I live in Sydney’s Inner West. Very nice you might say and you’d be right. It’s nice and peaceful most times out of the local soccer season. When the World game is on every idiot comes and parks in every plausible spot, spends a few hours and then they all disappear. Like a mining disaster – everyone’s in town, then the story’s over and it’s dead quiet. Fly in, fly out.
It’s nice and peaceful most times, that was until the bats arrived.
I think somewhere in the city, not speculating, but let’s say the Botanical Gardens, university educated idiots poured millions of dollars into getting rid of the bats so they could save the whatever for whoever. They got rid of the bats – they moved on. Moved on to the bloody tree right behind my house.
So what’s it like living with bats? Well, they don’t talk. They don’t just lean over and whisper; “Mate can you hang upside down a little more to the right I need my space.”
They shriek, it’s not a scream, it’s a Bride of Frankenstein shriek. When they’re not shrieking they’re hanging upside down completely toasted from the 20,000 volts they’ve ingested by thinking the powerlines are a cool place to hang, next to the pairs of runners. They stay up there for weeks, grotesque yes, but sadly not enough to scare away the soccer idiots.
When they take off from the tree there’s this eerie Dracula cape sound that sends chills through the BBQ guests. It’s right out of Vlad the Impaler. With their freaky ginger bat hair, any Romanian would run a mile regardless of the fact they eat fruit not blood. And then where the hell do they get the fruit?
But I’m not bitter.
We live in a diverse society my wife tells me. As long as they don’t steal the cat the bats can stay.
Keep calm, till next time. LF
