Luke’s Cranbourne

Frack Me Harder

by Luke Hall

At last, a place more desolate, shrivelled, and dried than the contents of my bank account. It was the much needed schadenfreude boost to get me through the week as I crunched my way through the woods of absolute death, on my way to Cranbourne.


No matter where you go these days, someone in a synthetic hat will force leaflets into your hand with pictures of drowning polar bears on the cover. Inside there’s an etching of a solar panel sailing through the sky in a green sparkly cape, ready to rescue any and all from the purges of rising sea levels.

“The Planet!” They scream

“It’s getting hotter, the fresh water is running out, the birds are dying, and the rivers are polluted. You must take action!”

You’re taken off guard, seduced by the harrowing rhetoric.

“BP!” They cry

“Exxon, Texaco, Jewson, these companies are destroying the planet! The deforestation they cause with their fracking, the ground they turf. They’re starving our planet of oxygen. We must stop them!”

You stand in horror, unaware that Southern Electric was moments away from expunging you of life.

But if you stood where I stood last week by the Cranbourne Chase, you’d likely get a suspicious whiff of botty water. The trees towered high, with leaves forbidding the sun from coming through; the entire forest was as dingy as a Welsh hotel, brittle trees instead of furniture and its floorboard creaked, barely supporting my weight.

“Deforestation?” I thought

“Tell that to these poor withered pencils.”

These woods ached for a lovely bit of deforestation, the shattering of wood, the light beaming inside, bring lush green life for all. I’m sure fracking here is a yearning dream every treetop aspires to see. That wonderful drill burrowing deep into the ground, all that blossoming life and pressurised water.

When they got a peep of my lighter as I took my photo, they probably begged for a spark up. That thought of a fiery pine and needle holocaust to thin the herd, and rise out of the ashes to start again, a dream that probably tingled their withered roots.

It’s moments like this that I like to spare a thought for those evil FTSE 100 companies, and their dastardly oil grabbing ways. Every now and then when they’re powering the world and its cities, I secretly admire them for, if nothing else, their ability to maintain a bank account that doesn’t resemble a starved woodland.

Editor: Joel Emmons




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