Let me take you back to a time when Perth’s seedy underbelly wasn’t just figurativelyslippery, but literally choking on a sea of latex. Yep. I’m talking about the Great Condom Blockage of the early 2000s—a tale so bizarre, so utterly Aussie, it deserves its own Netflix doco narrated by Steve Irwin’s ghost.
Now, everyone knows Perth has its fair share of Asian massage parlours—you know, those “relaxation” joints that somehow operate 12/7 and mysteriously share a back alley with a dodgy sushi train and a cash-only laundromat. But did you know they once nearly flooded entire suburbs with a tsunami of used dommies?
I shit you not, and rubber you a lot.
Apparently, these establishments had a brilliant disposal method: flush every used condom down the loo. One after the other. Hundreds. Possibly thousands. It was like Willy Wonka’s chocolate river—but rubbery, used, and absolutely not for kids.
And let me tell you, dear reader, the sewers didn’t stand a bloody chance.
One day, local councils started getting calls:
“Me toilet’s backing up!”
“Water’s coming out the sink but smells like regret!”
“There’s something weird floatin’ in me bath, mate!”
At first, they thought it was your standard suburban fatberg—some Karen dumping bacon grease and baby wipes down the pipes. But no. When the brave plumbers rocked up, high-vis on, sleeves rolled, ready for war—they weren’t prepared for the avalanche of sheaths slapping them in the face like nature’s wet handshake.
Picture this: Barry the plumber, knee-deep in Sydney gumboots, pries open a blocked pipe and is greeted by a pressurised payload of prophylactics. Floppy missiles. One by one. It’s a latex landslide. He’s not paid enough for this. No one is.
It wasn’t just one parlour, either. Oh no. It was a symphony of flushing rubber from Northbridge to Cannington. These joints must’ve had a roster of clients longer than Centrelink on a Monday morning. And for some unknown reason, they all believed condoms were like goldfish—you could just flush ’em and forget ’em.
Councils, of course, were not amused. Imagine trying to explain that to your ratepayers:
“Sorry about the sewerage overflow on your street. It’s just Harold from Unit 3 getting his happy ending every Tuesday and Thursday, and the parlour flushed the evidence.”
But honestly? It’s bloody hilarious. The mental image of tradies gagging while unblocking a love canal of slippery soldiers is almost enough to make you forget how bloody gross it all is. Almost.
Eventually, the city cracked down—probably after discovering entire pipe networks turned into Trojan breeding grounds. They started handing out fines, inspections, maybe even some free bin liners with “NOT FOR FLUSHING” written in eight different languages.
So, what did we learn?
• Condoms are not biodegradable.
• Flushing your sins doesn’t make them go away—it just shares them with the neighbourhood.
• And plumbers are the real unsung heroes of society—especially the ones who survived Perth’s rubber rapture.
To this day, the sewers of Perth whisper stories of that dark, squelchy chapter. So next time you’re walking past a massage parlour and see a plumber wheeling in a drain snake the size of a garden hose, give him a nod. That man’s seen things.
Flush wisely, Perth.
