Oh the headlines!

The false charges.

The specious allegations.

The scandal!

How dare any grubby penman from Geebung or beyond slander the good name of an esteemed elite private school Headmaster and claim that he facilitated and/or was involved in and/or covered up the abuse of children in his care and under his control as Brisbane’s most esteemed Anglican Church owned and run schools?

What do these potty mouthed peasants presume to be?

Child sexual abuse victims?

And who on earth do the proletariat street-sweepers imagine that they are?

Queen’ Counsels?

Nah mate.

F*ck the Queen. Phillip did. And just look what bloody happened.

I’m Archie Butterfly, and I’m from Geebung.

And you and your toffee nosed cane on the arse loving top end of town toff tosser posse child abuse deniers, pedophile protectors and ‘Oh gee I’m an idiot Fitzy I almost f*cked up the whole Fitzgerald Inquiry by doing the Old School Tie backdoor whisper’ wankers can go and kiss my arse.

(I’ll tell you the Fitzy story tomorrow sportsfans – long and short is that some pompous pizza faced Pilate attempted to cut a backdoor deal with his mate the Saint on behalf of his corrupt as f*ck client Angelo, got double played, taped and Vasta Pasta’d, and escaped by the chin of his pimply chin chin courtesy of a cover up the size of the Krakatoa Crater – more on that later).

This is today’s story punters.

A bunch of rich wankers from the top end of town led by a washed up hack never-was ABC journalist named Geoffrey Luck – who’s been kicked like an empty can all over the country by a quality media man called Mike Carlton who’s derides him left right and center of the desert as a dickhead and a dolt – and his mealy mouthed but well married media tart malcontent mate Tony, Tony, Tone – aka Anthony Hunter Morris QC, or Tony to the adoring throng who are clearly conspicuous by their absence – once upon a time, a long, long, while ago when they were little kids went to a school called Churchie.

Back then the rich-listers and assorted mongrel mob collective of Congregationalists, temperance tub thumpers, Church of England chutzpah’s and half breed high Catholic/Anglican kiddy lovers who jump-started the joint fout of  tin shed in the back yard of an aboriginal-heisted Auchenflower estate the robber barons renamed Aidencraig referred to the refugee camp they ditched their offspring in as CEGS, an acronym for the Church of England Grammar School.

These days the wretched faux pommy replica that tries to pretend that the wretched mangrove ridden shark pit normal people call the Norman Creek is really the Thames is formally titled the Anglican Church Grammar School, but every bugger in Brisbane – and every buggerer too, most of them one time inmates of the East Brisbane asylum – call it Churchie, most of us taking the piss as we do.

Not Luck and his mate Morris though. They love the joint, and still do, and they love their old headmaster even more, at least Luck does because Morris didn’t graduate until 1977 which means that old ‘Play it Again Harry’ was a long begotten memory by the time that he was a kid in short pants learning to enjoy the pleasures of being beaten by lashes of the rattan across the rump while looking out over the Brisvegas River through tears to the other side to the place where the sinners ain’t.

Whatever. The past is only what we dream it to be. Unless of course we cobble together a half-baked research team and waste a year of our lives in a vain attempt to try and prove that five years of it wasn’t wasted in the first place, which means that we’ve now wasted six and still come up with seven/sixteenths of a slice of salami, which is pretty much where we started when be began in grade seven.

Blokes who don’t wear boaters and blazers and button up their old school ties every quarter know better of course than to waste their time following a crooked course, so they just shout ‘Hey Arch! Give these two-bob tub thumper’s an ounce of starch!’, and although the great man may, will and does usually ignore them because the footy’s on or the first at Jerilderie’s about to jump – and because the bloody pleaders never pay – sometimes like all of us the loud mouthed Butterfly botherer’s just get plain lucky and find the manic mad ADHD sufferer at a loose end, broke after a bad day on the punt, and bored sh*tless waiting for the child protege he spawned to collect her annual semi-trailer worth of awards and accolades.

Out of boredom the child abuse boy victim with the IQ of Einstein that’s been interfered with by evil idol worshiping ingrates says f*ck it, hits the accelerator and heads into full blown investigative mode for a couple of hours.

And that, as they say in the classics. is all she wrote, and you can stick your 12 months worth of retards wanker’s research in your rear end and light the fuse, because it’s about to be absolutely and utterly exploded/

Archie a narcissistic arsehole?

Yep. That’s what the Doctor says. And who’s going to argue with a bloke wielding a stethoscope and a warrant to lock you away for life? Not me Geoffrey Luck-ee or Mr Ton-eee QC!

This is what Luck and Morris say following 12 months of exhaustive research.

This is what Archie Butterfly the Insane says.

Bullshit. Absolute f*cking bullshit.

How doth thy Butterfly dispute this?

Stand aside Willy Shakespeare and let Archie count the ways.

Here we go.

Buckle in punters, ba da ba da BOOM!

The ‘part-time housemaster’ in question was a man named Harry John Wippell, who graduated from Churchie in the Senior Class of 1954.

Wippell was the typical suppressed sexual deviant sycophant in his senior year, and like so many lolly licking liars before, during and after his time was extremely active in the religious life of the school.

All the better to please you with little lover of Jesus.

The c*nt was a member of the Chapel Choir, a perve and church server (altar joy boy), bible reader and bum boy pleader, perjurer and verger  (lay minister and/or church warden) and a criminally distended member of the school Chapel Council.

Henry Victor ‘John’ Roberts, the son of the Headmaster Harry Roberts,  was also a member of the Chapel Council, and young Harry’s involved in each of the same religious nut job activities cloaking nefarious juvenile perversions as Wippell was.

I’ve had long chats to blokes who knew them both, and the testimony I’ve taken and assessed satisfies me that pair were, and remained throughout their lifetimes, close friends, although nothing suggests to me that Dirty Harry’s boy was a sicko like his cassock wearing mate Wippell was.

Young Roberts junior was just weird. That’s why he ended up at mad St Mary’s church in exile. the kingdom of the Catholic clown Peter Kennedy who claims to be a priest and a Christian but doesn’t believe in Christ’s resurrection or the Bible. It’s a bit like loving footy but refusing to score tries isn’t it? Work it out if you will cos I can’t.

Another bloke who was a member of the Chapel Council and remained a close friend of Wippell’s was definitely as suss as a  sermon on the River Styx ferry. He was a boy named Bruce Maughan, who much later in his life when the chief cocks at the Cathedral needed to give him a bit of cover became reverently revered as Canon Bruce Maughan.

Prior to his ascension to the ranks of the protected Anglican arsenal – or maybe he was from the beginning – Maughan was for four decades simply a school teacherat The Southport School (TSS), another kiddy fiddlers farm fronted, owned and operated by the Anglican Church.

Maugham worked at TSS between 1959 and 1988, but in between managed to drive up the Pacific Motorway every couple of days to rub his cloistered parts against the rears of the big-wheel rum-pa-pum-pum of the legal fraternity in BrisVegas, and was throughout his lifetime particularly close friends with the Judge that some unkind souls such as the lewd cartoonist Larry Pickering labels ‘Doggy’.

I refer of course to Justice John Dowsett, a close friend and associate of the Queensland Governor Paul De Jersey, the Bravehearts patron that Pickering equally as unkindlyhas tagged as ‘Daphnis’, for reasons unknown or at least unfathomable ever since Kevin Lynch’s neighbor and best mate Assistant Commissioner of Police Greg Early cleaned out his this boss Terry Lewis’s sealed safe at Police HQ.

A wise man who has been banging on for ever about the demonstrably evident nexus between organised pedophilia and the Queensland University Regiment Association would of course lean over and whisper in your ear that it’s no coincidence that Bruce Maugham was the pastor for the tin soldier officer’s boys outfit for decades.

But where have all the wise men gone?

Maugham’s employer The Southport School was of course the infamous alma mater of the ill-fated State of Origin star center Peter ‘Jacko’ Jackson, the joker whose jovial exterior fooled the Maroon faithful into believing he was a bloke’s sort of bloke, when really he was just a kid crying out it pain and desperately groping for in hope that someone might hear his screams and ease his pain.

We didn’t though – we all f*cked up – back the none of us, even victims like me, really knew what to look for because we were drowning too deep in the depths of out own pain and thought it was just us, and so were blind to the reality that it was just silence that was making us think we were alone. And so another innocent victim of child sexual abuse died at the end of a needle and arsehole’s who did it to him stood over his grave ad preached.

No more man. No more, no more, no more. You ain’t dying in vain Jacko, no f*cking way.

Harry Wippel’s mate Bruce Maughan was a Housemaster for 22 of his years at The Southport School – don’t forget Jacko was boarder, and his abuser ‘Ossie’ (my arse) McNamara was a house master too – , and Maughan was actively involved in the Queensland Debating Society (QDS) for at least 16 of those years.

During the same period serial pedophile Kevin Lynch was also actively involved in the Debating Society as a coach, adjudicator and  executive member of the QDS committee, and at the same time another leading member of the QDS was a man named Garth Kolter, a convicted pedophile who had recently been released from the tomato can after serving 13 years in prison for attempted murder under his birth name of Desmond Sanderson.

Kolter/Sanderson’s past was particularly well known to the folk that ran the Qld Debating Union, for he had become enmeshed with the organisation by way of his active involvement with the prison debating program, an initiative of a front outfit for pedophiles named the Prisoner’s Aid Society (PAS that had been set up for the express purpose by procuring little boy victims by crims and sickos given the green light for go corrupt Police Commissioner Terrence Murray Lewis and his mates in The Joke, who figured quite correctly that if you had the top end of town pedos by the balls you could control the courts, the bureaucracy, the government, the whole damned box and dice.

And for decades they did, and some say their anonymous inheritors still do.

One of the principals of the Prisoners Aid Society was a man named Paul John Breslin, a never-do-well with inherited wealth and Walter Mitty type-fantasies who was a friend and close associate both of Police Constable David Warren ‘Davey’ Moore and of ABC broadcaster William John ‘Bill’ Hurrey.

Breslin was also the pair’s perverted partner in crime, and he, Moore and Hurrey were later convicted and jailed for the heinous sexual offences they perpetrated against young boys, although if  my own experience is any indicator then I reckon at the most what they may have nodded their heads to was about 1/1000th of what they actually did.

Meanwhile, while the high profile pair were committing crimes all over town Garth Kolter was being allowed unfettered and unsupervised access to teenage students in his role as coach of the QDU State representative team. The QDU brass – Lynch, Maugham, State MP Colin Lamont (real name Bird), Gilbert Case (soon to be St Pauls School headmaster and the employer of pedophiles Lynch and Gregory Robert Knight), Matt Foley (later State Attorney-General) and others either turned a blind eye or simply acquiesced to the pervert having his play.

The enablers in charge of the QDU even went so far as to name the State’s Senior Debating trophy in Sanderson’s honor, although of course under his post-prison name of Garth Kolter. It was only stripped from the trophy years later when former Senator Bill O’Chee – spurred on by the suicide of my abuser Gregory Stephen Masters after I published details of the crimes he (Masters) committed against me as a 13 and 14 year old student at St Paul’s School – revealed the truth about Kolter’s past and expressed his concerns that Masters offending may have been linked to abuse by, or a common enjoyment of committing abuses with, the convicted kiddy-fiddler Kolter.

The adult in the Churchie Chapel Choir photograph is a teacher named Peter Krebs. In 1960 he became the foundation Headmaster of St Paul’s School after being hand-selected for the position by then Anglican Archbishop Reginald Halse, pictured below with Harry Roberts at a Churchie school swimming carnival held at the Valley Pool.

A number of journalists have recently independently obtained statements from former students of Churchie and Slade College (Warwick) – another Anglican Church owned and operated boys school, now a satellite campus of Churchie – in the 1950’s alleging that Archbishop Halse was a serial pedophile who conducted ‘masturbation lessons’ with young male students when he conducted school arranged and facilitated one-on-one meetings with young lads in the privacy of the chapels of the respective schools..

The unrelated, but indisputably absolutely corroborated, accounts from the former students – all now wealthy men in their late 70’s and 80’s and with no reason to lie – reveal that these intimate auto-erotic stimulation tutorials conducted by Archbishop Halse were arranged by he headmasters of the schools, and that boys who attempted to protest against their unwanted lessons were silenced by by threats, sanctions, violence, or a combination of any of three meted out by those in charge of the institutions.

The Headmaster of Slade College at the time of the alleged mass scale child sex abuses perpetrated by Archbishop Halse was a man named Keith Dan. In what may seem an oddity to unbelievers Mr Dan later vacated his chair as Headmaster at Slade and was transferred to Brisbane by the school’s proprietors to became the Head of the Mathematics Department at Churchie.

Funny that.

We understand that in or around the year 2003 the Anglican Archdiocese of Brisbane was alerted to the alleged abuses committed by Archbishop Reginald Halse in 1950’s and 1960’s. A statement we have been provided by one of the victims confirms that detailed information about Halse’s highly improper behavior was forwarded to the Board of Inquiry commissioned by the church to investigate allegations of cover-ups of sexual abuse by then Governor-General Peter Hollingworth during his time as Anglican Archbishop and Primate.

The allegations that were made about Halse’s widespread abuses – and the involvement of Harry Roberts and  Keith Dan in facilitating and/or concealing the abuses – have never investigated by the church.

Reginald Halse remains a revered figure within the Anglican community.

Back to Harry John Wippell.

The 1979 edition of the Churchie school magazine The Viking (volume 13, number 5)- reveals that in that same year Harry John Wippell – confirmed bachelor, chemist, businessman, and sole proprietor of the Everton Hills pharmacy on Brisbane’s north side – held the position of joint Vice-President of the Churchie Old Boy’s Association (OBA).

The patron of the Old Boys Association at the time was Mr William ‘Bill’ Hayward, then the Headmaster of Churchie, a role he had assumed in 1974 and would hold until 1986.

In April of that year – 1979 – a man named John William Burgess plead guilty in the Penrith District Court in NSW to two charges of carnal knowledge that he had committed when he raped a 13 year old student in his care named Dianne Tillett. At the time of the commission of the offences Burgess was teaching as a school named Masada College in Sydney’s west, and had been deregistered following his conviction.

Later that year Hayward would employ Burgess as a teacher at Churchie, and the admitted child rapist would work at the school from 1980-1985, after which time he became the foundation Headmaster of Ormiston College in Brisbane’s south-east.

Within a few years of the school’s establishment parents at the school became aware of Burgess’ conviction for child sex offences and he was quietly stood aside.

His replacement as acting Principal was none other than former Brisbane Grammar School Headmaster Max Howell, the man who had employed Kevin Lynch in 1973, and was last year found by the Child Abuse Royal Commission to have knowingly concealed the serial pedophiles crimes from at least 1980 when an eminent doctor had informed Howell of the school counselors improper behavior toward his son.

Lynch abused many hundred of boys between 1980 and his death in 1997. At least 20 of these young men took their own lived in the aftermath of their abuse.

Oh what tangled webs sick people weave.

This is a terrible story. Tragic is not the word. Too many lives have been lost for it to be a mere tragedy. It is an apocalypse of gargantuan proportions.

The death count as a result of abused committed in Anglican church run institutions is equal to that suffered in World War 1.

Do you hear me?

The rate of premature death among child sexual abuse victims in Anglican Church run institutions in Queensland is the same as the casualty rate in the War to End All Wars.

Look at the statistics,

Numbers don’t lie.

So if you think for a moment I am being harsh when I viciously attack those that I hold responsible for these atrocities think again.

They are war criminals. Look at the body count and tell me that I am wrong.

The Vice Patron of the Churchie Old Boy’s Association in 1979 when pedophile Harry Wippel was Vice President was Henry Emmanuel Roberts.

Harry Roberts.

The man in whose honour  Geoffrey Luck and Tony Morris QC wish to strike a brass bust.

The man they vehemently assert had no role whatsoever in, or any degree of culpability for,  the continued presence at and involvement in the affairs of the Church of England Grammar School.

A man well known to be a danger to the welfare and safety of the school’s students, as acknowledged by Luck and Morris themselves.

A man who they claim had been marched from the school’s grounds by their heroic headmaster Harry Roberts, and was never to return, until some feckless and reckless later school Headmaster or Headmaster ignoirantly let him back through the gates

A named Harry John Wippell.

The records of the Old Boys Association for the years 1979 and 1980 – presumably the same records that by their own reckoning were so thoroughly scoured by Luck, Morris and their band of merry men – show that Roberts and Wippell were both recorded as present at a number of meetings of the Old Boy’s Association that were held during  this two year period..

Pictorial evidence in our possession clearly demonstrated that Roberts and Wippell were both together in attendance at functions held during this this time.

How does Geoffrey Luck, a vastly experienced journalist who has made repeated vehement and unqualified assertions that Wippell was banished from Churchie by his Hector of half a decade hence Harry Roberts –  assertions published at his own volition as fact in the national press and on a the respected Quadrant Online journal – reconcile his claims with clear evidence now presented displaying that they are not true.

Is it possible that decency and journalistic ethical responsibility may prevail and that Luck might withdraw his erroneous claims and apologise for misleading the readers of The Australian and Quadrant?

Is the foundation of the teachings of their Hector Harry Roberts  sufficiently strong that it might persuade Luck and Morris QC to act with honour and admit that their claims of evidence based research disproving the allegations against Morris were untrue?

Can moral decency overwhelm ego and afford the pair the requisite degree of insight to admit that they have sinned?

Or their professed faith in the resurrection give them them the strength to say ‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned?’

My sincere Christian wish is that these two men may be able to step outside of themselves and into the shoes of the victims and their families who have cried so many tears, and whose pain swill never end as long as men like them continue to carry the poison tipped spear of the sinners who stabbed their self-pleasuring lances through they and their sons hearts/.

Deep down I know that I may as well wish for Santa to sail in through my southern window with a bottle of single malt scotch at sunset.

But Christ didn’t die so that I could continue to sin.

I forgive you fellas.

Can you forgive yourselves?

That is the true question.

l

What sort of crazy f*cked up school for high society scions in the 21st Century has its own Freemason’s Lodge?

What misogynist faux-Nordic neanderthal outfit issues invitations expressing that Ladies and Guests are welcome to their cavemen’s cult gatherings?

What cabal of kiddy-fiddling cover-up club carousel-riders fill their ranks of all hail well met here’s a funny handshake fellows with perverted pharmacists and primary school child groping creeps?

What the hell is the wig-wearing pox-marked Governor of Queensland and poncing Patron of child-protection charity Bravehearts doing playing dress ups with these pretend-Christian pedophiles anyway?

Oh joy!

My youngest daughter can swim in a pure pool unstained by those with dirty coloured skin.

I can swim with her.

But where will her sister swim?

And what about her Mum?

Which kid shall she share the cool of the pool with?

Why is it that she’s forced to choose?

And how come black sheep are always painted bad?

Why is that Rolling Stones can’t gather green moss but still paint bad things black?

What if the driven snow isn’t pure?

Or if Cain’s stain was actually coloured white?

Random, meaningless questions perhaps, or maybe not.

Doesn’t really matter I guess.

In the end we all just fade to grey.

Say it ain’t so, Joe please, say it ain’t so
That’s not what I wanna hear Joe
Ain’t I got a right to know
Say it ain’t so, Joe please, say it ain’t so
I’m sure they telling us lies Joe,
Please tell us it ain’t so

Murray Head

The Queensland Council for Civil Liberties has a long and proud history as a voice against oppressive public laws, over-extension of the long hand of the state, and the excesses of the thin blue line.

Publicly the organisation posits itself as the defender of the rights of the little man and woman, which is ironic given that it has long been controlled and run by lawyers who spend their daily lives grinding out their fortunes in the big end of town, far divorced from the hamlets of Geebung and beyond, the suburbs of BrisVegas that are the daily domains and centers of the universe of we the common people, whose ‘ignorance’ Orwell famously, and perhaps presciently. described as our salvation, prophylactic against the instructed swinishness of our political and intellectual ‘masters’.

Perhaps I am being harsh by highlighting the great gulf between the unelected benevolent libertarians who so prominently proclaim and publicise their efforts to ensure the ordinary woman and man’s individual liberty and freedoms and the subjects of their unsought charitable endeavours.

Maybe I’m a mere cynic, so worn down by the grind of the mundane suburban existence that I daily eke out 11 stations from the urbane epicentre of Vegas life that I have lost the ability to show gratitude to my betters for their benevolence in helping me to live free from oppression wrought by the local MP that I democratically elect and his or her cadre of black-suited, jack-booted thugs.

I know, I know, I should know better.

Forgive me President of the Civil Liberties Council for I have sinned. But hey fellas – no I’m not being sexist luv, they are all mainly fellas – ya gotta cut me slack.

See, I heard Kevvy saying yesterday down in the Zillman Waterholes bar at the Bunger that back in the day you buggers wanted the government to dip into consolidated revenue and give $3 million of our hard earned dough to that old civil liberty crusher Joh Bjelke Petersen to pay the legal fees he incurred in the perjury case that the shyster should have gone to jail for, and would have too if his crooked mates hadn’t hooked the jury.

That was a bit off I reckoned, particularly when Kev went on to say that the Trog – Terry O’Gorman – the big wheel in QUICKLE – the Qld Council for Civil Liberties – went public venturing the opinion that Joh shouldn’t have to face a retrial on the charges he schemed his way out of because the poor bugger was too bloody old. For f*ck’s sake Trog he lived another 20 years! Almost as long as bloody Jesus’s whole damn lifespan!

Then I heard Kevvy say that Trog also wanted us to stump for the red-hotter than Fine Cotton Judge Angelo Vasta’s legal costs for the Parliamentary Commission of Inquiry ring in that had him sacked but saved from his fair whack of justice in the scandal that those in the know still today call the ‘When Fitzy Met Harry After the QC Pie F*cked Up’ affair.

Fair dinkum you Civil Libertarians, you’d have to be dead set pulling the mug punters chains wouldn’t you? You wanted to spend nearly $5 million of our dough on a pair of millionaire scammers who were shiftier than Sidchrome spanners in the supposed named of liberty, when the pair had respectively been responsible for giving cops the green light to bash Geebung kids protesting against apartheid, and directed a jury to bang a bloke up for murdering a little kid when he was about as guilty as Mother Teresa was of running a whorehouse.

Puh-lease!

I have to tell ya hearing these true crime tales that Kevvy was telling gave me the absolute shits, to the point that it turned me off my pink lemonade and caused me to jump on the 2.15 courtesy bus and turn tail back home to the Polo Club, which gave the missus a hell of a fright and must have given the nude water reader one too, or at least that’s who she said the streaker jumping the back fence and bolting down Buhot Street in the direction of the Gern’s butchery was anyway, and Bead Twirlers don’t bullsh*t, or at least of course not unless they’re the Pope or the Cardinal and have been given the nod by God to do whatever they bloody please.

At that stage I wasn’t worried about underdack-less Urban Utilities underlings anyway; I was more interested in consulting the good Dr Google and checking out whether Kevvy’s mail about the corrupt couple and the Civil Liberties Council was legit. Of course it was – Kevvy’s always spot on the money – and thus bitten by the what the bloody hell bug I kept pushing keys on the wireless typewriter so I could find out a bit more about this previously seemingly kosher but now suddenly quite suss outfit QUICKLE.

I’m afraid to admit that in my haste to work out what the hell was going on I forgot to set the search parameters to ‘Straya sportsfans, so the first thing the good Doc Google delivered was a piece from a pommy website.

It damn near made me fall of my bloody home bar stool I’d borrowed a few years back from the Bunger. This is it.

The PIE is the Pedophile Information Network, the global pre-internet kiddy-fiddler’s collective. They were known as a fact to have had members in Australia.

Osborne?

Wilson?

UQ?

Jesus H. Christ! The Poms had to be talking about Clarrie Osborne and Dr Paul bloody Wilson!

Two know perverts, one in jail and one in hell, both as a consequence of their disgustingly deviant pedophile defilement of innocent youth.

WTF?

I asked Dr Google more. This is what he answered.

Bloody hell Doctor, tell me more.

I typed in ‘Civil Liberties Age of Consent’.

This came up.

Huh?

Then I remembered that Dr Paul Wilson had been involved in the Council for Civil Liberties, as had Matt Foley, the former Attorney General who delivered a public eulogy at pedophile Kevin Lynch’s funeral.

And that Paul Breslin, the kiddy-fiddler who was arrested and jailed alongside pedophile police officer Dave Moore and ABC announcer Bill Hurrey in the mid 1980’s was involved with the Prisoners Aid Society, which had links to the Qld Council for Civil Liberties.

Surely all this has to be mere coincidence.

The Australian arm of the Pedophile Information Network couldn’t have infiltrated the civil liberties movement in Queensland in the 1970’s and 80’s could they? Right under the noses of the lawyers that ran outfit?

No way.

But I guess they said that in England too.

Looks like we may have a wee bit of research to do.

Editors Note: The author and publishers make no claim that any person featuring in this article other than Dave Moore, Bill Hurrey, Paul Breslin, John Stamford, Kevin Lynch, Charles Oxley, Clarence (Howard) Osborne or Dr Paul Wilson is a pedophile or is or has been at any time knowingly involved with, supported or facilitated the sexual abuse of children. Quite to the contrary, we say without equivocation that they have not. It is however in our view a matter of public interest to examine whether pedophiles such as the persons named above or others may have secretly infiltrated honorable organisations performing public services such as the QCCL for their own nefarious purposes.

There’s a significant social benefit to be gained by a child rapist unburdening his guilt to a bloke in a dress who’s never had a shag is there Terence? He’s attempting to get help by doing so is he son?

Did you ever consider that the sick f*ck might just have been boasting mate?

The average Australian would surmise that there are far more significant social benefits to be derived by having an adult who’s just confessed to perpetrating of child sex crimes taken off the streets by being charged and jailed than benefits that may or may not come about if the pedophile decides or does not decide to seek help to deal with their perversions.

And let’s me totally honest here Terence, the confessor can’t organise help for the middle aged male who’s just confessed to raping a twelve year old boy unless the rapist on the other side of the curtain specifically asks the cleric to can they, for if the priest did it of his own volition that would be a breach of the sanctity of the now semen stained confessional too wouldn’t it?

And puh-lease Mr O’Gorman, don’t insult our intelligence with your deliberately misleading claims that child abuse is going to end because the tests applied by the church today are light years from what they were in the 70’s when the serial confessor and sexual beast McArdle was in the seminary in the early 70’s.

There’s a whole debate to be had about how the Australian church vets the credentials of priests it imports en-masse from from Africa, Asia and India because no Australian wants to blacken their name by signing up to a kiddy-fiddler’s club of at least a century’s standing and the Seminaries are all being sold off. I for one doubt they check them at all, because these men have already been ordained in their home countries.

But let’s avoid giving abuse denying so-called Civil Libertarians like O’Gorman an opportunity to throw bullsh*t racist allegations at a writer who’s got a brown wife and kids, and just keep it simple by asking:

What about the brother’s bro?

This dumb punk from Geebung don’t see the sexual abuse claim numbers going down as time passes my man. In fact unless this nigga’s eyeglasses have turned into mirrors overnight they appear quite clearly to be going UP!. Who’s messing with who’s truth here homeboy?

Let’s stop being polite and just cut straight to the core of the issue Mr Tricky O’Gorman. There’s nothing civil about c*nts who abuse children. They can unburden their grimy guilt-ridden souls as many times as they feel the need- or get off on boasting about their sick pleasures, whichever the case may be – but the fact is that that sick, sad excuses for Christians can recite all the Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s and prayers of atonement in the world, but when they’ve finished playing the pious repentant sinner and the bullsh*t stops they’re still just f*cking pedophiles aren’t they?

If my profanity offends you mate I really don’t give a flying f*ck, because I can absolutely guarantee you that your absurd argument that beasts who admit to child rape in dark room should be allowed to get away with their crimes just because they’re Catholics rather than Amish or Anglican or Animist or whatever upsets me a whole lot more than a few cuss words could ever make you wince, don’t you worry about.

Where’s the liberty in a child being sexually violated? Rape’s fundamentally and inherently an act of violence,: what’s civil about it? C’mon Terry tell me., please. Explain to us all why keeping confessions to violent crimes against kids is more important than the rights and liberties of the violated minor, and then go on to expand further on the subject and present a rational argument about how and why your supposed civil libertarian reasoning applies only to Catholics.

You can’t can you?

That’s because you’re simply a half-baked hypocrite. You might well be highly skilled at raising technical legal defenses to help deviants avoid being served the dishes they so deeply deserve, but when it comes to balancing the rights of the child against the interests of the Irish/Roman church whose venal values run so deeply through your veins you have the objectivity of an atom bomb and the ethics of Enola Gay.

And that you elect to abuse the office you hold in the purportedly progressive volunteer organisation you’ve for so long ruled over like the vicar of a small country town congregation and use it as a platform to protect pedophiles, on the sole basis that they’ve confessed to a Catholic priest and not a cop, is simply a sin.

You’re a disgrace O’Gorman, an absolute disgrace, a man who’s prepared to bend and stretch and snap in half if you have to all that you so piously proclaim to hold dear. Liberty, civility, the law, even the values taught by Christ – you’ll f*ck them all if it suits your own agenda and you’ll do it without a blink.

But we both already know that don’t we counsel?

Just as sane folk know that solipsists who solemnly believe that the interpretation of Christ’s messages that have been so distorted over the centuries by Caesars, crusaders, cruel cassock-wearing despots, and dickheads who imagine they’re descendants of David is actually the truth, the light and the way, and that sin’s just a distraction that can be cleansed in an instant by a quick visit to a crank in a confessional box.

Well brother it ain’t that simple. Let’s render unto Caesar’s what is Caesar’s and call you to earthly account.

You and the closed shop of lawyers, labor hacks and half-baked fame junkie wannabe beauty queens that comprise the Queensland Council of Civil Liberties that serves as your front outfit claim that the organisation was founded for the purpose of ‘protecting and promoting the human rights and freedoms of Queensland citizens’.

Well let’s take a quick critical examination of that shall we, for the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – adopted by the UN 69 years ago with Australia as a signatory -lays out exactly what the fundamental rights of Queensland Citizens are and aren’t..

Article 3 decrees that everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person. Not being sexually violated against your will is obviously fundamental fundamental to your liberty and security. Only a moron would disagree with this self-evident truth.

Article 5 declares that no one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment. Holler out as loud as you can anyone who believes that rape and child abuse is kind, human and uplifting?

Is that silence I hear in the house? It’s deafening.

Sure I’ll concede that Article 18 allows everyone he right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; and the freedom to manifest their religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

But I’ll see your cards and raise you triple with Article 29 because it mandates that in the exercise of a person’s rights and freedoms they are subject to such limitations as are determined by law for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society.

And goes on to say that none of the rights and freedoms laid down elsewhere in the declaration may be exercised contrary to these purposes and principles. Then Article 30 wraps it all up with a neatly tied ribbon by concluding that no State, group or person has any right to engage in any activity or to perform any act aimed at the destruction of any of the rights and freedoms of man just described.

In other words, the act of f*cking kids is a gross violation of their human rights; the person or people who’ve f*cked them are human rights abusers; and anyone who tries to justify or conceal these c*nts crimes under any pretext whatsoever is simply an uncivil barbarian, an enemy of liberty, a frightful foe of freedom and a hater of human rights.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

I’ll throw my two cents in and say its London to a Brick that they’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing as well, and either a liar or a dangerously ignorant buffoon to boot.

I’m talking about you Terence.

Pedophiles can’t be cured by Catholic Priests you clown.

Their River Styx deep deviance can’t be cleansed by confession.

They can’t be cured by Catholic counselors either, or non-Catholic counselors, or social workers or psychologists or psychiatrists or any type of doctor in the world.

Drugs don’t work, chemical castration’s can’t curb their inner psychological imbalance, exorcism’s an extraordinary waste of time and faith healing’s a fake.

They’re devils dressed in suits and ties and singing psalms Terrence.  Body and blood of Christ quaffing liars, Lucifer’s on earth lit large.

Nothing can save them, not even death, and they don’t care a dime, because they’re just here for a good time and when its over they know they’ll be going back to the place from where they came and there’s no other place they’d ever rather be, other than between a little boy or girls legs feeding the ever-hungry lust that fills their black hearts as they suck the life from the little child’s soul.

The old black and white Geebung Magpies colors run deep in a Bunger boy’s blood; so does the notion that there’s black and there’s white and we all swim like salmon in between

I recently recounted to Archie a brief version of the premiership-winning Geebung Primary School Grade 7 Australian Rules Team’s season, as coached under Bamford, J, the greatest school teacher that ever lived.

(eds note: and the sexiest)

I’ll be quick in reminding you now.

Old Bamford made us play dead against our two main rivals, the toffs over at Aspley and Aspley East. (Interestingly, those 2 teams contained the kids of 2 of the doctors who drove every day over to the Geebung Clinic to treat us – Balthes, Blair-West and Claxton – though I can’t remember which 2).

Bamford let those Aspley buggers thrash us through all the fixtures of the season. He’d do things like put OUR MATE A DISABLED KID at Centre-Half-Forward, (you know why that’s cool but quirky), or not play some better players.

Everyone thought Bamford was a lunatic (eds note: he was, but then so is the rock star writing this), even the parents all got quite upset, but come the finals he let us play our real hand and then we absolutely steamrolled everybody.

Fucking hell it was good fun. I’ll never forget it. It nearly killed me having to delay gratification like that for a whole season, but then to eventually be able to let the Geebung pig out and run riot on the kids from the flasher part of 4034 – priceless!!!

The pow-wow before the game

I love how seriously we took it.  Even if it really didn’t matter – at that moment, it mattered – the adults didn’t treat us as morons and invested us with a bit of responsibility. Personally, I loved that.

And it was all for one and one for all – look at little OTHER KID WITH DISABILITY there, soaking it all up, lucky to be alive, and would probably would not survive a tackle, but he got a run, and we all looked out for him. How good is that? ….. and watch out for how happy he is in the winning photo.

Macca and I were co-captains and broke the crepe paper in unison. He looks like a steeled and supremely-ready fighting unit. I look like a clumsy freshly-born foal, supremely unready foranything whatsoever – a bellwether for my adult life.

KC and Wardy, the grade seven spunks, watch on. The guy in blue-collar is a very cool dude who is my fave man in the world.

​Leaving the field victorious over Aspley-East

Until this GF these toffs from across the tracks had been undefeated. But old Bamford had been foxing, as they were soon to discover.

Just look at the faces on these kids – over the moon…..except me…possibly because I seem to have no pants on, but more likely because I was a worrier, and was just relieved to get the job done.

A ​joyous win for ​the Bungers!

This is where I’m happy to ​look back with rose-coloured specs on our time at that school.​ I’ve banged on a bit about this to Archie already. In some quarters at our primary school, and down the road at WZAFC, I got taught very fucking hard and very fucking fast that it’s everyone’s job to look out for everyone else – a lesson I definitely did not get taught at my high school, nor by my university. ​You guys may not have had the same experience but I can guarantee you this was mine.

You know that ​top hollow ​bit of your chest, ​right next to the shoulder joint​, j​ust under the ​collar-bone​ , above the top rib​? As a kid, ​I got a few pointed adult index fingers poked in that chesty area with a some force – it was the “learning” area. Maybe it’s not the best delivery method, but I got the message when this was applied.

Bamford (a champion teacher) was one who did this. He took me aside more than once, poked me in that “learning area”, and told me in no uncertain terms that it’s my job to make sure everyone is looking out for the likes of THE 2 DISABLED KIDS. Fleming (another champion teacher) also laid this on me.

That was the message that went out to more than just me, and I have to say, I ate it up. It still sits irrevocably encoded in my now-addled middle-aged brainbox (eds note: I told him those pills with the smiley faces on them wouldn’t be good for him in the long run. The wanker never would listen. It’s why he hit the cricket ball through the Principal’s window when we were in Grade 6. Or why I told the Principal it was him anyway).

The flow chart in my grey matter has a massive over-riding arrow that keeps pointing back to it.

OLD FRIEND, I know next to nothing about you as an adult but I’ve learnt a bit about Archie lately through his writings. Obviously, he’s a knob (eds note: the author of this piece has always been a c*nt, and jealous of my success with the sheilas) but I feel enormous pride welling up in my “learning area” when I see his ferocious sense of social justice.

Archie boy, I tip my lid to you – I don’t know where you got it from – me, I learnt my lessons in 4034 (eds note: he f*cked off to the inner city to become a rock star long before I had to move out of the Geebung Polo Club so that I could claim two doles)

As already referenced above, I actually appreciated being invested with such responsibility as a tacker – the adults were taking me seriously – I was given an environment early on where I could practice this and fail, and learn how to do it better. That’s pretty cool…innit? ​…..and look at THE 2 KIDS WITH DISABILITIES ​in this photo – they could not be ​bloody ​prouder  of what they have achieved and been part of​.

(eds note: while I agree with the spandex pant wearing clown’s analysis, I must point out that boys from Geebung who didn’t piss off to Pommy Land so they could play at Wembley don’t say ‘innit’)

​In footy terms, they couldn’t get a kick out of a damaged power cable if they were holding it with 2 wet hands, ​but they were totally and utterly part of it. I’m getting all teary just looking at it.

This photo ​above, ​represents my Geebung.

C’mon you two. This is fucking cool isn’t it?

Total and utter mongs …look at the state of all of us. A bunch of dickheads (eds note: speak for yourself you bare torsoed drummer boy) who put their brains and muscles together as one – OLD MATE do you remember this???

In this photo, I also give you KC again, Swan Lake, and Sutho. Babes one and all. And ​then in the front ​there’s Bozo, the cracker of a kid from grade 6 whose dad was a War Vet with PTSD, here he was helping us make merry – great kid​​.

​Finally, the Mr. Holland-designed Geebung logo​, for what it’s worth.

Archie – this should be normal. Life should be like this.

They saddle you up, take you to town, better look out when he comes to town ….

Wanna get rich this weekend?

Then back Acatour to win the Sunshine Coast Guineas on Saturday afternoon.

Race 8, Number 1.

Its an absolute moral. A pea, a bird, a sure thing, a lay down misere.

Just like the concert tours by the formulaic yet furiously entertaining rockers that it’s named after, Acatour is a sure fire winner and a guaranteed money spinner.

The only thing that can beat it is bad luck.

There won’t be any, so get Thunderstruck.

You’ve been told.

See you on the beach in Rio.

I’ll be the bloke in the Geebung Rocks t-shirt with a naked Jennifer Lopez sun baking by my side.

The bead twirler will be the sheila with all the diamonds holding a knife in her hand.

The mug punters who refused to cop the tip will be the ones still running around in the rain at the failed Eagle Farm track and trying not to drown when they fall into the divots.

As they say in the classics, and as I often say to Jenny Lo – GET ON!

Jenny always replies ‘Yes Papi’. So should you.

A quick quiz before I go.

Q: Who was it that said being a Grandpa made you feel old?

A: The bloke who didn’t back Acatour.

Take the tip

Gettin’ robbed, Gettin’ stoned
Gettin’ beat up, Broken boned
Gettin’ had, Gettin’ took
I tell you folks, It’s harder than it looks
It’s a long way to the top …… if you’re trainers are Rudd and Rolf

Manny Pacquiao’s trainer Freddie Roach (above) and a bloke who you can bet your house he wished didn’t looks like him (below)

And Jeff Horne’s trainer Glenn Rushton (above), and  back in the day when he was banging on the drum for Acca Dacca (below)

Although I haven’t met him personally I’m told by a reputable source (my Dad, who used to be Lord Mayor Graham Quirke’ s driver and has known his cousin the Hornet for years, since way back before he was a boxer) that Jeff Horn is a lovely bloke, and from what I’ve seen of the bloke there’s no reason not to believe him. Horn’s been a fine ambassador for both Brisvegas and for boxing, and the fighter’s conduct during his career has brought great credit to himself, his city and his sport.

Horn’s what they call in the boxing world a stand up guy, one of that rare breed of upright and honest men who you find from time to time swimming in straight lines through pools full of bloodthirsty barracudas and man-eating sharks. The sort of fella that history tells us is always the first picked by the piranha for the first course of their sumptuous Sunday feast, the easy catch the fiendish fish call entree.

Amid all the hoopla and hype of a prize fight promotion, sitting in a comfortable seat at Suncorp Stadium with your senses dulled by the warmth of the soft Vegas sun, it’s easy to forget but this ain’t a gentle Sunday arvo outing to the opera or to watch Eddie Sheeran warble.

We’re on our way to the Colosseum to watch a blood sport. Sixty thousand people crowded around a small 6m x 6m square of canvas staring in rapture at two men inside fighting a metaphorical – and sometimes, far more often than palatable, actual – battle to the death.

Manners count for nothing inside the square. Nice guys always run last.

Horne’s decency is a knock in a knock em down war, but it’s not the ultimate reason that he faces his inevitable downfall.

That reason’s class, and it’s written in the numbers.

Boxing is like horse racing no matter how impressive your win in an Ipswich maiden might be,  is the Melbourne Cup might still as well be a race run in Mars hypure mathematics, the numbers never lie. It’s the statistics that always tell the true tale of the tape. William Stubbs once famously told us that

the roots of the present lie deep in the past, and nothing in the past is dead to the man who would learn how the present comes to be what it is

And ain’t that the truth?

It’s a truth the reporters in our mainstream press appear to have overlooked, although truth be known they are simply in the main ignorant sloths who wouldn’t know the difference between an uppercut and the IBF, or an overhand right and the WBO. You really can’t blame them for not knowing something that they don’t, unless of course you still hold to that old belief that journalism is about uncovering facts, and then like me you might go digging and take a look at the roots.

Let’s talk class.

All but one of the fighters Pacquiao has faced up against in has past 5 fights have been world title belt holders. Between them they have collectively held more than 20 different world championships at given times, and the five including the bloke who had yet to win a title had fought an aggregate of 95 world championship bouts.

The sum total of world titles held at any time by Jeff Horn’s past five opponents is zero. Nil, zip, nada, none.

The bloke who knocked Horne down two fights ago before the Hornet climbed off the canvas and put him away, a German named Rico Mueller who is ranked 87th in the world in the welterweight ranks, fought a bloke with an 80% losing rate – 96 fights for 77 losses – in his next outing in the ring. Just four fights before taking on the Hornet our boy Horne’s last opponent Ali Funeka had been knocked out by a tomato can with who had lost or drawn 10 of his 19 career fights.

Two fights ago Manny Pacquiao took on a boxer of high repute named Timothy ‘the Desert Storm’ Bradley, a former soldier who has held five world titles throughout his career. Prior to his encounter with the Desert Storm the Pac-Man had gone the full twelve rounds with Floyd Mayweather, the 11 time world title holder quite rightly regarded as the greatest fighter of his generation, and immediately afterward he faced up to and beat Jessie Vargas, a three title holder who’s only previous loss was to none other than the Desert Storm.

Is a picture starting to form?

Let’s dig down a sub-strata and look at the numbers the self-interested promoters and the poorly informed press aren’t telling you.

Horne’s last 5 opponents in the ring had a collective record of 142 fights for 18 defeats, meaning that the blokes he had beaten had between them lost 1 in 8 of their career fights, none of them in the top grade.

Conversely the past 5 punchers that Pacquiao took on had a combined record of 162 bouts with only two losses, each of them fought in the highest echelon of the sport in title fights or qualifiers, a stat of less than 1 loss per 80 bouts, all of them against each other in the inner circle of the elite ranks of the sport.

Dig even further down and the picture becomes even more plain.

Let’s have a look at the Pac-Man and the Horner’s previous five opponents and examine the combined records of the previous five opponents that they had fought, and once more you need to view the number through the lens that Horne’s opponents had never fought for a title fight whereas Pacquiao’s all had.

Remember, we are looking at the combined records of the pugs that each of today’s title bout’s contenders last 5 opponents had faced up against. This is how it reads

Horne: 452 – 215

Pacquiao: 671 – 55

And the story it tells is that you’ve all been conned by a posse of promoters out to make a fast buck and then triple it, and a compliant press who haven’t got a clue.

Jeff Horne’s been fighting tomato cans, and getting knocked down or drawn into deep trouble by a couple of them.

Manny Pacquiao’s been fighting champions and, with the exception of the best pound for pound fighter walking the earth, been putting them away.

The reality of today’s fight is that it’s an Ipswich maiden winner facing up against Phar Lap in the Melbourne Cup.  Short of incredible bad luck or horrific injury the Pac-Man can’t possibly lose and Horne simply can’t win, and don’t you worry about that.

So set aside your anticipation punters and simple enjoy your lazy day out in the sun as entertainment, and let’s all just hope that our boy doesn’t get hurt.

The truth might hurt Hornet fans.

But Manny Pacquiao hurts more.

In August 1998 a man named Russell Grenning featured prominently in the report of an inquiry commissioned by Queensland’s then corruption watchdog the Criminal Justice Commission (CJC).

The CJC commissioned inquiry, later to become commonly known as the Kimmins Inquiry, was an investigation into allegations a journalist named Michael Ware – later to become a world renowned war correspondent – had made about  misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia, or pedopnilia as Justice Kimmins from time to time was wont to call it.

In a case of life imitating art, or perhaps being careful what you wish for ‘cos you just might get it, the inquiry itself was the classic example of misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia/pnilia, or perhaps more correctly misconduct in the investigation of misconduct in the investigation of paedophilia/pnilia.

Either way though it was a crock, and ended up being second only on the red hot scale of rigged inquiries and inquisitions to the National Hotel Inquiry conducted by ‘Sir’ Harold Talbot Gibbs in the early to mid 1960’s.

Just in case you’ve forgotten or didn’t know, that was the inquiry that concluded with the man who was later to become Chief Justice of the High Court finding no evidence of any police corruption whatsoever in Queensland, a finding that was unceremoniously demolished two decades later by Tony Fitzgerald who found that corruption was in fact rampant at the time, although for reasons of his own Fitzy exonerated Gibbs from any blame for being dead, dumb and blind throughout the hearings.

One of Fitzgerald’s then close mates wasn’t so kind to Gibbs however. This is what Anthony Hunter Morris QC – aka Tony Morris, Tony Tony Tone or the QC Pie – had to say on the topic of top-level judicial incompetence (or worse):

The Gibbs Inquiry was focussed on prostitution which was allegedly occurring, with police protection, at the National Hotel in Brisbane. The Inquiry was an abject failure. At the time, Sir Harry Gibbs was unkindly referred to as the only man in Queensland who could not find a tart at the National Hotel.

Gough Whitlam – who has his own reasons for not being a great fan of the late Justice Gibbs – has observed that an extraordinary phenomenon occurred in Queensland in a little over twenty years. The results of the Gibbs Inquiry suggested that police corruption was entirely absent from this State; yet, in just twenty years, the situation had deteriorated to the point that the Fitzgerald Inquiry was able to identify police corruption throughout the State, from the highest ranks of the Police Force down. In another speech, Whitlam was less subtle, saying: “… police corruption continued to have immunity as a result of the incompetence of Sir Harry Gibbs”.

For once in his life surprisingly Morris was actually spot on, but I guess I once backed the winner of a Melbourne Cup too – Saintly it was, 1996, only two decades ago which isn’t a bad effort – so we all get it right occasionally.

All of us except Kimmins that is. He was a mile of beam, and in my view very deliberately so, and exonerated every single person except the journalist Michael Ware, who he tied to a stake, doused in DDT and set alight with a flame thrower. Kimmins wasn’t content just to shoot the messenger, he bloody napalmed him.

One of the many – nay, every – areas that he was wrong in were the allegations about a senior public servant named Russell Grenning, who police had detected receiving child porn material from known distributors of the devil’s fancy in Victoria, but had decided not to prosecute due to ‘political reasons’, they being predominantly that Grenning was a mate of the Premier and the Police Minister, and they in turn were mates with the Police Commissioner, and all of the bastards were as crooked as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo’s sticks and protectors of pedophiles to boot.

This is what Kimmins made of Grenning’s guilt or otherwise about being a player in a child porn ring, and if after reading it you become absolutely bewildered by the abundant contradictions in the Judge’s reasoning then rest assured you’re not alone, and remember that Kimmins almost ran Gibbs’ National Hotel Inquiry to a dead heat in the Red Hot and Crooked Cup.

That was 1998.

Fast forward seven years and now it’s 2005 and somehow Russell Grenning – a pervert who anyone with half a brain reading the Kimmins report can work out was as guilty as sin of receiving kiddy porn sent to him in the post by his pedo ring mates – has somehow become the Principal Adviser Corporate Relations for the Queensland Law Society.

Before you start asking yourself the obvious question – WTF?! – let me remind you that Paul ‘Daphnis’ De Jersey was the Chief Justice of Queensland at the time. Let me also touch my nose, wink, point you to a 2006 polemic Grenning wrote about Daphnis for the Law Society Journal (above) and say judge, judge, twink, twink, and then say no more.

The year before his paean to Paul was published Grenning had written an equally unbalanced devotion to a newly appointed Judge of the Queensland District and Children’s Court named Ian Dearden, who in the decades prior to his appointment to the bench has been a high-profile leader of the Queensland Council for Civil Liberties.

Quite oddly though, Grenning’s hagiographical ode to Dearden was accompanied by this decidedly queer cartoon illustration.

Remember the questions we raised about that particular organisation last week? Mmmm. Nudge, nudge, wink …….

Later in 2006 Judge Ian Dearden shot to presumably unwanted prominence when t Courier-Mail revealed on its front page that Dearden had sentenced a 29 year-old school teacher who had filmed himself raping a 14-year-old student that he had assiduously groomed and abused to a suspended jail sentence, despite uncontested evidence having been presented to the court showing that the rapist had threatened serious harm to his child victim if she dared to give evidence against him about his heinous crimes.

Now here’s where it get’s weird Bluebeard, for within hours of  the story appearing on the front page of Queensland’s daily fish and chips wrapper the Law Society took the unprecedented step of issuing a press release about the matter.

The release was allegedly a statement made by the President of the Law Society – an insignificant Cairns based lawyer named Joe Pinder, who coincidentally the very next year found himself appointed to the Magistrate’s bench – but it had Grenning’s fingerprints all over it and he didn’t try to hide the fact, nominating himself rather than President Pinder as the point of contact for all media inquiries.

Now why was the Queensland Law Society going taking up a bat with the media over a Judge’s decision, and why did they do it so quickly, before even a quick executive teleconference could be arranged to work out the official QLS position on the matter?

It’s a good question isn’t it, a really good one, but given my repeated brushes with the oppressive national uniform Defamation Laws slavishly adopted by the State of Queensland I simply ask the questions these days rather than answer them, so you’ll have to work that one out for yourself.

The love didn’t last though.

A couple of years later the child porn allegations that has been swirling around Grenning for the better part of 3 decades resurfaced, and this the evidence wasn’t old envelopes but instead his hard drive, and you’d have to guess that those in charge of the law whose arses he had so lavishly licked must have had an inside tip for just before multiple charges were laid against their hitherto golden haired boy the QLS suddenly found him surplus to their requirements, and made Grenning redundant.

Pockets full of severance pay the confidante of judges and chief justices jumped over to a job as chief promoter for a Liberal Senator named Sue Boyce, but it didn’t last long because the charges were laid, he got sacked (they pretended he resigned) and within a year he was in the District Court pleading guilty to a single count of possessing child exploitation material.

How the f*ck Grenning was allowed to nod his head to just one minor count when in fact he was admitting to possessing 4297 images and 99 actual movies of children – BABIES! – between the ages of birth and six being sadistically raped and tortured is both anyone’s guess, and one of Queensland’s greatest unexposed scandals.

This was depraved, vile, demonic child porn of the most wicked kind.

Little boys ranging in age from babies to six-year-old’s being f*cked, sucked, whipped and tortured. Tiny wee kids being used as sexual playthings by grown men, and treated like allied POW’s in the Japanese Death Camps in World War Two.

I’ve just become a grandfather.

My daughter’s son is the same age as some of the boys in Greening’s movies who are being anally raped by men with 10 inch dicks.

This is what my grandson looks like.

One charge?

This f*cker Grenning had just short of 100 full-length movies showing kids like mine being subjected to the most horrific form of rape and torture imaginable. How can he only have faced one charge? It’s an absolute disgrace, a crime against decency and without any doubt an absolute perversion of the law.

Want to know an even bigger disgrace?

A High Court Judge gave this evil sub-human Grenning a character reference.

I kid you not.

It was Michael Kirby. The famous Civil Libertarian. Judge Ian Dearden’s comrade and friend. The highest judicial officer in the land.

High Court Justice Michael Kirby swore that the man who got his kicks out of pulling himself while watching little kids like my grandson get raped was ‘of otherwise good character’.

Otherwise?

What f*cking otherwise?

Grenning was and is a monster. He’s responsible for little kids suffering the horrors of the holocaust wrought upon them by the hounds from hell. Grenning is a hound from hell, and so is every single one of his supporters are than his Mum and Dad.

Michael Kirby is a hound from hell. A civil libertarian my arse.  How did Kirby even know Grenning anyway? No-one asked that question did they? They might not want to hear the answer I guess.

Russell Grenning was sentenced to 12 months in prison. The last 9 months of the sentence was suspended. He only had to serve 3 months in jail.

The little boys in his videos were sentenced to life in hell, their cards marked ‘never be released’.

The Queensland Law Society failed to issue a media release.

And the wolves still walk around wearing the sheep’s clothes and feasting on lambs.

On Monday night we gave you the exclusive trans-Tasman tip that the hapless New Zealand Labour leader Andrew ‘Chicken’ Little was going to be forced to walk the plank the next morning and that Jacinda Arden was going to replace him, and as per usual we were right.

We also predicted that Labor would gain a sudden bounce in the polls as a consequence and after being all but dead, buried and cremated would find themselves suddenly back in the pre-election game big time and with an unimaginable a week ago fair dinkum chance of seizing government, and we were right about that too.

Landing the trifecta by pronouncing Arden the best looking Labour leader in white Kiwi history was as sure a bet as backing the All Blacks to beat the Wallabies in a Bledisloe Cup game played at Eden Park, so we won’t boast too much about that one – did I mention that we told you so? – and scoring the first four by labeling the hot new leftists leader a modern-day iteration of Helen Clark wasn’t too hard either.

The bead twirler and the tin lids with Aunty Helen five minutes after I’d sly-elbowed a sheila to get the ball and kick the winning goal in the Labor Party sports day soccer cup final. I’m somewhere in the background distance bolting from the fist-waving feminists

After all, I came through in the same new candidate cohort as all this mob in 2008  – didn’t even have to renounce my Aussie citizenship either – before my PTSD got the better of me and I pulled the pin on the promise of a future parliamentary career. But I know all the players, and understand the lay of the Kiwi political land.

So flushed with our own soothsaying success we’ll go out on a limb now and shoot for five in a row.

Here’s the prediction: within a week young Jacinda’s deputy, the former high school headmaster Kelvin Davis, will be wearing a red flower on his lapel, just like Aunty Helen’s 2IC Michael Cullen used to do.

What price will you give me?

Watch this space.

Well ain’t that just downright weird?

In this morning’s online edition of The Australian there’s a feature story about Peter Hollingworth’s mishandling – less polite people like me say disgraceful cover-up – of abuse claims made against a self-confessed pedophile priest named John Elliott, a Churchie chap of course.

The same story appears in today’s print edition of the paper, but mysteriously the author of the yarn has changed, and now it’s Doubting Thomas’s arch-rival Amanda Gearing, the freelance journalist who went head to head against the Walkley Award winner in a no-holds barred stoush over the Grantham Floods.

Given that history the likelihood of the pair or penster pundits working together is about 50 fathoms less than zero. And plagiarism and/or misappropriation of someone else’s story is a mortal sin in the journalistic game.

So what the hell’s going on here?

Rampaging Rupert – please explain.

Like most people I got carried away with the sensational revelations at the Trade Union Royal Commission this afternoon and started believing that for once David Hanna was telling the truth when he said that Michael Ravbar ordered the wholesale destruction of documents to conceal them from the prying eyes of the Trade Union Royal Commission.

But then I started looking at the documents, and began to reflect.

Michael Ravbar has been accused of organising all manner of right of entry breached and different forms of industrial actions. But they are an occupational hazard for construction union officials, and just part of the game. If you can’t get on to a building site then you can’t organise workers, and then the bosses win – for they keep wages and safety compliance costs down – and the workers lose.

And then it’s champagne all round at the top end of town, and serious injury and cake for the peasants; and that’s exactly the reason that the bosses make it so difficult for unions to get on sites and why the political parties that they handsomely donate to institute witch hunts like Salem and cosy up to lying scumbag corrupt union officials like Kathy Jackson and David Arthur Hanna, because it suits their cause.

The most wanted man in the whole of Salem during the current Royal Commission is Ravbar. He thumbed his nose at the Sultan by being chaired into the Brisbane hearings last year by a cheering throng of members, and has withstood the multitudinous assaults on him by the Salem Assassins over the past 15 months, always emerging unscathed.

There is a reason for that. It is because he is upright, honest, and straight; as straight as a die. He may be pedantic; he may be a control freak; he may be unapproachable and rub people up the wrong way; he may have done a whole bunch of people over – including my friend, mentor and working class hero Gary Flack – but the one thing that people always say about Ravbar, including people like my mate Flacky, is that he is 100% union, and that he is honest.

Unimpeachably honest.

David Arthur Hanna, the former BLF Secretary thrown together with Ravbar in an amalgamated union by virtue of internal politics and economic realities, is not straight. Quite to the contrary. Hanna is a venal, greedy, dishonest, deeply corrupt man who has accepted gifts in kind of more than $150 000 in the building of his gaudy garish mansion high on a hill in Cornubia, an edifice to his avarice, and a monument to the darkness of his soul.

Hanna has admitted that he accepted largesse from the employers against whom his members expect him to lead their struggle. He has blatantly and brazenly lied to the Royal Commission, changing his story whenever he sees fit – or more correctly, wherever he sees benefit – and has openly admitted that he has perjured himself before the Sultan, Dyson Heydon.

His own union has found him guilty of gross corruption in his dealings through the private company and slush fund masquerading as a benevolent institution – the BLF Charity Foundation Pty Ltd – and by his own admission he has falsified documents with the premeditated intent to deceive senior officials of his union, in order to advance his personal position within the union.

And this list of crimes is merely skirting the fringes of Hanna’s criminality. I will say without any equivocation whatsoever – and challenge the Hanna to take legal action if he believes that I am wrong – that he has taken bribes from employers in order to provide them contractual benefits; that he has omitted fraud against the Australian Taxation Office; that he has misused his position as a board director of various outfits – including the Government-owned Stadiums Qld – for personal gain; that he has improperly and immorally appropriated for personal gain materials donated to the rebuild of a Slacks Creek, Logan home in which 11 people died; and that this man has sold his soul to the devil, if in fact Satan did not own iot from the beginning.

This is the man whose multitude of sins have seemingly been forgiven by the masters of Salem.

The man who has been granted an extraordinarily soft passage through the past 3 days of hearings, despite his admitted litany of lies, perjuries and deceptions executed whilst under sworn oath.

The man who without any doubt whatsoever has recorded a meeting with a senior official of the union whose proud principles he has so terribly betrayed.

The man who has as surely as night follows day provided this recording to the long-proclaimed class enemies of the union he has spent the majority of his working life exploiting, whilst pretending to serve.

The man who has for the past 3 days been acting out a charade – with the explicit connivance of the Royal Commission team – intended to conceal the fact that he is an informer against his own; a dog who has rolled over and betrayed those who once were his friends, in a desperate attempt to save his own soul.

A man ignorant of history who – despite sending his children to high-priced Christian private school named after the site of Jesus execution – is seemingly oblivious to the biblical story of the events leading to the crucifixion, and unaware of the fate that befell Judas Iscariot, the man who sold his friend’s life for 30 pieces of silver.

It is a missed lesson he is going to spend many years contemplating, as he peers out through his cell window at a little tent of blue, that prisoners call the sky.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Submissions of Counsel Assisting the Royal Commission into Trade Union Governance and (presumed) Corruption in relation to the so-called ‘Document Destruction’ by the QLD Construction and General Division Branch of the CFMEU are, to put it bluntly, the greatest load of sh*t any lawyer from any Royal Commission has ever put pen to paper.

They are errant nonsense, and don’t have a snowflake’s chance of hell of surviving even a committal hearing, let alone securing a conviction, not even against the biggest crook in the Qld union movement, Dave the Dog Hanna.

There are many blatant flaws in the submission, which I reckon say more about the author/s than they do about the people referred for prosecution, and I will tell you more about them in due course. But for now let me explain the very simple reason that any prosecution based on these submissions must fail.

It comes down to 2 words:

PERIOD and EVIDENCE.

Period

The whole crux of the recommendations to prosecute Michael Ravbar and David Hanna is that they destroyed documents that they knew, believed or reasonably suspected to have been required by the Royal Commission.

For this to be true, the documents destroyed must have fallen within the period prescribed in the Notice to Produce Documents issued by the Royal Commission and served on the CFMEU at their National Headquarters in Melbourne on the afternoon on 1 April 2014, a few hours before their destruction.

The prescribed period is from 1 January 2007.

So that part’s simple.

To have committed an offence under any of the multitude of Acts that the Senior Counsel submits apply, even before you get to the intricate legal argument about whether Ravbar and/or Dave the Dog had knowledge, or should have had knowledge, that each individual document destroyed – what were they again? – was or may have been required for production to the Royal Commission, the first bar to be met is that either or both must have knowingly destroyed documents dating from 1 January 2007 onward.

Evidence

Now here’s the Royal Commission’s problem.

Evidence.

There is none.

Not a skerrick.

No witness – not a single person – has said that any document dating from 1 January 2007 that was not also kept in electronic form, or could be reproduced in electronic form, was destroyed on 1 April 2014, or for that matter at any time thereafter.

To be convicted of a crime a jury – or, if the defendant elects, a single judge – must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that the person accused  of committing the crime alleged did in fact do so.

But there is simply no way on earth that, in the absence of any evidence affirming the fact (and indeed a mountain of testimony rebutting it) a jury could or would find that Ravbar and/or the Dog destroyed documents dating from or after 1 January 2007.

It’s simply impossible.

There are a hundred other problems with the Counsel’s submission, but you need look no further than this one. The essential test required to launch a prosecution cannot and will not ever be met. The whole debacle is doomed to fail before it begins.

It’s all over Grover. Trees have been murdered unnecessarily, coal is being burnt for no good reason, millions of dollars of our tax money has been spent without cause, and here I am wasting valuable minutes of my short life telling you why, and you wasting precious minutes of yours listening to me.

I’m not going to waste a minute more.

Just make sure that you recycle. Use the submission to clean the glass, or to make paper mache masks, or simply to wipe your ass if that’s what tickles your fancy.

Just don’t take the submission seriously.

Because if you do you’ll tag yourself as just as big a joke as the people who wrote it.

I think I was wrong – there weren’t 2 horse floats – just one. It simply made another trip sometime in the days after Good Job Bob drove it through the night from Bowen Hills to the Cornubia Mansion on the Hill on 1 April 2014.

Eric cannot remember the exact date in April that he and Humphrey B. Bear made the journey together to the Mansion with the trailer attached to the towbar of their vehicle. He does know that it was a warm day, and the trailer was filled with documents and waiting for them when they arrived at the CFMEU office to collect it about mid-morning, after receiving a phone call from the Dog instructing them to do so post haste.

He says that when they arrived at the Mansion they loaded the boxes into the shed, which already contained a large number of boxes, presumably those delivered by Good Job a night or two before.

As they were loading the boxes a few broke open, and he noticed the BLF emblem on aged looking letters and documents.

Smacka doesn’t like hearing this evidence, not at all. She should by rights be doing cartwheels but for the reasons that I have explained throughout the course of the day she is instead glum, and seemingly both angry and upset, all at once.

The defeated looking Smacka asks Eric about other visits he may have made to the Mansion, and he described travelling there to collect the union caravan that was used by organisers when they travelled to remote areas to organise workers who lived in camps in which CFMEU officials were not permitted to stay.

Hanna has given sworn evidence that it was in fact Ravbar’s van that was stored on his property. That the Dog lied is no surprise to anyone – he was doing so since he took the stand, and for years before; probably for most of his life – but how on earth did he imagine that he’s get away with this one?

The Maestro is going to monster him during cross-examination tomorrow, absolutely tear him apart. And he will immensely enjoy doing so too, for the Maestro is a man of principle, and the truth is important to him, and its discovery and upholding his life’s work.

The Dog would be well advised to pack his toothbrush in the morning, for it is 6/5 against that he will be enjoying the NRL finals this weekend on his big screen in the lounge that someone else built at his mansion that someone else built too.

Smacka can no longer bear the agony of witnessing the straw house that she has ill-advisedly built being burnt to the ground. It has taken the entire day, but finally now, with sun drawing down on Salem’s town square, she finally realises that she had been wrong, and that Hanna has taken her for a humiliating ride. Her re-examination lof him tomorrow will be worth the price of admission alone.

The Maestro takes a quick but devastating turn, twisting the knife into Hanna one last time for the day. At his prompting Eric tells us that all the training coordinators report directly to Hanna, a bully who rules with an iron fist.

If you recall the Dog’s evidence, no union officials were present during the removal of the documents that he falsely claimed was ordered by Ravbar. The only people there were the office staff, whose day had been interrupted by the arrival of their new colleagues bearing all their wares, and were working late to finalise the biannual accounts; a couple of pre-teenaged kids whose parents were working late, and had given them some old paper to shred to keep them amused; and the men who reported directly to the Dog, and feared he would make their lives a misery if they challenged any part of his rule.

He is going to jail is Mr David Arthur Hanna. He has lied to a Royal Commissioner, and wilfully and with a degree of pre-meditation deceived his much-admired and respected lieutenants. That they brought it upon themselves is of no consequence; Hanna must pay.

And pay he will, a terrible but much-deserved price. By his deceit he has lost his friends, his job, his income, his reputation, and any hope of a future career. Soon he will lose his home, his family, and his liberty; and will spend the years when he should be watching his children blossom into adulthood instead peering up through bars at a little tent of blue, that for his sins he has learnt is called the sky.

All this, just so he could ride on a big expensive motorbike, and live in a candy coloured mansion high up on a hill. He will have years behind bars to ponder the question – “was it all worth it?”

Hanna should have listened to the lesson that his motorbike was trying to teach him when it hurled him to the ground. But Hanna never listened to anyone, and that his why his future as far as the eye can see consists of porridge for breakfast and showers with men who will stare at his ass and worse; for while they may dream of women like Ooh La La, OMG and Lacey, any port must do in a storm, or in the protective unit of a penitentiary.

And the lesson that the motorbike was trying so heard to teach him?

Crime doesn’t pay.

Solidarity Forever Dave. Some people know that it is union that makes us strong. Comrade.