The bloke on the left in the picture above is Ross Barnett, the Assistant Commissioner of Queensland Police who was desperate for the top job but got trumped by his colleague Ian Stewart because ‘Stewy’ helped out the LNP by running around in police force supplied cars supplying sangers to Can-Do’s candidates at polling booths all over the place during the 2012 State Election.
Think I’m joking? I have stat decs from people who saw ‘Stewy’ performing the act, and pictures of him of file pulling up at booths in Bundamba and passing refreshments to his Mormon police mates, although due to my the latent paranoia associated with my medical condition these documents and images are presently held in a number of obscure offshore locations in the safe possession of judicial and political friends.
They exist though, and are the main reason that ‘Roscoe’ Barnett missed out on planting his posterior in Terry Lewis’s old chair, and was instead forced to suck it up and swallow until the Labor Party re-assumed its presumed rightful chair at the big end of the House of Broken Dreams.
And here they are, and here Roscoe is, the newly appointed ‘Racing Integrity Commissioner Designate’ who has been designated and appointed to a position that actually doesn’t exist.
Only in Queensland could such a thing happen, but don’t you worry about that.
In fact, don’t you worry about anything, because your Government is here to tell you what to do, not to be told what to do by you, and if no-one except the gangster Gerry Bellino’s niece and few trusted friends know exactly who Rocoe currently works for and how much he earns and who pays his wages, well don’t you worry about that either, for Grace Grace and her mates know what’s best for you.
Sportsfans, that’s all well and good, but gee little old Archie from Geebung has a few few wee concerns, and they are mainly to do with the fair-dinkum-ness of Grace’s Integrity God designate, and his wierd and totally wacky selection of mates.
Call me crazy if you like – most punters do – but please just accept for a moment by begged forbearance and take a peek at the picture at the top of this page.
The sexy silver-cropped copper on the left is Roscoe.
To his immediate left is a suss as f*ck stenography gun named Greg.
The long-time neighbour of the sick as Satan pedophile Skippy, aka Kevin John Lynch, the slayer of young boy’s lives who was surreptitiously taped by the QPS boasting to one of his sex-abuse victims that he had an Assistant Cop Commissioner on board as a felonious fixer who covered up his kiddy-fiddling crimes.
At the time of Skippy’s secretly recorded scandalous claims of extreme cop corruption and the perversion of truth, justice and the common law of the Commonwealth of Australia, his all hail well met mate over the side fence Greggles was guess what?
An Assistant Commissioner of Queensland Police.
The bloke in the wheelchair holding the police medal is Alan Beattie Duncan, a once powerful Assistant Commissioner of Police himself in the era of the corrupt overlords Frank Bischof and Sir Terry ‘Little Fish Are Sweet’ Lewis, and also during the short reign of the allegedly straight Ray Whitrod.
Duncan was known back in the day as Abe, and in the early 1970’s was regarded by the bible-bashing idiot so called rort-reforming Police Commissioner Ray Whitrod as one of the trusties, along with Greg Early.
As they say in rugby league, Ray Whitrod – you f*cking idiot!
Abe Duncan was one of the last coppers to ever speak to Shirley Brifman, the loose-lipped, low-moraled madam and mole who in her insane delusions believed that doing with the wild thing with a detective meant that the copper cared for you, despite the fact that she had f*cked a hundred of his badge-bearing buddies in the year before.
When Shirley bit the bullet Abe was astounded, but weirdly enough he didn’t wish her memory well enough to tell the public that his future boss and fellow police force felon Ron Redmond – the man who took over sweet little fish Terry’s job when he got tossed – lived directly across from Shirl the Girl, the dead on her beleaguered back brothel baroness who had turned coppers dog.
I don’t know anything about the other punter in the picture, retired Detective Des French, so can’t comment on whether or not he may have been crooked too, but all I can say is that pigs can be judged by the company that they keep.
And that being said, I’d trust the integrity of the racing commissioner designate about as much as I’d trust Tub-Thumping Tommy to tell the truth in a court of law, or in fact at any time at all.
About two thirds of f*ck all.
How do you spell Bellino?
You were blind, but now you see.