The picture above was taken at Queensland’s Government House on 8 September 2015.
Bernard Yorke, the former administrator of the Anglican Church in Brisbane (3rd from right) looks just peachy as he enjoyed a night out with his mate Paul De Jersey at Daphnis’ joint at Bardon.
Well not Daphis’ joint really, because we the people of Queensland own it and he simply lives there on the house, but it’s unlikely many of us sportsfans from Geebung will be getting an invite to a slap up free feed anytime soon. Actually, the feed’s not quite free either, because we the mug taxpayers of the Pineapple Land are paying for it.
Which personally pisses me off no little bit, because I have no desire to purchase prawns and plonk for clowns who cover up criminal child abuse, which is exactly what Mr Bernard Yorke did to help out his good mate Gilbert Case, the freak in charge of the pedophile spectacular at St Paul’s School that starred my abuser Greg Knight and Gilbert’s great mate Skippy, the serial sex-offender and measurer of young boy’s penis sizes Mr Kevin ‘Presently Rotting in Hell’ Lynch.
I have even less desire to shout chardonnay and shish kebab sheep’s balls to a charlatan who plays the pretend sick card and claims memory loss as a means of minimising his involvement in allowing child-sex offenders and their friends to flourish in schools under his management regime, which is exactly what Bernard Yorke did just a month after the swish soiree at the Guvnor’s digs, when he made the statement below to the Child-Sex Abuse Royal Commission.
I wish I’d taken a photo of ponce when he made his belated appearance in the witness box on the 30th of November – he’d taken a sick dive on the day he was scheduled, hoping they’d run out of time and thus let him off the hook – because he bunged it on big time, pretending to be a doddering old man who was half a cripple. It was so plainly an act that under my breath I was calling him perspex.
Yorke must have yanked his name tag off for the happy snap with his pal Paul, because given his near absolute loss of memory during his turn in the witness box – he uttered the words ‘I can’t recall’ more than 50 times in just over an hour – it’s hard to believe that he could have remembered his own name to introduce himself to his fellow free-loading fangers at Fernberg Road In the witness box.
The memory loss must explain why he perjured himself in his sworn statement to the Commission by telling absolute porky pies about how he would never – NEVER! – have given Gilbert the Headcase the head job in Anglican Education if he’d known that his close friend concealed his knowledge of kiddy fiddlers in the slaughter fields of St Paul’s.
This above is what he swore in the statement he tendered to the Royal Commission.
It’s pretty straightforward isn’t it?
Yorke says he knew nothing about Case’s cover-ups of complaints about their mutual mate Kev, and if he had he would never have given the joker the top job in the church’s education arm.
He doesn’t of course say that if he knew then he would have taken decisive action – like reporting Case’s disgraceful actions to police, for example, or conducting child welfare checks on all students who’d attended St Paul’s during the relevant periods – but that’s another matter I guess, much to my chagrin.
Now when you tell Porky Pies to Royal Commissions its called perjury, as two-well meaning young women named Lisa Zanatta and Maria Butera found out recently when they copped suspended sentences for bullsh*tting to the Trade Union Royal Commission in order to protect their mates from the parasites, tax-dodgers, immigration-fraudsters, con-men and crooks giving craven evidence intended to see the comrades cast into the great big barred tomato can with the view from which the sky seems no more than a mere little tent of blue to the prisoners inside.
Those perjury charges just about ruined these poor women’s lives, so surely if it good for the girls its good for the gander too, and Mr Bernard Perspex Yorke should be forced to face the same fate, for this f*cker sat there and looked the Commissioners in the eye and all but admitted that his statement was a crock of sh*t that wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.
I say all but because of course he couldn’t recall, he just couldn’t recall.
‘Where am I Commissioner? What’s my name? Where’s my friend and protector Paul? Daphnis! Mate! Help!’
And I’m sure he will too.
For the rich, the powerful and the protectors of pedophiles are different to you and I.
Don’t you worry about that.