Why I absolutely love a good dump

The Guardian

a day ago

A friend of mine surprised me with the vehemence of his love for something. He's about my age, a highly successful maker of important television and avid consumer of Radio 4 and the Guardian. A keen thinker about things, he likes books and podcasts that are a little too advanced for me. All in all, he didn't seem the type to say what he said, over a pint in our local. Furthermore, there was even a slightly glazed, far-off look in his eye when he announced, with such great feeling rising from deep in his soul: 'I really love going to the dump.' It was only then that I realised I was free to admit to sharing this love. It was a moving, bonding moment between us. One love. For the dump.
My dump visits had hitherto been shrouded in a mist of shame. Throwing things away is bad, not least because buying them in the first place was bad, or at least not entirely necessary, which may amount to the same thing. Also, isn't it all an exercise in shifting the responsibility for your junk on to someone – everyone? – else? This notion that it is magically being recycled, repurposed, reused is surely a fantasy, not much more than a veneer of righteousness to help those of us who feel guilty about it to feel less guilty about it.
But what the hell – if one of my more sensitive, intellectual, environmentally conscious friends can be at peace with his dump-love, then so can I. It helps that our local dump is a very fine one indeed. Lying between Swansea and Mumbles, Clyne Gardens and Clyne Valley Country Park are both beautiful places and well worth a visit, but the Clyne Household Waste Recycling Centre runs them close. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas have a home nearby. It pleases me that my cardboard may get smunched up with theirs. Unlike many municipal dumps, you don't need an appointment. Just turn up. And if you're in the area, you should do just that. Even if you've nothing to dump, it's worth a look. Swansea council should build a small viewing gallery for spectators to watch the perfection unfold.
The entrance, as you'd expect from somewhere on the edge of a country park, is pleasingly verdant. A sign reads 'NO WOOD'. Perhaps this is in deference to the feelings of the trees all around. Thereafter, a symphony of efficiency unfolds. The containers are smartly lined up, clearly labelled, with the parking in front of them artfully angled. The service is very friendly. Admittedly, it's to my advantage that I am recognised as a former presenter of Match of the Day, but I was there long enough (the dump, that is, not MOTD) to know all-round good service when I see it.
And it's not just the staff. The dumpers themselves – as at all dumps – are in noticeably good humour. Kids scurry around assisting parents. Older dumpers expel light gasps of pleasure as whatever they're disposing of is dropped into the abyss of these giant skips. We're in this together, enjoying the moment, the transition from being encumbered to disencumbered. We feel nothing less than cleansed. The relief and release is so intense that you can almost smell it. The longer you've delayed dumping whatever you're dumping, the greater the relief and release. But what is it, this thing from which we're being released? The deadweight of our worldly possessions? The crowding out of our very souls by the millstones of stuff we've been unable to resist accumulating? Or, God forgive us, the excitement of knowing space has been cleared to make way for the arrival of yet more stuff to be dumped in its turn.
These are questions for later, or never. Let's just enjoy this moment. The angle of the parking spaces have us pointing at the exit, so, having said our cheery goodbyes, in vehicles sitting higher on their axles, and our spirits higher still, we sweep out, until next time.
Adrian Chiles is a writer, broadcaster and Guardian columnist