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Frederick William – ‘Freddie’ – Whitehouse was born of a well-to-do family of upwardly mobile sycophants from the sh*thole of Ipswich, later the birthplace and childhood stomping ground of Kevin ‘Cumquat’ Walters, the poor excuse for a footy coach who is about to gift Loz ‘the Schnozz’ Daley the King’s State of Origin crown.
Young Freddie’s grandad was once a simple baker, a maker of meat pies, but he put his mind to making money and quickly worked out then when you live in the arse-end of nowhere the most efficient way of doing it is to kiss the butts of those with the bucks.
And so Mr F Whitehouse Snr did, initially establishing a fine dining parlor at which he could entertain the big wigs who came to rape the flood-prone town and steal its valuable coal in between storms, and later branching out and playing the gourmet ponce to a posse of precious posers with deep purses and royalist leanings.
Old man Whitehouse’s big gig was laying on a feed for a thousand posh d*ckheads who wished for reasons unknown to celebrate a visit by Princes George and Albert, a couple of toffs taking the 19th century version of what we now know as Schoolies week by travelling the oceans on an early version of The World so that toadies in the colonies could cursty and kiss their royal rings.
Of course not one of the naff noshers came from Geebung, because we on this side of Downfall Creek were staunch republicans and thus wouldn’t attend such a w*nkfest except to knock off the piss, and there were too many coppers and judges and all-round laggers of the like to try that type of lark, so on the night our old ancestors went round to the rich ‘Long Reign the Kingers!’ and emptied out their mansions instead.
Happy days they were for weeks afterwards, until the cash from the fenced loot at Penfolds Jeweller’s got knocked off on good things at odds on running around at Eagle Farm, and the flash gear bought with the stolen loot went into the local pawnbroker’s pocket, but hey you can’t complain about salad days when you know a lettuce wilts in a week can you?
And anyway young George turned out to be a clown who allowed his Ruskie Romanov cousins to be knocked off by the Commies, and his son ended up a Nazi loving, Yankee home-wrecking retard who was the 1930’s equivalent of Pope Benedict, so the Bunger boys proved a bit smarter than the tosser ‘God Save the King’ toasters after all, which simply goes to prove that the more things change the more they stay the same.
Anyway, after the right royal pain in the arse visit Freddie’s old man took over the joint and promptly plonked on a champion chomp for the Governor and his aide-de-camp, which is kind of funny because the ching-ching he earned from such endeavours afforded Father Freddie to send little Fred to Ipswich Grammar to be educated in the fine art of becoming an arse-de-camp.
It also allowed old Fred the funds to afford the legal fees and the bribes to get his by now weirdo son out of the shit when he himself tool a gap year trip on a boat, in this case to Tassie, where young Fredo promptly five-fingered a garbage bag full of grog from a merchant cutter whilst four-sails to the wind, and then pretended to be a gassed ex-Gallipoli vet to get the sympathy of the presiding Police Magistrate and avoid an unfortunate spell in the stone-lined cells.
Fortuitously for Freddie palms had been greased, and the police prosecutor ran dead and the complainant – who the day before had wanted Freddie hung, drawn and quartered – decided that a deuce or two in his pocket elicited all sorts of empathy, so he asked the beak for spare the young bloke the brush, a request with which the clearly kick-backed cape wearer was more than somewhat pleased to abide, and nobody thought to check the veracity of young Fred’s claim to have been a gassed up victim of the Huns, and thank goodness and a grand in used notes for that hey?
Anyway, Freddie came back to Queensland, failed to get sober and thus got kicked out of home, and was sent to the University of Queensland to learn about spiders and rocks and naturalism and all that sort of thing, and while he was there hooked up with another rich weirdo named James Mayne, an old bloke with more dough and devils drink than you could poke a stick at, and a devious desire to down the drink and poke the stick at a young fellow named Fred.
It was an absolute marriage made in heaven, and strange things happened thereafter, for if you believe the crooked record books Freddie gained his Bachelor’s degree in rocks in 1922 at the age of 22, copped a Masters degree 2 years later, and then somehow miraculously made the journey to Oxford University and back – 35 to 40 days each way, or about 3 months return – in 1925 with enough time left over to gain a PhD (usual course length 4 years) and still be at the office in time to be appointed the official Queensland Government Geologist, despite the fact that he hadn’t a single days work experience at anything other than blowing rich blokes, pilfering piss, and getting sh*t-faced, and that his degree was in crabs, pearls and prawns rather than subterranean strata.
Reality doesn’t matter when you’re rich and well-connected to a rooter though, and Freddie’s career took off from that moment on, so much so that when World War Two kicked off and conscription for all unmarried blokes between the ages of 35 and 45 kicked in, the bachelor’s butch benefactor secured him a sinecure at St Lucia army HQ and a captain’s commission to boot, just so that Fredo wouldn’t be too far away when his Mayne man decided he needed a nookie or a warm hug.
And then, in one of those sweet moments of serendipity like the single shot that started the war, Freddie met Clarrie, and the Queensland pedophile network became both consummated and complete.
Osborne – an anal type of pederast who weirdly preferred penises to bums – became Whitehouse’s very own aide-de-camp, dick-size detailer, and distributor of indecent material, and thus for the 35 years post-his discharge was free to pursue his perverted pleasures, absolutely untroubled by the threat of arrest, until in 1979 he pushed the pedo envelope just a little too far and, in the words of Brisbane’s pre-eminent crime historian and writer Matthew Condon, it All Fell Down.
And now, forty years later, through a broad collaboration of bright people who care, the true tale of devils, demons and deviates is finally about to be told.