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Gilbert Case, the former Headmaster of St Paul’s School, who on the kindest of views allowed the sex-crimes of his hand-picked music master Gregory Robert Knight to occur – and on the harshest, and almost certainly most correct, of views actively recruited Knight because both he and Case were members of an organised pedophile ring – gave the evidence reprinted above to the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse on 13 November 2015, during case study number 34.

Case was lying through his teeth when he gave this evidence.

He has without any doubt given false and misleading evidence to the Royal Commission, in the process committing a grave criminal offence that under the terms of Section 6(H) of the Royal Commissions Act 1902 carries with it a penalty of 5 years imprisonment.

In fact Case has committed a multitude of offenses against this section of the Act, as he has proffered lie after lie, untruth upon untruth, to the Royal Commission, and if there is any semblance of justice in this world must be charged with his offences against the proper administration and called to account for his sins.

These are the facts.

Case’s son, whose name was and is Michael, and is so fair skinned that he was – quite unfairly, and unjustly – nicknamed ‘Casper’ at school, was a student in the same class as the Royal Commission witness known by the pseudonym BSG.

F*ck pseudonyms.

We have all kept the crimes committed against us in the dark for far too long, and if my former classmate and friend Dr Chris Weatherall – BSG, a hero in my eyes, and that of so many abuse victims – objects to me referring to him by name them I am sure he will tell me, and this story will be immediately taken down.

Michael Case, son of Gilbert, was indeed in Chris Weatherall’s maths class in Grade Nine.

So was the son of the woman that the maths teacher was soon thereafter to marry.

My classmate’s name was Gregory Prickett. His Mum worked in the office at St Paul’s. In Gilbert Case’s office. That’s one of the reasons that he’s lying. He knows exactly who the Maths teacher was, and when giving evidence was just hoping that no-one else did, because he’d watched Chris Wetherall’s testimony and knew that he’d forgotten.

But Archie’s like an elephant. I never forget.

The teacher’s name was Brad Tacey.

This is him, the maggot, scum of the earth.

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He was a brute, an absolute animal, a bearded, cowardly, spindly legged piece of sh*t who acted tough when in charge of a bunch of wee little thirteen year old kids but went to water when confronted by an adult, even when that adult was a woman.

I know this to be true, because my Mum bailed the vicious dog up one day, shirt-fronted him, and put him well in his place.

I recall it well. In fact I’ve never forgotten it, and I never will.

I wasn’t in Brad Tacey’s class, thank God, but my maths classroom was just down the corridor, and the kids in the sadistic school teaching Satan’s room were my friends. So it didn’t take long for me to learn of his brutality.

One day this brute Brad Tacey made an Indigenous kid named Andrew (I know his surname but will not print it without his permission) who was a friend of mine kneel down in class and place his head in a metal waste bin.

The unhinged criminal masquerading as an educator then made every kid in the class walk past and kick the waste bin with Andrew’s head in it as hard as they could, at the threat of the same treatment if they did not comply with his orders.

To demonstrate what he wished the children to do, Brad Tacey kicked the bin first. He booted it hard, really, really hard.

I saw it.

I was on my way to the toilet at the time, and was walking down the corridor of the first floor ‘A’ block headed to the stairs when I heard the commotion from inside the classroom, which was at the far end of the block, on the swimming pool side, and as I passed the room and glanced in I froze in horror and watched the events unfold.

Tacey kicked that bin so hard that if it were a football it would have traveled from one end of Lang Park to the other, and landed over the dead ball line. He gave it everything he had, and for what? What had this poor little kid done to enrage him so? Nothing, that’s what. You don’t need to do anything to set a psycho off.

Andrew screamed and cried as the bin rang like a bell.

No-one moved an inch.

Tacey, clearly annoyed that none of his students had followed his crazed lead, declared loudly to the whole class that Andrew was just a piss weak Boong, and ordered the boys to get off their chairs and come and kick the bloody bin, boot the damn thing and teach the black bastard a lesson.

He was supposed to be learning Maths, not the fine art of being brutalised.

Every kid got up and stood in line. But most kids didn’t do as they were told.

They were decent kids, scared out of their wits, too afraid to refuse their rabid, wretched criminal of a teacher’s demands, but too right-minded to hurt another human being for no reason at all other than their teacher’s sadistic blood lust. They merely tapped the bin containing the prone Andrew’s head lightly with their foot. And copped a barrage of abuse from Brad Tacey for their troubles. Some were even ordered to join the back of the queue to perform the evil deed all over again. Many were in tears. Tacey derided them as pussies.

Of course there are cruel and callous people in every crowd, and several of the students delighted in the free reign to perform the rabid Lord of the Flies-style cruelty that Tacey had gifted them, and these kids kicked the bin as hard as their teacher had, and even harder again.

All the while poor Andrew’s head was inside, with the kicks resonating against his brain and the sound ringing in his ears.

The harder the boys kicked, the louder Tacey cheered and egged them on. The man was a goddamn f*cking animal, and the smell of blood clearly excited him to the point that his eyes were aglow and saliva spilled from his leering lips.

I will never forget it. I can’t forget it. For the first time in my life I was witnessing sheer, unbridled brutality of a kind I had never witnessed in Geebung, a battleground on which we fought hard and fast and furiously, but never unfairly or with the psychotic sadism I was now watching in frozen to the concrete floor horror.

Then suddenly the lessons my Mum and Dad and Grandpa had taught me kicked in, and I snapped, and although in the blindness of my fury I can’t recall the exact details I know that I was in that classroom with little arms and limbs flailing and I was going at Tacey and screaming my head off, and I remember being punched in the head by the fully grown adult and throttled against the wall until I was damn near unconsciousness, and the prick probably would have sunk the slipper in too if my own teacher hadn’t arrived from up the aisle accompanied by a bunch of my brave classmates and pulled the f*cker off and away from me.

Geez my head hurt, and I was scared out of my mind, shaking and trembling, but I didn’t care a bit, for in the crazed fury of the assault I saw Andrew out of the corner of my eye escaping from his prison of the steel bin and sneaking out of the room and away, and that the very reason that I had I had launched myself at this gutless bastard of a teacher, who we all imagined to be a giant in those days when the world was wide and we were just wee, weak little boys.

I went home that night and told my Mum and Dad what had happened, and the next day Mum was at the school, ostensibly to help out in the tuckshop, but in reality there to have a go at Gilbert Case, not about what had happened to me, but about the assault that the arsehole Tasey had launched against poor innocent Andrew. In Geebung we always looked after the weak, not the strong.

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Mum never talked about her discussion with Gilbert Case (pictured above with his twin brother, Louis Cypher) but things changed after that, and she stopped doing tuckshop, and instead of coming into the school when she picked me up she now waited in the car outside. I imagine that he threatened her with the removal of my scholarship, just as he did to me a year or two later when I told the chaplain about my child abuse, and that seething inside Mum decided that she had made her point and strategically withdrew, but I’ll never know now, not until I see her again in the upstairs room.

What I do know is that Michael Case, son of Gilbert, was inside that classroom that day, and was one of the decent boys now turned men who just lightly tapped the bin with Andrew’s head inside, and that surely he must have told his father about the horrors that had unfolded, and even if he hadn’t surely his father must have asked him about it after my mother had strode up and stared him in the eye.

I can’t remember Chris being there that day – he may or may not have been, it all happened in a blur – but I know now that both he and Michael Case were also attacked by Brad Tacey, and it was not until Michael complained to his father that Gilbert Case, the bloke who was supposed to protect us all from harm, decided to take decisive action and sent Tacey down the road.

Figuratively and literally, for armed with a glowing reference signed G. Case, Headmaster, Tacey bobbed up almost the next day at Nudgee College, and went on to spend the next 20 years at the school, almost certainly inflicting similar horrors on the young catholic boys there as he did the little proddies at St Paul’s. The creed and the colour and the name didn’t matter for bastards like him, as long as the victims were smaller and weaker than this craven, gutless wimp of a man who deluded himself that he was tough by terrorising little boys.

His stepson Greg went off the rails, and in the year following my abuse we spent many a Friday afternoon and Saturday morning locked in a classroom serving detentions, and shortly thereafter we left the school independently but in symbiosis, and found ourselves living on the mean streets of Brisvegas and at 15 doing the best we could to survive. We never discussed Tacey, not once, but even in the unspoken silence our shared loathing for the devil who called himself a man was clear and mutually understood.

Andrew never got targeted by Tacey again, but he left the school at the end of the year, and I have never seen him since, although I think about him often. He was a lovely child, a soft, warm-hearted kid just like me and Chris Weatherall and Michael Case. Victims, one and all, victims of weak-gutted cowards who would run from our shadows were they to cross paths with the devil may care, strong men that we are today.

There is a special place in hell reserved for men like Brad Tacey, and for all the perpetrators of the various abuses that were inflicted upon boys and young men in those heady days of the 80’s at St Pauls.

But those seats for never in the front row, for Gilbert Case had the VIP box all to his own.

I hope he dies a painful and horrible death, and suffers for years, just like all the victims he turned a blind eye to have suffered.

Hell is too cold a place for a wicked c*nt like he.