THE STARS

Coles court case, Granta scandal, 100 chairs.

★★★★★ Coles court case

Entering a Coles or Woolies can set your editors back for days—the white light, the dull, relentless beeping, the anti-theft cattle gates, the top 40 muzak, which always sounds like it’s playing from an adjacent room, inducing nauseating hauntological affect, and most of all, the way that shoppers, upon entering, are somehow stripped of personality, grace, hopes, dreams, the spark of life itself. Not to mention: they’re expensive and shit and at the cutting edge of surveillance capitalism and dogging workers. So we were pleased to see that, two weeks ago, the Federal Court of Australia ruled against Coles in favour of the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission. The charge: that Coles temporarily inflated prices on select products, only to drop them back down to the same price a short time later to claim they were now on special. There were fourteen “Down Down tickets” scrutinised in the case, surely selected for their qualities as poignant nationalist signifiers (Arnott’s Shapes Multipack Variety 15 Pack (375 gram)), for sheer brand recognition (Coca-Cola Soft Drink (2 litre)), or for their new-money protein-loaded ascendance (Danone Yopro Yoghurt Vanilla—TPE indulges sometimes). Real heads can browse the judgment, which features pastel-coloured graphs depicting the price peaks and valleys and never-before-seen combinations of words, such as: “The impugned Down Down ticket for the Lurpak Butter product...” There is also a concurrent class action from over 70,000 customers, spearheaded by a sweet-seeming Canberra tradie and autist who literally has receipts, as well as a very similar case against Woolies approaching judgment day. Perhaps change is finally afoot. We would be open to spearheading a class action alleging psychic and spiritual damage at the hands of the duopoly. Call us, Josh Cullinan?

★★★★ Melbourne Central public piano

When we have no option but to drop by the particularly dire Melbourne Central Coles for a sheaf of broccolini, we like to revive ourselves by taking the escalator up to the food court and loitering at the piano, a shiny black grand that anyone can play. The other week, we witnessed a thirty-ish year old office worker with a massive backpack still strapped firmly across his chest, a steampunk gent wearing a synthetic waistcoat, and a pimply teenage boy in a blingy gold chain gathered around the instrument. The office worker was singing operatically, while, in tandem, the teenager and Sir cut absolutely sick on the ivories. They finished their song, shook hands, and parted ways. We have seen girls, gays, granddads, and extremely weird units reveal themselves as sleeper Rachmaninoffs on these keys. Many others share our passion, and no wonder. It’s a beautiful thing. A vital civic experience. Encore!

★★★ 100 Chairs