Tales from mad science: the biofuel breakthrough on Home Services

Jan

Tales from mad science: the biofuel breakthrough

posted by admin in Window Cleaning

Eureka! Warren and I have made important scientific progress which will change the face of motoring. Also the smell. Warned of possible fuel shortages by gloom and doom Greens, we experimented with making our own. No problem. For once, my talents as amateur winemaker were equally important to his scientific knowledge. First stop was Gordon’s. We needed starch and sugars. Gordon was living proof generous Scotsmen happen all the time. He was giving away spuds. His ‘taties filled our fermentation vats. We added secret ingredients like water and yeast. I stirred and waited, and stirred again. This was my smidgen of expertise. After three days, bubbles rose through the stodge. A day later vats were bubbling everywhere. Then all hell broke loose. KA-WHUMPF. One exploded, scattering sludge over cars, bikes and valuable junk. After checking no other vats had blocked vents, we started cleaning up quickly in case we were caught. Too late. The female voice demanded: “WHAT ARE YOU TWO IDIOTS DOING DOWN THERE?” Without challenging the term “idiots” Warren answered “nothing dear”. She just wanted reassurance our latest round of atomic tests would not vapourise the resale value of the house. Then her forensic nose detected a revolting smell. “Revolting” lacks precision, “like a brewery in an unfiltered sewerage farm” is more scientific. She stood well back and made us light matches to prove the gas was not explosive. Fermentation continued for two weeks. We kept windows open 24/7 so enough oxygen remained in the garage to make breathing worthwhile. Fragrant carbon dioxide rolled invisibly out the windows, assisted by various directions of wind. The neighbours got sniffy. After the first week, they held a meeting to ask why industrial smells were happening in a nice area. Warren and I attended wearing pinstripe suits to divert suspicion. We had arranged for our amateur meteorologist friend to give a technical explanation. We wised him up, telling him the smelly stage would finish in five days. Luckily, meteorology is a wonderfully malleable science. He did a technocratic Power-Point-illustrated pseudo-scientific explanation involving temperature inversions and the molecular weight of gases escaping from Bromley. It sounded so convincing we almost bought it ourselves. Global warming and the local micro-climate came into it lots. His masterful finish predicted “in six days when the local topology has hermetically stabilised the isobaric hecto- pascals, the smell will be gone”. No, I didn’t understand it either. How can anyone argue with stuff like that? Warren and I clapped loudest. Another triumph for science. We now had gallons of an opaque liquid which was 17 per cent ethanol, but smelled like burnt rubber mixed with fermented camel dung. More problems were in the breeze. Then came some amazing serendipity. The female voice caught a nose blockingly bad cold. It, too, spread through the neighbourhood. It was now or never. With our tame meteorologist on standby we went for it. Warren had made a distilling device by fixing an electric jug element inside an old pressure cooker. Sensitive pressure switches turned the power off to stop it exploding. Copper tubes sprouted from the top, each ending in cooling coils dripping into containers. This was real science. A day of distilling and the opaque liquid was reduced to a thick foul sludge and used as weedkiller. The clearish liquid left, about 98% ethanol, still had a definite nasal quality. Once more into the breech dear friends, and a day later it emerged clear as a bell with the sweet smell of success. We poured some from a test tube onto cotton wool. It burnt with a clear blue flame. Perfect motor spirit. Then we were stricken with mad scientist disease. “I wonder what it tastes like?” We were scientists; the question must be answered. Much rigoroush teshting showed it dint tayshed good: it dint tayshed bad: it dint tayshed at all. After recovering our scientific objectivity, we did internal combustion tests. Due to evaporation we no longer had enough to run a larger engine, so Warren found a model aeroplane engine. It started easily and ran well. Then we noticed. The exhaust whiffed of burnt rubber and fermented camel dung. A cheeky nose hinting of cat pee with a lingering afterpong. It can’t be worse than streets scattered with horse droppings and buzzing with septic flies, so we’re staying with the programme. Eureka anyway! * Phillip Rex Robinson is a writer and entertainer from Christchurch.