The cashed up toffs of Brisvegas have been talking about only one thing over the past couple of weeks punters, and that’s the story of the senior staff member at one of Brisbane’s elite boys schools whose missus sprung him in the sack with a year 12 boy over the summer break.
Word is that the bloke, a lifelong sports enthusiast with a particular passion for the game rich folk and coconuts reckon is played in heaven, and the fresh faced lad from the class of 2016.were performing a strange adaptation of the Abando Fertility Dance while dressed as nude sunbathers when his dearly beloved trouble and strife unexpectedly bounded into the Boundary Street manor to grab some cash for the pokies, and to her abject horror caught them in fragrante delicto doing things that men’s men like her hubby aren’t supposed to be doing.
The poor old duck’s jaw apparently dropped to the floor, and the sound of the Beach Boys rang out in the unit as the hapless and seemingly homosexual hard man that she’d blithely passed the past few decades hitched to tripped over his own trouser leg as he hurried to haul the said strides to full mast.
Things were certainly crook in Tallarook for our bare bummed anti-hero at that moment, but they were soon to become worse – a whole lot worse – for after recovering from her shock and engaging in a short, sharp screaming match with the bare bummed v=bloke who until just a moment before she had believed that she knew, the irate missus marched straight down to the Toowong Police Station and despite his protestations replete with what laid an official complaint alleging that her hubby was playing an unlawful game of toad in the hole with a minor.
Fortunately for the sporting schoolmaster about town young Annastacia’s pack of dills posing as a government recently lowered the age of consent for giving it to a fella up the coke and sars, otherwise he might right at this moment be lawyering up to defend a wee criminal charge of unlawful bonking of a boy. Instead though the one time teacher and boarding master, who has spent 35 years working his way up through the ranks of the leading GPS school faces the court of public opinion, and the shame and ignominy that an idle Grecian-style shagger is bound to incur when his irate missus starts hollering for a marshal, and telling all and sundry about what her other half gets up to when she’s not home, and with whom.
The teenager-tickling poo-hole lover’s problems are certain to be compounded by the fact that this particular mincer has long publicly styled himself as a man’s man in the traditional mode – think Rock Hudson or Jimmy Dean – and back in the days that he ran the boarding house with an iron fist the cock-licking cove’s open hostility toward lads he suspected of being homosexuals was well known. In fact in a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, the schoolmaster fervently adopted a practice of verbally and physically abusing such boys (under the guise of discipline of course), and made their school lives an abject misery by openly abusing them and declaring that they were ‘poofters’, ‘faggots’, ‘shirt lifters’, ‘bum bandits’and a whole lot of other equally offensive nouns, adjectives and verbs.
At the same time the now confirmed wanker would place buff, ruggedly handsome rugby playing boys on pedestals, feting the young men as if they were the modern incarnations of Adonis, and showering them with praise and privileges in the boarding house and beyond.
Right now though I bet that the man’s preferential treatment of talented sportsmen in his care and under his control are being examined in quite a different light than they perhaps previously were, and a whole lotta people are probably starting to suspect that his obsession with scrimmaging may have been borne of an entirely different motivation than a simple love of the oval ball game. As a matter of fact I reckon that many punters will be wondering if old jokey phrase ‘Rugger Bugger’ has taken on a whole new meaning.
Folk from outside the posh private school community are also starting to take an interest in the carnal predilections of the well-connected oval ball obsessed oddball too, and with damn good reason, for only just over a year ago the closet-dweller in question appeared at the Royal Commission into Institutional Child Abuse as a central witness in Case Study 34, where he gave evidence about his claimed lack of knowledge about the nefarious activities of the child-rapist criminal Kevin Lynch.
He was of course not questioned about his knowledge of the pedoiphile activities of his more recent contemporary Greg Masters. No one was.
Whoever said history never repeats?
From the Royal Commission witness box our anti-hero of course denied all knowledge of Lynch’s lust-driven licentious behavior and his abuses of boys at the exclusive school. He also swore black and blue that he had personally never, ever sent an errant child to the Grandmaster Flash of the gullible kid fiddling world for counselling by caresses lubricated with massage oils, and experimental early acupuncture involving needles being inserted in their growing scrotum and dicks.
Our man said it was quite to the contrary, and basically inferred that Lynch – who he called Skippy, not because of his sexual perversions, but because he had developed a limp after suffering polio as a child – was a spastic who didn’t like sport, and had made a habit of hanging out with the weirdo kids who didn’t enjoy sticking their heads up another boys arse in a scrum, or following orders from a classmate named Cox..
At the end of the day the pair of seemingly polary opposite pair of perverts were attracted to – and sated their lust on – different types of most unlucky lads.
Lynch the sweet f*cked up vulnerable types who fell into his evil web like blinded flies; while the nudist’s predilection was aimed in the direction of the more highly muscled second-rower, the type of young chap whose features included a rock hard arse, overdeveloped forearms and a taste for trained sadistic violence, the type of well-meaning young man wanted to play football for the coach.
It all came crashing down for Kevin Lynch in 1997 after he was charged with child sex offences, and like my abuser Greg Masters – who coincidentally, or perhaps not, like the mattress tester lived just a short walk from the school filled with the potential and actual victims that he dreamed about in his every waking moment – elected immediately to take the coward’s way out. Good riddance to both of the incorrigible kiddy fiddlers too.
The bloke now in the gun has dodged many a bomb or bullet over the years, but now in the twighlight of his career had nowhere to hide, and finds that his chickens are now finally coming home to roost.
Cock-a dude-or two!