Some people have a certain rare and special God-given talent for totally and absolutely f*cking things up, and their skills make ordinary, everyday punters like you and I stare with mouths wide open and arse cheeks addled with awe.

Darren Wicks – ‘Dicks’ – is one of these incredible artistes.

Or, as my beloved Bead-Twirling bride would say, absolute ‘are-hola’.

I mean here we are, with the greatest media mash-job since old pompous Pontius Pilate chose the wrong runway and then said oops and washed his hands, and we have Dicks stepping back on out Sunburnt turf from the land of Christ’s crucifixion, after very nearly crucifying a few of our own.

And what does the modern day invader’s Emperor say?

(a) Mea Culpa?

(b) Mea Sorry?

(c) Mea Imbecile?

or

(d) Mea f*cking genius still, and f*ck you Jack.

Thirty pieces of silver if you chose (d), ‘cos you are dead set right Chappy.

staaake

The network must face up to its mistakes in a “brutal” soul-search and ensure the mistakes are never repeated, Mr Wick said. “We can’t sit here and think: ‘we didn’t do anything wrong, we had a bit of bad luck’. You make your own luck.” 

“We have to look at how we operate. We’ve wandered into a foreign country and basically walked into a storm.”

We?

No.

You Dicks.

It’s your fault.

You didn’t wander into a foreign country and walk into a storm you craven c*nt.

You paid a mercenary bunch of thugs a fortune to illegally abduct a couple of young kids from a country with whom the Wide Brown Land has – or had – cordial foreign relations.

Then you sent a group of your employees in under the cover of darkness and caused them to become accessories to the crime.

And then you used OPM – Other People’s Moneys – Channel Nine shareholders money – to bribe your way out of the disaster you had created by your own hand, in the process leaving the other poor bastards on the Calvary cross’s nailed next to your resurrected reporter still out in the sun to burn and die.

You mate.

You.

You’re a f*cking bastard.

“There must be tighter rules to prevent disasters like the Lebanon situation, where Nine made a direct payment into the account of “child rescue specialist” Mr Whittington, ­instead of its usual practice of paying the “talent”, in this case Ms Faulkner” you say in your defence.

Talent?

A mother stealing her children from her husband in a sovereign nation whose law decrees that he has the right to their care, custody and control?

Talent?

What the f*ck are you on about Dicks?

Like the archetypal lonesome loser of a gambler you rolled the dice without doing your research, and you lost son.

Your aut0-pilot ‘racist Muzzy scumbag’ radar told  you white legs good, brown legs bad, and so in your narcissistic delusion you commissioned and paid for the commission of an international crime that almost got your employees imprisoned for decades, and your clients crucified.

And then to relieve the burden of the pain caused by their chains you go and buy them a couple of John Grisham novels?

For that sin alone you should walk the earth forever with the media manglers stain of Cain upon your scone. And you will too, for if you think that you are going to get away with casting the stone of blame upon those that you direct and control, then you simply don’t know your Bible son.

Let he who is without sin deliver it Dicks, and then let me give you a tip.

When it comes back at you don’t duck you f*ck, turn and bloody run.