, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


I’ve known a number of blokes named Meehan over the years, from various different families across all the eastern board states of the Sunburnt Country.

None of them was named Tim, the leading light Queensland criminal lawyer and solicitor’s firm partner who seemingly overnight has disappeared from the law roll and his company’s website as fast as his psychotic monster of a client Brett Cowan disappeared into the bowels of the protection wing in the State’s maximum-security prison, hopefully never to re-emerge, alive at least.


Each and every one of the Meehan’s I have known, none of them named Tim, is a mad gambler. A punter possessing such a level of psychosis that they would bet their parents, and their pretty bride and perhaps even the princess in the pram on the favourite in the last at Penola if they thought it would get them square and save them from having to tell huge porkie pies to to whoever held the home purse strings to explain away a horrible day on the punt.

Therein lies your clue.

Make of it what you will.

But remember, I’ve never met Tim.

And that you heard it here first.