gullybogan

Flickr photo by Gullybogan.

Dear Reader,

At the moment, there’s a bit of a kerfuffle going on about some houses built next to a landfill down at Cranbourne.

Turns out, the council didn’t want the houses built there, on account of how explosive levels of methane are pouring out from naturally-formed underground vents of said landfill.

The evil developer, though, took the matter to some State-level authority or other, and got the council’s prohibition overturned.

And now a whole bunch of ppl’s brand new houses are bathed in a constant methane miasma, and the whole estate could explode at any moment.

At least there’s one mercy: methane is, according to this expert dude i heard talking about it on the radio, odourless.

Like you, dear Reader, i found that news surprising.

A couple of weekends back, Princess was playing herself some tennis, and i went along to watch, because she cuts a dashing figure in a tennis skirt and ankle socks. The courts where she played were – it was popular opinion – next to some sort of methane-producing industry. Either that, or there was something wrong with their septic.

It was out in the bush a bit, these tennis courts, and i suspected from the moment i stepped onto the decking and took a deep breath of the mountain air that there was something amiss with their septic tank.

There’s just no mistaking the smell of fermented shit.

It was then that i noticed that all the other club patrons were standing in the shrubbery at the far end of the property, many with their jumpers or t-shirts pulled up over their noses.

I joined them.

«Methane, mate,» some dude nodded and said. «We think it’s from over there.» He pointed at some factories we could see down by the highway. But it was clearly the septic, as far as i was concerned.

Poor old Princess had to whack about on the court for a couple of hours, sucking in lungsful of this foetid stench as she put herself through the aerobic workout that one finds constituted in a couple of matches of tennis.

The club ladies had hot dogs for sale. I think they cooked them just to cover up the stink. Some cabbage would have helped, too. They also had Picnic bars, and some other shit-shaped snacks.

I resisted.

In the toilet they had this can of air freshener. I was almost tempted to spray it all about the cubicle, which would have ironically made the crapper the best smelling part of the whole complex.

But that would have meant touching the can. And there’s no way i’d do that.

So here’s a tip: If you’re ever planning a sports complex, do all you can to make sure that it doesn’t end up bathed in shit stink. It’s attention to details like that which make all the difference between a good club and a great club.

Yours,
Gullybogan