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In the week or so since I deposed Sir James Rundle of Reclaim Australia from his  Racing Queensland before his arse had the chance to get warm a number of resentful rogues have been running around HM Elizabeth’s Land claiming that to all who’ll listen that old Archie has a set against the city of fallen angels, coordinates 23°22.5′S 150°30.7′E on the map. and otherwise known as Rock Angeles.

I want to set the record straight sportsfans, right here, right now.

Rock Angeles may be a hot dry hell hole.

It may have been the stomping ground of the depraved mass murderer Lenny the Loon.

It may have crocodiles in its river, and blue-green algae in its dams.

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It may have had a local MP and Labor MP who was a sicko bible-bashing pedophile.

It may have young girls who piss off with older blokes and live in cupboards for years.

It may have had a Mayor who scratched his balls and picked his nose and rooted every young bird that he could get his claws on, and threaten to punch every bast*ard in sight if they said a word about it.

One of those young birds he was rooting may have shot him in the chest on a shared late night drive after he told her he was about to drop her like a hot stone.

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The rest of the country may have been happy to leave the joys and pleasures of Rock Angeles to the Emperors of the Land of the Rising Sun during World War 2. After all, blue-green sushi would have been kind of groovy, and no doubt a best seller back in the motherland home town of Gamagori.

And hey, what did the buggers expect? Loyalty or something?

I mean, they did try to break away from the rest of Queensland and go it alone back at the turn of the 20th century. If the Rock Angelians almost had to reap what they sowed, well as good farmers they should know that’s how sods get turned.

All this and more may have happened in Rock Angeles.

But the joint ain’t really all that bad, just as hot tamale sauce poured onto a bleeding gum ain’t that bad, once you get used to it.

After all sportsfans, my little nipper the sprog was born in the town, in the fine Mater Hospital where the secessionists used to gather, an hour before my hot tip at the trots left the mobile barrier.

It is the town where I snuck down to theBrunswick Hotel to whack the rent on the tip and watch it run around the track race 40 minutes after the Doc had given the wife and child the all clear. And thus the town that has caused be grief for each of the 16 years since, although I’m buggered if I know why, because the Bead Twirler and the Sprog were in the good hands of the fine nurses, and needed their rest.

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The Brunswick pub – scene of many a catastrophic day on the punt

My older daughter, the tattooed teen, did go to the Rock Angeles Community Kindergarten, and I was the treasurer of the joint, and not a cent went missing. And the Twirler did run the local Working Women’s Service, and put in 20 hours a week at the Community Legal Centre for good measure.

And I did regularly pull the local council staff off the job and sit em down on the grass when the municipal bosses refused to cough up a fair whack by way of a pay increase.

Why, I was even at Callaghan Park to watch Rogan Josh win the 99 Cup, and saw Brew blitz em in the 2000 Cup too, and now all matters are fully and finally settled with my employer of the time I’m not afraid to admit it either. Let’s be honest sportsfans, you’d be as un-Australian as Tub-Thumping Tom if you didn’t sneak away from work and head off to the track on Cup day wouldn’t you?

For crying out loud, I was even in the front row to witness the great turn of the century Labor Day bout, and was cheering like a maniac when Schwarto landed a beauty on old Dalby, the local Federal MP’s hubby Craig Brown, although of course when fellas came asking questions later I was struck with a strange case of temporary amnesia – must have been the blue algae in the water – and couldn’t remember a bloody thing.

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A bird from Rock Angeles looks in one of the mirror’s they kindly provide at the town’s zoo

Nah punters, Rock Angeles may well be the Capital of the arse end of the earth, but that’s a simple and well known fact not a Butterfly judgement. But I’ve got nuthin’ against the joint, and no axe to grind against the Beef Capital Bull’s balls.

I just don’t like spending my time in cities where the sheilas are ugly, and the quality of the bloke’s scones is of such quality that it makes ’em look like the Mona Lisa.

Life’s just too short to waste in such towns, even if it does have Monkeys in the zoo and a few more roaming the streets.

I’m sorry boofheads and brides from the beef city of blue-green algae and angels – I’m just a Bunger boy from Brisvegas, and you what?

There’s just no place that I’d rather be.