The Fortitude Valley Diehards, the oldest Rugby League club in Brisbane, and my old stomping ground when I was a faster than lightning fullback/winger and we won the city’s under 14 Super A’s premiership all those years ago back in the early 80’s.
I well remember the frosty winter’s night at Purtell Park over in Bardon – not far from Police Commissioner Terry ‘Little Fish are Sweet’ Lewis’ joint, and just across the way from the rent-free mansion where Daphnis haunts the toilets these days – that I put on three tries in the first twenty minutes, Boom! Boom! Boom!, with each of the final passes thrown by our outside centre, a fella who was later a classmate at my state-run school after I ran away from the Pedophiles at St Paul’s.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the bloke with the sizzling left foot step who was slipping me the pill was being slipped one himself, by a c*nt of an oxygen thief named Rod Boult, a ‘legend’ down at Valleys who had once coached Wally Lewis, and dined out then and now on the King’s ascendency to the Queensland footballing throne, cravenly claiming credit for King Wally’s success.
When my premiership-winning star centre mate saw his kid brother struggling a decade later, he stood up and showed us all that possessing a tremendous amount of ticker doesn’t mean making 30 tackles from fullback and scoring 4 tries against the Panthers on a frigid Friday night – not that I’m boasting – but instead entails summoning the courage to stand up and testify against your sick f*ck of a stepfather, the bloke the rum swilling glory-day reveling retards down at Emerson Park called Rusty, the local league legend who loved shiny, wet balls but had never slapped down a Steeden over a try line in his life.
The bast*ard named Rod Boult should have copped life for what he did to these two young tyro’s that their mother had innocently given him entree to too, give what the slick center and his little brother told the police about their Step-Daddy plugging them in the arse and plastering their penises with his putrid spit over the course of nearly a decade.
But some way, somehow, some Crown prosecutor made a submission to the court in an unreported judgement in which the State Attorney-General intervened – R v. Boult ex parte Attorney-General CA 458 of 1993 is the name of the case, if there are any decent reporters left who are willing to have a crack at cracking the Kiddy Fiddler’s Club – and asked the court to consider the sick child-sex fiend’s a single course of conduct, rather than the repeated multiple rapes that they actually were and are.
And as a result of this outrageously pernicious DPP cut-out pass, the deviant Boult was sentenced only for a single count of indecent assault and double of indecent dealing, both against innocent little boys who called him their Dad.
You could smell the stench of corruption inherent in this case from Queen Street to Cow’s End, and the depraved cocks*cker who liked bonking defenseless little boys copped a drop-down-dead laughing suspended sentence for his evil crimes.
Something has always been rotten in the State of Queensland, ever since the settlers slayed the first Australians and secreted their crimes in the crypts of history and time, but something is even more rotten on the hallowed turf that King Wally and Archie both trod as lithe and languid young league-loving youths.
I’ll tell you more about that later – a whole lot more, and don’t you worry about that – but first I wish to draw to your attention that the deviant devil who desecrated my mate and his kid brother’s youth, and did his best to destroy their lives, is to this day deified by the fuck*ing c*nts who run the club where I once scorched the turf on which later the Bead-Twirler and I tied our knot.
There’s my hero in the team shot, the great Australian my great-grandad Jack who a few short years later left the game he loved to take a shot in the head for his country. Lest we Forget.
Emerson Park isn’t Geebung, but in the annals of my family’s history it’s not far off, and at least four generations of Butterflies have barked the club war cry ‘Side by Side We Stick Together!’ over the past century or so, and my brother-in-law and his tin lids who are my kids cousins and thus my nephews, and my Godsons have too.
So there is no way on God’s good earth that I am going to allow the inheritors of our family and all those other families who love footy’s legacy to burnish its beauty by allowing a rapacious rapist like Rod Boult to remain a life member of our once grand and great club.
Every single person who has ever been associated with the Diehards knows that this dastardly evil dick sucker is a paedophile.
Despite the fact that he was for decades protected by the coterie of corrupt cops who cloyed together down at the Valleys clubhouse, ‘Rusty Boult’s’ charge, confession and conviction for his God-awful abuse of the two young boys in his care quickly became public knowledge, and the talk of the Diehard town.
Yet despite all this he remains a Life Member of the club.
You would have to be f*cking kidding.
But not for much longer, because now that Archie Butterfly has become aware that Rodney Cecil Boult still holds this hugely undeserved honor he is about to be cut down in a cover-defense tackle that even the King would stand and applaud.
It’s all over baby blue for the rapist Rod Boult.
Don’t you worry about that.