In the throes of my disgust at the never-ending thefts of my hard-found literary works, a couple of weeks ago I penned and on 5 April had the Sprog publish the article partially reproduced above.

It was a cry for recognition, a plaintive plea for penman and women to respect and recognise the source of their inspiration and their stories, and perhaps just say in print ‘Hey Archie, thanks’.

Some f*cking chance.

The best laid plans of Mice, Butterflies and Men hey? All it has done is to encourage the bast*rds to ramp up their copyright infringements, and knock each over in the race to rape the poor old child rape victim turned writer’s omnipotent prose.

You’d expect it from a polo player shirt-wearing PR wanker in waiting like the arrogant young halfwit The Hacker, and you would expect no better from a rank ranga amateur like Rose Brennan. And soon after you become used to being used and abused by Murdoch’s Maulers you stop becoming surprised even when so-called genius journos like Fozzie and Klu Klux raid your vault.

In a way would almost be even sort of flattering, if you were the type of tackhead whose ego is stroked by others purloining your precious words and pretending that they are their own.

Thankfully I’m not, and simply take the view that these thieving c*nts are criminals and should be dealt with according the Press Council code and named and shamed as they so well deserve to be.

That’s all well and good, and the copyright thieving clowns will get theirs in due course.

But then along comes Daryl William Gabriel Mathew bloody McInnes, a pretender from the Peninsula whose book A Man’s Got to Have a Hobby you once thoroughly enjoyed, and who for a brief minute you admired in his role as Randy Sandy Freckle in the series Kath and Kim, which you never could work out whether was a slap in the face to average sportfans of the land of Golden Soil and Wealth to Toil, or a celebration of the weird wonders of the culture of the Wide Brown Land.

Either way though, you sort of reckoned that Willie with the multi-faceted moniker wasn’t too bad, even if you did suspect this his best-seller was ghost written given the chunder-inspiring quality of his subsequent work.

He seemed a half-decent rooster, even if he did come from Redcliffe, home of the Dolphins footy team, the silvertails of the Queensland Rugby League competition. It’s not Willie’s fault, you rationalise to yourself, figuring the f*ckwit can’t help it if he was born in the bay of flatheads, flounder and f*cking imbecile flannelette wearing fools.


And then suddenly the faker comes along and five-finger lifts one of your favorite yarns, and suddenly you remember the old carpenter’s warning about trees and bad seeds, and all becomes crystal clear.

Willie five-barrel McInnes is just like the rest. A low-down, thieving bastard from Bramble bay, who in terms of literary lifting walks straight in the slippery footsteps of his footy hero the fraud fakir should-be felon Wally-Fullerton Smith.

By the bastard’s sins shall we know them. hey, and why should a bloke be surprised that a clown who canoodles his best mates sheila on the box would shout himself to a gratis story stolen from a Geebung storyteller?

You’re dead set right Mr Dazza who calls himself Willie, and even if you can’t spell your plagiarist’s sins are now laid bare.

Yes old mate you light-fingered f*ckwit, it is indeed much more than a Koala can bear.