With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you?

If I was just a mug punter blogger I’d probably be over the moon that Rupert’s Wranglers clutch my beef with both hands and serve it up well done without source.

Just as if I was a political neophyte I may well believe the rot that the Wranglers write about politicians like Assetstacia and Marvellous Mal Cum being amazingly clever, when I know for a fact that when it comes to politics Helen Clarke chews chumps like this up for an entree and then asks the waiter for a shot of Kev the Rat Rum to fill the time between courses eaten in a single gulp.

Or if I was the wide-eyed babe in the woods blogger the blaggers paint me to be as they lie, for reasons of their own, then I’d probably cos the crap that these clueless cubs pen about things such as the McCulkin murders and crime and police corruption, not knowing that 99% of the biro bearers who write such bullsh*t weren’t even born at the time that Barbara Mac drew her last earthly breath.

But I’m no mug blogger, and I’m no neophyte, and as much as I wish I was still a babe in the woods, unfortunately the passing of the decades since man first landed on the moon renders me ineligible for the tag.

Nup, I’m none of these bloody things.

I’m just old Archie – an experienced, cynical, politically savvy, freelance journalist who breaks big stories about stuff that the sly-handed sycophants with an ability-deficit-disorder simply don’t have the skills to find.


So when sad eyed ladies of the media lowlands like Sarah Elks see fit to steal my stuff, it’s understandable that I don’t get excited and say wow! someone had recognised that I can research and write, but instead become absolutely pissed off that some peroxided parasite has pilfered my prose, turn greener than David Bannister, and in my fury become more than a little somewhat belligerent and litigious.

Given that it’s well past beer o’clock on a Friday night I don’t wish to rouse my lawyer Harry from his ruminations on the quality of the Vodka at whatever club he may be slithering drunk from his stool in, for I know the man has form study to do in the morning and needs both a good night’s sleep and an hour or two to make up an excuse to his wife about his failure to meet his ‘I’ll be home at five-fifteen luv’ Friday arvo after work deadline.

So the lawsuits won’t start flying until next week, but mark my words I have had a f*cking absolute enough, and these HECS fee-funded Bachelor of Arts boasting bandits who steal my hard-earned stories say of reckoning is fast approaching, and soon their sins will be exposed as I sue the lazy light-handed literary thieves from Jericho to Geebung and back.


Goodness graciousness me sportsfans, how much latent larceny can a Koala or a Butterfly be expected to bear?

So Ms Sarah Elks, here’s a little question from Archie to you mate;

It’s about the lawsuit documents I’ll be serving on you ya f*cking ingrate.

Should I leave them by your glad-handed gate?

Or sad-eyed lady of the media lowlands, should I wait ?