Opinion
In this column, we deliver hot (and cold) takes on pop culture, judging whether a subject is overrated or underrated.
Tom Joyce
It’s about this time every year that we turn our minds to a substance that can embarrass us, burn down the house and, on a good day, even save our life – not always in that order.
Fire authorities warn us about it. We check ourselves for it without thinking. And if extreme survivalists are to be believed, we shouldn’t leave our underground bunker or suburban rental without a small supply.
For poets – that hardy, impractical breed – lint is a metaphor first. But don’t let them pretend they’re not also quietly worried about it setting their apartment alight.
Depending on its origin story, lint intrigues and repels in equal measure. Fire authorities insist it should be removed frequently to avoid spontaneous combustion, which makes it sound like a tiny, self‑immolating house sprite.
We don’t know whether philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre ever considered lint beyond the regulation removal to prevent fire. But if he had, he might have said it occupies the space between object because it has mass; process because it forms continuously; and phenomenon because it appears without our consent.
Poets, French or otherwise, see in lint a slow unravelling: a shedding, an embarrassing, sometimes destructive, occasionally fatal amassing of man-made tinder. A quiet collapse of order that is, somehow, also a potential saviour.
Ah, lint – belly button, toenail, clothes dryer – we know you so little, respect you even less, are embarrassed by you often, yet in peril you might save our lives.
You’ll do well to ignore the old advice that in an emergency you shouldn’t sit around ‘navel‑gazing’.
It’s reported that you caused a fire that knocked the aircraft carrier USS Gerald Ford out of action during the early days of the Iran war, achieving something that missiles and drones of various shapes and sizes couldn’t. Who needs armour‑penetrating ordnance when a laundry fire will do?
Dryer lint build-up is now one of the leading causes of house fires. It wasn’t always so. In the long‑distant 20th century – after the dinosaurs, but before the iPhone – when the Hills Hoist spun proudly in Australian backyards and off-white Bonds undies flapped on sagging clotheslines, the dryer lint branch of the family didn’t exist. Belly button lint, yes. Toenail lint (especially from the big toes), yes. But clothes dryer lint? Not yet.
You burnt down industrial laundries and threatened the hotels and hospitals attached to them long before you entered and transformed our domestic lives. And on a damp, cool day, a little fire risk is surely a small price to pay for warm sheets.
But enough about dryers. Belly buttons and toenails have just as much – and possibly more – to offer. Come the apocalypse, when we’re long past our last box of matches and struggling to light a fire to cook our freshly caught bush turkey, only billionaire preppers will be safely tucked away in their gas cooker-equipped subterranean lairs. The rest of us will have to improvise.
This is where you’ll do well to ignore the old advice that in an emergency you shouldn’t sit around “navel‑gazing”. Au contraire, navel‑gazing – and scratching – could save your life.
Lint may be embarrassing – few people feel pride at the sight of it lodged in their belly button – but consider the plight of our matchless, turkey‑cooking survivors. Raw turkey tonight? Unthinkable.
Lint may feel like slow decay, but it packs a surprising punch on the way out. Belly button lint is, essentially, pre‑fluffed tinder: tiny fibres brushed off your clothes, mixed with dry skin flakes that burn, lightly coated in body oils that burn even better, and naturally compacted into a tiny, aerated, incendiary ball. It’s the human body’s accidental micro‑tinder kit, perfect for those moments when you’ve inconveniently matchless.
Lint is the only substance that can light your campfire, burn down your house, disable an aircraft carrier and inspire poets and philosophers to mine it for metaphors and meaning.
In a world that demands a single takeaway: check your belly button for lint before you leave home. If the apocalypse arrives while you’re out, at least you’ll be able to cook a hot meal.
