After 4 trials, 40 years plying his trade as a criminologist, and an equal number of decades hiding his crimes – or the couple that he’s been pinged for so far anyway – Professor Paul Wilson, the second most arrogant man in the State of Queensland (I’m legally prohibited from writing about the No.1) is on is way for a 6 month holiday in one of our famous chain of Corrective Services health farms, after Judge Julie Dick banged the gavel as the clock struck 12 this morning and told his was a brazen and persistent offender who had inflicted trauma and pain on his victims, and must serve as an example of the ridiculously light sentencing regime that applies to his cohort of kiddy fiddlers by serving a six-month spell in the can.

Oh how the mighty have fallen, and how much it’s going to bloody hurt. It’s just as the great visionary and rock and roll wrestling-loving prophet Cindy Lauper told us about egomaniacs who think their sh*t doesn’t stink, and then find to their great shock that they’ve been spun off the perch sportsfans – you can’t see the bottom, but believe me it’s a long way down.

Wilson deserves to tumble every inch of the steep decline too, and I for one hope that the arrogant prick lands on his head, although if Mum were still alive she’d disagree, because the old girl worked for the pedo  for 10 years of what she thought was going to be her middle age, until that bastard Jack Dancer came like a life thief in the night and rendered the time she spent in the Criminology Dept at QUT’s Carseldine campus well more than the halfway point of her journey.

Mum of course didn’t know he was a pedo, for she wouldn’t have stayed longer than it took to knock her boss to the ground and stamp on his head before exiting the office stage left and forevermore. She of course had never read The Man They Called a Monster, the book that turned me against Wilson forever when I was in my teens, and as she didn’t socialise with her boss – there’s no way that social climbing snob would take a typist to the Brisbane Club with him., even if they did let women in – so all she had to judge him on was how he treated her and other staff at work.

And the answer was fine and dandy. He was a good boss she reckoned, and nearly everyone in the office agreed, with the exception of course of the bird he sacked because she fell out with the sheila he was rooting,  but it seems that illicit (and as we now know illegal) rooting was the pattern of the Professor’s life, and the colleague was well over the age of consent, so no-one worried too much about that.

Of course Mum never quite coughed to this one, but the reason that Wilson was a good boss is when a bloke’s a natural born rorter, con-man and crook it usually means they’re a bludger too, as sure as Kim Kardashian’s arse follows her tits. And Wilson was, the bugger rarely getting to work before nine or still being in the office after three, which of course gave the serfs who were expected to follow by example the opportunity to piss off at a quarter-past, and if in their haste to get out before the phone rang meant that they wrote 5.15 on their time sheets as knock off rather than 3, well punters they just weren’t trained properly were they?

What’s a Geebung girl to do?? Sacrifice having every Friday arvo off and break the Bunger Code at the same time? Not on your bloody life! What would the Bacardi’s – the girls in the RSL ten-pin bowling team – say if they found out? The old girl would be in disgrace, and all of our bloody names would be mud. She loved us all too much to that to us, so every second Friday off it was, and I learnt  to cook as a result, so at least Paul Wilson’s done one thing right in his life even if he didn’t intend to and never knew that he had. Loose lips, battleships…..say no more.



The QUT Criminology Unit Crowd, including Mum. Note the Professor’s personally selected rug on the left as you are looking at the photo. I wonder if he called himself Bam-Bam?.

My mate the Eagle worked for Wilson for a couple of years as well, and as sharp as he is he didn’t pick the Professor as a professional pedo either, but then again there were never too many young kids under 14 hanging around a university, and in any event you’d have to lift your eyes up from the form guide for second or two if you wanted to see them. You have to remember that we’re talking about the Eagle here, the most enthusiastic form analyst in the whole of Christendom, so there was never much hope of that ever happening.

Mum of course got the job for the bald bastard with brains overflowing from his big ears and degrees coming out of arse, but the work ethic of a sloth who’d lost an eye, six fingers, two legs and a heartbeat while fighting in Vietnam. The bloke who’d later go on to become the Godfather of the tin lids was appreciative of the old girl’s gesture in slipping him through the side door, although he never did show it in the customary manner of reading ‘Godparenting For Dummies’ and as a result  – and as they constantly waste their time reminding him – the poor little fruit of my loins are still waiting for their birthday presents 20 years later, although funnily enough they’ve never mentioned the non-existent religious instruction.

The Eagle survived a few years working there as a research assistant while desperately trying to complete his law degree prior to the 10 year cut of, which is a miracle because he was never actually there very much, if at all, figuring that if the authorities were going to cut off his Austudy after a mere 17 years riding the professional student steam train and force him to get a bloody job, then the least he could do to register his protest on behalf of the downtrodden dole bludgers of his acquaintance was to ensure that he worked no harder for Wilson than he did when he was on student welfare, which of course was 2/3rds of sweet f*ck all with the other 3rd taken as accumulated flex-days.

The last ever Martist Brothers Rosalie rugby premiership winners. I reckon they might have jagged the double by also being the first. The Eagle had long retired from the Fourth XV by then.

It was a great rort for as long as it lasted, and gave rise to my world-acclaimed theory that lads from Marist Brothers Rosalie are anthropologically simply displaced Bunger boys, and that it’s the inner pain they suffer from being separated from the sacred waters of Downfall Creek that turns them into the world’s most compulsive gamblers who harbor double he desperation of the hombres who stayed back in the hood and had Bill to contend with at the Bunger TAB back in the old days before they shut it down and Kevvie strode large into our lives as we strode into the RSL desperate for a bet.

Those were the days my friends, I thought they’d never end.

Just like Pedo Paul imagined he’d be as free as a bird to go around feeling up little sheilas and fucking up their heads for all of eternity, with a short break to enable him to travel back to heaven on angels wings when the acting-God in his absence decided he’d had enough and needed him back in his rightful place upon high.

We all get it wrong sometimes don’t we sportfans – well of course everyone except me – and no-one’s crying any crocodile tears for Wilson now that justice has been somewhat belatedly served up to him in a cracked bowl full of porridge and prunes with a plastic spoon on the side. In fact quite to the contrary – you can hear the cheers ringing out all over the land.

He was bloody unpopular our Paul, particularly among the sheilas that he mistakenly believed loved him, although I don’t you’d ever get him to accept the fact.Then again the Ped also regarded himself as a world-class academic, and if all of a sudden you’re now hearing laughter instead of cheers well you probably don’t need to be a Professor to work out why.

It’s this ego and evil driven duality that seems so deeply ingrained in Wilson’s psyche that ended up bringing him undone. Even at the very end,  despite 3 trials falling over – none of them because he was actually innocent – Wilson’s hubris inspiring narcissism prevented him from looking at the Mona Lisa and calling it a painting of an ugly bird. Oh no, instead he looked at the smiling plain Jane named after the famous cougar Ms Curry-Kenny and saw his own reflection, and against all sane advice he just had to climb up out of the dock where accused folk sit during their trials, and swagger on in to the witness box to tell the world and the jury members just how stupid the prosecution actually were.

It was a fatal mistake, and a really simple and stupid one too. You’re the accused, you don’t have to prove any bloody thing, your opposition does, and beyond a reasonable doubt too. So unless you have some super-duper smoking gun up your sleeve that’s going to miraculously allow you to walk free from the court after you reveal it, you never, ever give evidence when you’re on trial and you’d think a Professor would know it.

But give evidence Wilson did, and go badly it did as his pompous manner pissed the juryu off and made them hate him more and more with every word leaked from his loose-lipped flapping jaw, and now here he is staring straight down the barrel of a footy season sized-stretch that he will certainly be serving, unless of course a miracle happens or he opts to take the cowards way out, and the good judges reckon the latter’s not a hippos chance oin a tree climbing race against a chimpanzee of happening, although having seen how Kevin Lynch and Greg Masters responded when they got sprung with unclean hands I’m not altogether so sure.

It’ll all come out in the wash in due course I’m sure, as will the full judgement that doubles as Professor Wilson’s passport and one return ticket into the prison system that’s the pride of everyone here in the Pineapple Land. How he will cope in their is anyone’s guess, but mine is that he’ll try to get himself placed in the jail’s protection wing until a cosier spot at a near-zero security awaits. Give how little the lag is he may even beat his wife back to the master bedroom if she stops by to get face done on the way home from ythje jails and they talk her into spending some of the raw oats-eating professor’s not hard earned on a full set of nails and a tumbleweed scented oil massage on top.

The biog question or one of them anyway – is though is what other than tap water, wilted lettuce leaves and wheatmeal bikkies can the disgraced Professor Paul Wilson expect inside to be hand-fed once the convicted kiddy fiddler’s firmly inside the razor wire and has been allocated a bunk and shiny metal dunny without a seat?

We don’t need to wrack our Rain in Spain’s to find the answer Sportfans, for Her Honour J. Dick J. has already channeled the spirit of the great Charlie Pride and given us the answer in an ingeniously crafted 8 word statement in which she’s only fucked up one word,.

That single word is happens, as in sh*t does, as opposed to using the word favored by Mr Pride and I, that word being goes, as in what does around comes back around. As is just so happens though, when it comes to Wilson’s personal present plight, either word’s a winner. So don’t worry about getting your kit back on Professor Sweet Thing, just turn  off the lights down low and get your arse over here baby so I can whisper Charlie and the beak’s sweet words straight into your ear

No-one knows what goes on behind closed doors.