig.
Here’s a little story about that.
We once played a 6-month gig as the house band at a seedy nightclub in Johannesburg, and such was our popularity that the room always exceeded the Fire Department’s maximum occupancy limit.
One example of this popularity was that we became favorites of a motorcycle band (can’t remember the name, but it was something like The Devils). Even though they were a rough-‘n-tough crowd, they always behaved themselves in the club during their weekly visit, dancing with their ladies and drinking up a storm (which is why the management allowed them in — their bar bill was the equivalent of the GDP of a small country). We sometimes invited someone in the gang to perform a song with us, and Long John — a tall, skinny guy with long, greasy black hair and the worst teeth in the Western Hemisphere — would enthrall the audience with his version of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall (“We don’t need no sex education!” delivered in a hoarse bellow) which always brought the house down. It became a weekly fixture.
Anyway, one night I became aware of a guy wearing a red shirt who was intent on reaching up to the stage and getting his hand up Gilly’s skirt while she was singing. I growled at him once and he went away, but came back after a while and tried again. Gilly managed to avoid his groping, and unfortunately for him, he chose the last song of the set to play his little game.
During our break, I went over to the Devils’ tables and sat down next to the gang leader, a guy named Pete.
“Pete,” I said, “do you see that guy over there in the red shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, that bastard’s been trying to finger Gilly, right there on the stage while we’re playing. I can’t deal with it because we’re employees here and I don’t want us to get fired. Can you do something to help her out?”
Pete scowled, beckoned to two of his guys and whispered something to them. They stood up, pulled on their gang colors, walked over to Mr. Redshirt Groper and dragged him out of the club.
I have no idea what they said (or did) to him, but I never saw him again. when I asked Pete what had happened — I mean, these were serious biker tough guys, and they might have killed him — he just grinned and muttered something about “teaching him a lesson”.
And that is the kind of thing that needs to happen to these assholes, not some mealy-mouthed statement like begging the assholes to “Do better” — don’t beg them to behave themselves, just fuck them up.
It’s all they deserve.
