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So three months after we exposed his role as a lay Minister at an inner city Anglican church popular with young men, IT experts, top-end lawyers, ‘journalist, author, broadcasters’, perverts, convicts, criminals, creeps, c*cksuckers, c*nts and kiddy fiddlers, finally the mainstream media reports on the jailing of the one-time Father Barry Greaves, the sicko who for years used to suck young altar boys balls and swallow their cum, at least until he got sprung in 2009 and was sent to Sing-Sing anyway.

Ya gotta say that the mainstream media are a bit slow off the mark, don’t ya? I mean, for the love of pizza, the bastards absolutely and utterly missed the big picture and by a simple process of osmosis managed to miss the big story too didn’t they?

The big story of course being that former Father Bazza was in fact out on bail facing these disgusting child-sex charges at the exact time that I was exposing the perverted goings on down at the Holy Trinity – the trinity of course comprising arse, mouth and balls – Church in Brookes Street in the Valley.

And what’s even worse – far, far worse – is that the whole time that the child-f*cking former Father Baz was out and about and free on bail awaiting trial for his offences – and the Archbishop of Brisbane was telling the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse that the world according to those who believe that Henry the Eighth knew Jesus better than the disciples did had turned on its axis, and all had changed, changed utterly –  the convicted pedo awaiting his court date to face charges for even more sexual crimes against little boys was acting in a role as an official church-appointed and anointed divine intercessor at the inner-city church pictured below, where he was handing out mass Hanoi-produced holy hosts and tiny tin cups of ten-gallon goon to tender teens and their smooth-haired younger brothers.

 

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You would dead set have to be kidding wouldn’t you?

The more things change, the more they seem to stay the same, despite the best efforts of society to put a stop to the sickening abuses condoned and, on the evidence before us seemingly facilitated, by those in charge of the institution attended by 177 000 Australians each and every Sunday, at least a quarter of them presumably children aged under 18.

F*ck me dead if I’m alive. What the hell is wrong with these people?

I can’t answer the broader question, but I can certainly tell you what’s wrong with former Father Baz, because I know the now-defrocked and penally detained deviant pre-teen penis lover from the wanton days of my youth in the Garden of Eden, aka Geebung, because once upon a time the faggy fiddler used to be the boss man of the local Church of England parish in my hood. His manse – or should that read bondage den? – was just a stone’s throw from the Bung, and it was widely known that it was a place where a young boy could readily get a free glass or five of red, red wine and a reefer to boot, if that’s what tickled your teenage fancy, and got you stoned enough so that Father Baz could tickle his too.

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For the younger readers – you should be sound asleep in bed by now kiddies – the Church of England (COE) is what the arse-loving institution with the cross out the front and the kiddy fiddlers inside was called back in the day, before the pedophile infested hierarchy of the religious organisation voted in 1981 – the year I began at St Paul’s, and ran into Greg Knight – to change the name to the Anglican Church.

The old All Saints Church at Chermside that Father Baz once ran sat just a couple of hundred meters up the Hamilton Road hill from the present-day Westfield, which in one of life’s funny little ironies just so happens to be a hop, skip and and jump away from where the central characters in the McCulkin murder mystery grew up and roamed the mean streets in their youth. I wonder if they were Anglicans? It would explain a lot.

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The church was also only a stone’s throw away from the Chermside Pool (above), the then 25m length of six-lane chlorine and clear cool water that likely Geebung lads such as yours truly used to eagerly pedal our pushies to every hot summer Saturday arvo in the hope of copping a feel from one of the big-titted housos from the wrong side of Downfall Creek who had sent their even bigger-boobed elder sister to the turnstiles with a handful of five cent pieces that she jiggled, juggled and accidentally on purpose dropped so that all the lifeguard cum attendant’s eyes were focused on the pretty girl’s pair as her sister and her mates jumped the back fence unnoticed.

There was no cyclone-fence scaling required for the Bunger Boys however, cos we knew that if we didn’t have the requisite 50c piece that the capitalists demanded for entry to the 20th century Roman Baths then a bloody good bloke dressed in a 20th century toga and wearing a dog collar would make good the price of our admission, and if we a tad peckish and keen on a bucket of popcorn and a big styrofoam cup of green Staminade to quench our thirst after the hot ride, then all we had to do was let our benefactor follow us into the change rooms, and from then on it was nudge, nudge, wink, wink, and say no more, and if you did the adult in the cubicle would tell everyone that you were a f*cking lying below-age bum bandit , and off into the desert you’d go, marked like Cain and destined to wander the earth friendless for the rest of your days.

The bloke in the toga and dog collar’s name was of course Father Barry Greaves, the man who insisted that the boys all call him Father Baz.

Father Baz lasted a wee while, and then was moved on to a parish out west. The talk down at the pool was that one of our mates parents had dobbed the pedophile priest in to the church hierarchy about what he done to their kid, and in those innocent pre-internet times we all in our gullibility believed it.

But the reality was that far from being sent to Coventry for his craven crimes, Father Baz was in fact inexplicably being rapidly promoted up through the rungs of the church hierarchy. It was like a game of Snakes and Ladders, though it would have been better just named adders, for despite the seeming handicap of his deviant pedophile predilections Father Baz climbed the barely populated ladder of the COE priesthood faster than a rat could scurry up a drainpipe, and before you could say pedophiles are sick c*nts he soon landed in places where he could best serve the Brotherhood’s evil interests.

The sun was f*cking shining bright for Father Baz in those days, and as hard as it is to believe – although after hearing a selection of the terrible testimony given by victims to the Royal Commission, maybe not – but at his peak the sicko cleric ascended all the way to the role of of personal chaplain to the Archbishops of BrisVegas, first the venal villain Peter Hollingworth, and then later his erudite acolyte Phil Aspinall, who bizarrely enough remains in charge of the archdiocese and holds the ultimate local responsibility for purging the priesthood and the parishes of pedophiles.

Yep, life was good for Father Baz when it should have been anything but, however good things never last, and suddenly a storm swept over the Great Dividing Range and in mere minutes dumped a large, dirty load on the licentious lecher, and that was that for the c*nt’s career as off he went to a cold cell, or would have anyway if Joh hadn’t been booted from his fealty as Fuhrer by the Legal Aid Lawyer led Labor Lickspits who promptly installed air conditioning for the recidivist rapists, bank robbers, bash-merchants and monstrous murderers that inhabit the recesses of our state-funded penal correctional facilities.

It was just a shame that no-one could correct Baz’s own penal facilities, but given the ludicrously light sentence the pedo copped from the Army Reservist (funny that) barrister turned judge sporting the double-banger surname I guess the social workers didn’t have time fiddle his diddle in an attempt to set it and he on the straight and narrow in the short time he spent in the rock spiders unit in the can.

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And so before you could say ‘all kiddy fiddlers should be castrated’ Father Baz was out of the sex-offendor’s unit and back on the streets, and although Aspinall had no option but to defrock him, the Archbishop seemingly took no action at all to prevent the convicted pedophile from being appointed to an honorary yet official role back in the church at the Holy Trinity child-grooming center at the bottom of a dead end street behind a pub that used to be called the Hacienda Hotel (above), and was once upon a time the official meeting place of the pedo push in the illegal casino and streetwalker free city of BrisVegas.

Funny that too.

Of course Archie exposed the fact that the now former Father Baz was once more working in a church – without the requisite Blue Card mind you, because as a convicted child-sex offendor he was unable to obtain one – and having unfettered access to kids, despite the hierarchy’s knowledge that he was a rapist with a predilection for under-age boys. But as a hard-bitten cynic would expect the church did absolutely nothing, and despite your correspondent contacting and speaking to a number of the major players in the parish, including the parish priest Trevor Bullerd – himself a convicted pervert, caught performing an indecent act in an inner-city toilet – and indeed former Father Baz himself, not a single soul disclosed that the recently released jailbird was on bail for further offences at the time that our publisher put my articles to print.

Lovely isn’t it, just f*cking lovely. God bless the child.

Former Father Baz is now back in the can thankfully, although his sex-offender’s lease hath all too short a date. But the bastards who should be in there with him – those in charge of the church  who knowingly allowed him back into the fold, from Aspinall down – continue to walk the streets, much to the shame of the Anglican Archdiocese of BrisVegas.

It just seems to me that nothing at all has changed, and as a victim of church abuse myself it makes me utterly sick to the core of my soul.

I’d like to wish that God had mercy on each of theirs, but if I did so I would be lying through my rotting teeth.

May each and every one of the bastards rot in hell.

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The property still owned by former Father Baz. It should be burned to the ground and the land sold to fund compensation to his child victims.