It Ain't Easy Being Green... Spaces
This week, I deliver the Kiss of Death to a wonderful park in the middle of Brisbane.
The Ol’ Kiss of Death
For those of you following my adventures, you’ll have recall how, last weekend, I discovered a lovely parklands (ex-golf course) within coo-ee of the centre of Brisbane, and how delighted I was to:
a) have found a grassy refuge from gangs of lycra clad cyclists and suicidal scooterists hooning about on the many walkways (cycle paths).
b) learn that the Brisbane City Council HADN’T flogged if off to a developer to bury under tonnes of concrete or parking lots.
Kudos all! Job well done!
Now, some of you may also recall I no longer watch, read or listen to the news anymore (folks, there’s going to be nothing NEW about Prez for life, Dodgy Diaper Donnie, and his Gang of Bootlickers lying, grifting and punching down for the next 10 years… why bother?), so it was by complete accident I happened to see a Courier Fail newspaper at a supermarket checkout with the headline that the wonderful park was going to be, yep, buried under tonnes of concrete and parking lots for the new Olympic stadium.
What the…?!
I didn’t need to read the entire article, but the Courier, being a cheerleader for conservative governments in Queensland ever since little Rupert stabbed his teddy bear (with the good scissors) and had nanny fired for it, would have thought ripping up the park was a ticketty-boo idea.
Release the dozers! Because, for some reason:
Conservatives Hate Conservation
You know, I’ve never met, or known of, a conservative politician, ever, who wanted to ‘conserve’ anything to do with the environment?
Historically a conservative is someone whose political beliefs swing toward conserving traditions and individuals maintaining society.
The right sort of individuals that is; basically, chaps. Wealthy chaps. Chaps from the right backgrounds, schools, clubs and semi-secret societies, don’cherknow.
And the tradition they appear most desperate to ‘conserve’ is a policy designed to drag us all back to the 1950’s where women, people of colour, foreigners, the poor and working oiks, knew their damn place, and sex was something you did to make babies.
Oh, and keeping their place at the top of the pile… by any means necessary.
They’re clearly terrified of change, the future, kids, teens with hoodies, women (except the sensibly dressed tame sheilas’ in their party with the bobbed hair and pearl necklaces to clutch, who are very aware of their damn place, and are happy to be trotted out to stand behind the men and eagerly nod their pretty little heads), angry magpies, free speech and inquiries into their corrupt behaviour, expense accounts or when they got their secretary pregnant (BTW: has anyone seen Barnaby lately, or has Pete stuffed him into a box until after the election?), journalists, whistle blowers, unionists, paying taxes, clean air or water, the Great Barrier Reef and honest cops.
But what is it particularly about the natural environs that annoys them so much they want to bury it, dig it up, poison it or flame throw it?
I honestly don’t know. Anyway, whatever…
I paid for my stuff and walked out into the carpark of a supermarket that was built on a patch of ground next to a creek where we used to swim as kids. It wasn’t much of a creek, but it was quite nice to wallow around in on a hot summer’s day, and there were always plenty of lobbies to catch. And, because it wasn’t surrounded by houses and pumped full of stormwater run-off, we could also drink the water.
The creek is still there, somewhere, but absolutely choked with reeds and weeds, and if you drank the water now I’m fairly sure you’ll start glowing in the dark; but not for long…
As I sat in my car staring at the row of trees guarding the creek, I thought it’s only a matter of time before they’re cut down and the ol’ swimming hole is dug up, piped and covered in homes.
Change, it’s inevitable, the only constant, so to speak.
Which brings me back to the new stadium and this question: Seriously, does Brisbane need another one?
Or are our political leaders suffering from:
Stadium Delerium
Look, I’ll admit I’m not the brightest bulb in the pack, but wouldn’t a fresh coat of paint on the old QE2 stadium at Mount Gravatt be enough?
Athletes train on grass, in parks. Why would they care about running about in circles or tossing iron balls or spears in an aged, but still very functional, stadium?
And what will they do with the new stadium after the games?
It’ll get used occasionally for the token game of soccer, league or union, until it falls into disrepair and gets pulled down to make way for blocks of exclusive units.
Still, on the bright side, I got to enjoy it before it was dug up, so, hey, thanks for the memories guys.
Speaking of which, it’s time for some:
Happy Snaps!
Thanks for joining us! Let’s do it all again next week.
Also, if you did enjoy today’s read, feel free to click on the ‘Like’ or ‘Share’ buttons, because when you do, the shutters in Anthony Albanese’s office open and close.
Cheers,
Greg
