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Once upon a time in BrisVegas there lived a middle-aged woman named Wendy.

Wendy was a Labor Party Member.

After years of hard work and loyal party service, in 1989 she had entered the House of Broken Dreams as the State member for the electorate of Mt Coot-tha, after polling nearly 55% of the primary vote in the wake of the Fitzgerald Inquiry inspired  and corruption and hubris driven destruction of the Joh-led National Party government.

A young Tub-Thumper named Tom was at the time the Secretary of one of the local Labor Party branches. Back in those heady days he wasn’t the right-winger that he is today, and he most decidedly wasn’t a member of Wendy Edmond’s Old Guard faction, which due to the hard work and organisational skills of an ETU union organiser and all round nice bloke named Jack Camp had secured the majority of preselection numbers among ALP members in the area.

Don’t let anyone tell you any different, in those halcyon days of fine hairstyles and music when the lip syncing Milli Vanilli were Top of the Pops our man Tommy the Tub-Thumper was a dead-set lefty, and I’m not just talking here about his batting stance.

Today, soaked in the ignorant blissful pool of  Opus Dei driven sectarian favor that he hopes will sometime soon propel him to his manifest destiny as an arse on a padded seat in the House of Broken Dreams, the Tub-Thumper doesn’t like to acknowledge the fact, but it was Labor’s Left that looked after him when in the mid 1990’s he was run out of town – for reasons soon to be revealed, be patient sportsfans – and fell comfortably into the arms of Central Queensland’s arch-left wing Labor acolyte rabble rouser Joan Brady, a long-time ALP stalwart and steward of the numbers in Rockhampton.


It is one of life’s strange little ironies that a few years after Thumper fell out with Joan Brady – Thumper falls out with everyone in the end, just ask Jim Soorley – for no reward whatsoever but that which awaits angels like her in heaven, the Bead-Twirler nursed an increasingly ill Joan Brady on her journey to Neverland and the ever after while shallow charlatans like Thumper moved onto the next path in their pernicious potted journey to purgatory, and his number never, ever showed on the desperately ill Joan’s phone.

All care and no responsibility is I believe the commonly used phrase to describe the single-mindedly selfish attitude displayed toward others that is the theme of slugs like the Tub-Thumper’s lives, and the saying is as true as the dictum that declares that history always repeats, for in recent years while the Bead Twirler has been helping the Godfather of our children care for the Thumper’s ailing mother, the beautiful old woman’s self-professed God-fearing narcissist of a son Thumper has week by week been sitting on his selfish slack arse in his home barely a kilometer away, watching his moral twin Karmichael Hunt run solo with the ball and let his teammates down, just as Thumper himself has left his own family team in the lurch.

Do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full

The anger that burns inside of me about this bible-bongo-bashing-bampot’s abandonment of his brethren drives me to break all the rules, and for the first time in my life breach the Bunger code. Well sort of, anyway, because when placed in a six-foot square perspex palace my memory sometimes becomes hazy, and we all know that prescription pills can do that to a man.

But before I pop my Prozac, have a cup of tea, a bex and lie down punters let me tell you a little tale about a singularly self-obsessed fella who, despite the passage of time and all evidence to the contrary, still believes that the craven Kingdom of Kev the Rat will one day be all his own.

The story goes a little something like this, or a lot like this maybe, depending on how closely you read it.

In the late 80’s and early to mid 90’s the young Thumper – who was not at that time the bible-bashing pious preacher of all things intolerant that he is today –  was a member of the Queensland Labor Party’s Socialist Left faction, and despite the obligatory cries of ‘Hail Comrade, all  well met!’ he was even then a hater, and didn’t like the Old Guard aligned Wendy one single little bit.

Being the self-centred me-me-me! type of tyke that the Thumper was and remains, in his heart he truly believed that it should have been him perched in the chair in the House of Broken Dreams marked Mt Coot-tha, rather than his one-time friend, the current member Mrs Edmond.

Judge Boulton had this pr*ck  pegged exactly right.


The Thumper, keen to one day secure a seat among the Broken Dreamers, was assiduously working the local ALP branches and becoming known, if not liked, and doing his best not to say the wrong thing, or not to the powerful plonkers who via a series of private trusts owned all the pubs anyway.

All was travelling smoothly, and the Thumper’s planets appeared to be aligning, until one day the government announced its intention to turn the terrace outside Thumper’s ancestral home into a major arterial thoroughfare, and the big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splaw-footed mud crab went ballistic.

David Banner had nothing on this bloke.

Suitably enraged, Thumper wrote a series of letters to the medical scientist turned local MP, each piece of correspondence becoming more and more bitter in its tone, and so increasingly vitriolic that finally Wendy had no option but to simply cease replying to her unhinged constituent and one-time branch comrade.

Ms Edmond’s cessation of dialogue with her former local branch supporter enraged our man Thumper even more, and set in train a series of events that would ultimately  result  in him becoming caught up in a maelstrom of madness, and see him charged with a series of offences including stalking, wilful damage, and using a telecommunication device to threaten his one time friend the Member for Mt Coot-tha.

The matters went to trial, but as you will see by watching the video at the top of this article the charges brought against the Thumper were thrown out at the committal stage.

He was, in his own eyes at least, an innocent man.

It wasn’t true.

Sometimes even the most unworthy of us get kissed by fairies.

Thumper got smooched by two.

The first was a copper keen for promotion, who had been leaned upon by his superiors – themselves leaned upon by their political masters – with the instruction to establish forthwith the identity of the arsehole who was making Wendy Edmond’s life a fear-ridden misery, and to deal with the ingrate immediately.

After all, this poor woman performing a public service was enduring the nightmare of bricks being thrown through the windows of her electoral office and her home; her car tyres were being cut to ribbons; and three times most evenings she was receiving calls from an unknown stranger who was mouthing all manner of foul obscenities and threats against her and her family.

It had to stop. No person, politician or not, should have to put up with that form  of harassment, and its increasing intensity was becoming a major concern.

And so, unbeknown to Tub-Thumping Tommy, a police taskforce was formed,and given secretive surveillance powers including the right to whack a two-way wire on MP  Wendy’s phone, which they promptly did.

A Geebung boy would have sussed the situation out immediately (and one did) and then left well enough alone, but Thumper was special, or so he thought anyway, and thus he ignored the well-meant warnings from fellas far smarter than he, for in his own mind there was no-one who knew a scintilla more than he did, and thus the advice that blokes like me gave him were simply wasted breaths.

I had been blissfully ignorant of the uncut picture until, at 3am one drunken morning after a near all-nighter at the Casino, I learnt the score after the sharp sound of broken glass woke me from my back-seat slumber in Thumper’s mates car. After being rudely awoked by the unfamiliar noise, and sharply exclaming ‘WHAT THE F*CK?, I was regaled with the whole horrible tale in detail, as the Catholic boarding master in the front seat boasted about how he’d dealt to the ‘b*tch’, and bragged about how he would deal to her a whole lot more too.

So when the car pulled over at a phone box, and Thumper gathered up all our change, stepped out of the front seat, and jumped into the glass-enclosed Telecom Tardis, a silent shiver ran up my spine and before I knew it through the glass I was hearing Thumper scream vile abuse down the payphone. At that moment  I immediately knew what had been going on, and who exactly the twisted bast*ard responsible for it was.

Now my knowledge is not first hand, for I was asleep at the time of the commission of the crimes, and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it, so don’t bother serving me a summons Sergeant, for I know nothing. NOTHING!

And I shall offer you no more.

The Geebung Code is complex, and while the Second Commandment relates to loose lips and sinking ships, the true commandment given unto me and you and Blue is Thou Shalt Never Treat a Sheila In The Manner You Would If You Were Unfortunate Enough To Be Born And Raised In Zillmere. Which means that fellas should show birds respect and keep their hands and their abusive words to themselves.

So hold the phone for a sec Samantha, because a few nights later an incident occurred that suddenly caused me to question whether what I had witnessed was simply a vision or a waking dream, because the foul-mouthed f*ckwit Tub-Thumper had become as full as a fowl again during a night flinging cash at a roulette wheel spinner, and in another drunken stupor had forgotten about phone boxes, and instead made his surreptitious cowardly call to the Minister from his own dog and bone, or more correctly from his mother’s, for the then compulsive gambler was bludging off the old girl at the time and stalking State MP sheila’s while she slumbered.

Unfortunately for the ignorant and soon to become indignant idiot the Percy Plods had by now placed a two-way trace on MP Edmond’s phone, and the minute the maniacal call came through the platoon of police seconded to the ‘get the stalker’ squad pounced, very nearly knocking down Thumper’s mum’s door in their desperation to collar the psychotic clown who had for months been harassing a member of Her Majesty’s manor in the House of Broken Dreams at her home, office and beyond.

Now if the guys in blue shirts and boots had been from Geebung they would have simply sat back reading Saturday’s form guide while they watched and waited, for every Bunger boy knows the story of how Miracle Mal went before the clock tower on Kingston Town in The Cup of 1982 cup and thus cost the King his crown.

A cop at the top of the rung who was born and bred in the Bung would have kept his hand off his dick, watched and waited for a week, then rocked on in to the Supreme Court with a truckload of taped cowardly calls to Wendy from Thumper that would have made it London to a Brick that the charges would stick.

But Geebung boys don’t become guards, and thus the thin blue line brigade – who knew nothing about keeping their powder dry and serving dishes cold – immediately stormed the house from which the traced call had been made, and without a moment’s thought about the possible error of their ways they put the collar on Thumper and hauled him off to the watch house, with him screaming blue bloody murder all the way.

Patience is a virtue that it seems only the downtrodden and dispossessed truly know.

Never mind though.

The coppers had their man, or at least that’s what they thought anyway.

Strangely enough, after Thumper’s arrest the bricks that were flying through Wendy Edmond’s windows, and the attacks upon her car, and the abusive phone calls suddenly disappeared, never to reappear.

It was like magic.

Amazing that.

Thumper was charged with a multitude of offences, and in line with his creed of lying, lying like f*ck and lying some more, vociferously denied and defended the accusations that if proven would have seen him sweeping floors for a living forever more, instead of today serving the Gods of Greed in the construction industry and running all over town calling Butterfly’s mad c*nts.

With the charges laid the Crown prosecutors, confident that they had their man bang to rights, swiftly sent off a recording of Thumper’s threatening calls to the MP to a so-called expert at the University of Queensland, secure in the the belief that the eardrum analyst would identify the dulcet tones screaming down over the phone as Thumper’s own, and feeling certain that he would be sent off for a long stretch sleeping on a concrete stretcher in the Big House Behind Bars.

However they didn’t count on Thumper being smooched by a fairy for a second time.

But by virtue of incompetence and sheer dumb luck he was tongue-pashed by the friendly fairy again, for the much vaunted voice analyst failed to pick Thumper’s drawl as the one on the phone recording, and without confirmation that Thumper was the drongo on the dog and bone making the threats to the MP, the prosecution case collapsed.

The coppers who by a calamitous error had jumped the gun and put all their eggs into one basket all of a sudden had nothing but egg on their faces, and given that there were no magnificently educated Bunger boys springing forth to grass up their mates it was all over red rover, and the charges were thrown out at the committal hearing.

The presiding Magistrate said the coppers should concentrate their efforts on finding the real culprit/s for the crime, but the boys and birds in blue didn’t bother, because they knew 100% who the pea-hearted perpetrator was, and I do too and don’t you worry about that.

Ever seen the Woody Allen film Zelig?

Then call me Leonard.

Or Tub-Thumping Tommy.

In fact call me anything you like except a liar or a loon or Thomas Anthony Cranitch, for if you do we’ll be dancing the Korbushka under the defamation suit moon.

And with the long as your arm list of affidavit deponents and locked in witnesses I have up my sleeve, anyone silly enough to wear the plaintiff’s hat will quickly find themselves like Hanrahan.


So go in peace to love and serve the Lord sinners, but just remember the words of Kylie and Christ as you careen down the aisles of bitter discontent.

I write these words out of love not hate.

Always remember – It’s never too late.

My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ Luke 15: 31