‘Archie’s a bloody idiot!’ they cried.

‘What would that mad bastard from the Bung know about crime, politics, con-men, punting and capitalism?’ they asked.

A f*cking sh*tload is the simple answer.

You don’t spend a post-child abuse youth grifting on the streets and knocking off the the spoils in 5 minutes in a CBD TAB without learning a little about 1,3 and 4, and the in-depth knowledge of politics came a decade or so later when your correspondent attempted to live what I thought was a normal life and became heavily involved in the ALP.

Normal? Huh! The naively ignorant follies of youth know no bounds, do they sportsfans?

I never quite mastered the fifth subject – capitalism – but I spent enough time in the company of the Branch Stacker to glean a fair understanding of the topic. A better than fair understanding to be fair, good enough to spot a spiv approaching from six hundred miles away every day of the week.

A spiv like Hong Kong Tony, the self-proclaimed messiah of the North: shiny smoke and mirrors man, a shameless liar and a simple goddamn bloody Shaman.


Oh yeah, Hong Kong Tony was gunna roll into the Tropical North and perform miracles he was. Double the tourist intake. Spend 8 000 million bucks . Create 25 000 jobs. Revive the moribund local economy. Re-write history. Raise the dead. Resurrect Christ.

Tony was gunna do it all, and more again, and then he was going to re-sell you the Brooklyn Bridge, because there’s a sucker born every day except in Queensland where 12 378 of them are born or migrate every day. These Canton con-men from capitalist enclave of Honkers know how to pick their marks don’t they?

And old Hong Kong Tony didn’t miss, pulling the wool over about 99% of Queenslander’s meat pies, and just over 99.9% of the mainstream media’s, the whole bunch of whom believed his make believe bullsh*t about turning a bunch of old cane fields in the outer Cairns suburb of Yorkeys Nob into a modern-day poker machine palace.

There was one bold boy from the Bung who didn’t fall for the time-worn three coconut trick though, because he’s married to a bloody coconut and learnt through bitter experience not to fall for the hula-skirt-made-from-husk-wearing-hussies from Islands smaller than a map of Tassie.

That Bunger boy sportsfans was me.

Archie bloody Butterfly, the man who picked Fung as a fake within five seconds of laying eyes on the bludger. Yes punters, far be it from me to call you all mugs and boast about setting you straight early on in the piece, I’ll simply say I told you so.

I told you so.

I told you so.

Yes I bloody told you so.


And of course I was right, just like I was when I told you a family of crooks were running the Manus Island Detention Centre, and another family headed by a tax-dodging, money-laundering lawyer type were getting a good sniff of the roses too, along with a treacherous turncoat of a former union official and ALP Labor money man, and a one-time Premier who has long been rumored to have been a client of the infamous only in the mouth and up the arse Brett’s Boy’s male brothel.

The Bead-Twirler tells every bastard that they should bloody well listen to what Archie has to tell ’em, and guess what, she’s damn well right too.

Hong Kong Phony.

Going, going, gone.

It was all a mirage, just like his investment in the Glitter Strip resort of the same name, and his crooked mate’s reproduction of Noah’s Ark replete with life-sized replica’s.

Yeah I know it’s weird creating made to scale pairs of animals that no-one’s ever seen, but it’s no less strange than the idea that some clown from Kowloon with a rich daddy is gunna rock up in Cairns and splash $8 billion dollars on a resort based upon a single computer-generated image.

Kevvy’s pissing himself laughing at the thought that any bugger would fall for such a kindergarten-grade con job, and the wag’s got the drinkers in the Zillman Waterholes bar in stitches as he regales them with the fairy tales told by Hong Kong Tony and the come-in-spinner imbecility of the masses prepared to follow the Happy Valley punter over the cliff with their wallets stuffed full of wads of cash with untraceable serial numbers.

‘Send in the Clowns!’ Kevvie’s screaming right now.

And then, all of a sudden, in lobs Pound.

‘G’day Curtis’ Kevvie wryly remarks, and before you know it the bar’s in uproar, and every bugger’s rolling around the floor cacking themselves laughing, and Queensland’s Treasurer Mr Lick-Spitt is left alone at the bar and looking startled as he desperately tries to work out the change he’s due from the redback he tendered Kevvie – who all of sudden is over at the tote window – for a $7.50 Mango Daquiri.