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Is that a Butterfly the sartorially inelegant and seriously strange solicitor Paul ‘Huddo’ Hudson is wearing on his lapel, or is he just pleased to see me?

Now regular readers of this outstanding website containing a mix of satire, humor, blindingly brilliant opinion pieces, serious investigative journalism and on the odd occasion – and when richly deserved – downright abuse will be aware that your correspondent is being sued for alleged defamation by a clown named Andrew McMicking, a political wannabe but never will who finds it kosher to call dead infants grubs.

The defamation case has being going on for about 9 months now, and despite the fact that he hasn’t got a sh*t show in hell of succeeding in his action, McMicking and his barely able assistant and sidekick Paul Hudson – he who screams obscenities at elderly women in court rooms, and assaults them while entangled in personal disputes when not – continue to waste both the court’s time and your correspondents not only by pursuing their ill-judged lawsuit, but in addition by making increasingly bizarre applications for summary judgement in the case that haven’t a hope in a D-Grade Hollywood movie of being Cary Granted.

The decidedly non-dynamic due of dills had their third shot at glory last week, after their first two misguided applications had been thrown out on their arse by the magistrally competent, if not somewhat sour, bench warmers of the Queensland courts, and of course in their usual bumbling fashion got dusted quicker than a quokka in a Simpson Desert sandstorm.


(Speaking of Simpson, have you heard the rumor racing around the House of Broken Dreams that Lickspit – the highly inept Qld Treasurer Curtis Pitt – leaked the private emails between embattled Government Minister Mark ‘Rumpole of The’ Bailey and ETU Secretary Peter Simpson that have landed Rumpole in so much hot water presently. Or that he did so in order to have Rumpole punted and replaced by his factional stablemate Brittany Lauga as part of Lickspit’s push to position himself for the top job when Premier Pannacotta Whatevayousay inevitably falls off her perch? Well you have now).

Anyway, back to the couple of clowns in their self-created circus, and last week’s 3rd shot across the bows in their glorious obsession with Archie Butterfly was, like their previous attempts, made based on spurious and highly speculative claims that had about as much firepower as Where’s Wally’s waster pistol. Two of them this time.

The first was that yours truly had served his defense on the dickheads an hour too late, which would have been a ridiculous claim even if I had served it, but was even sillier because it was in fact my missus the Bead Twirler (in remission) who’d served it, because I was elsewhere and otherwise engaged having a pink lemonade at the Burwood RSL in Sydney with my mate Gorgeous George, who was in desperate need of a strong shoulder to cry on after poor little Pasquale Barbaro had been popped outside his Mum’s doorstep just a few weeks before.


Gorgeous George and the Twirler – apparently she was only holding his hand to comfort him

I wasn’t going to go down because I hate airports – the queues and all the waiting around are akin to water torture for ADHD sufferers like me – but the wife, who has a hot thing for old Gorgeous, the wanton wench, demanded that I did, and that I pass her fond regards and a curiously wax sealed envelope to Emerald City Casanova while I was there. I protested that I was too busy and that I had defamation defenses to serve on drongos, but she told me to shut the hell up and do what I was told or she’d get out the stick, and let me tell you from bitter experience you don’t want to be on the wrong end of the Bead Twirler’s stick, not if you’ve got any common sense and a low tolerance to pain anyway.

So there I was in old Sydney town sucking schooners of Resch’s pink lemonade and playing the pokies with Gorgeous George at the rissole, and there the twirler was in BrisVegas with a bloody brilliantly crafted defo defense in her hand, or anyway she was after I remembered as the neddies crossed the line in the third at Nowra that I’d forgotten to draft it and scribbled it down on a beer coaster that I shot over the telegraph wires and frantically implored her to file in the court registry.

Ever obedient, particularly when I’m doing her the favor of passing love letters to her Lothario, the Twirler raced into town, tossed the document across the desk jockey’s desk, copped it on the rebound freshly stamped and sealed, and headed off to the home of the hapless lawyer Paul ‘Huddo’ Hudson from which he operates his third-grade legal firm with his partners and his mates. That is, alone. The Leighton in the rum outfit’s name Hudson Leighton is his middle name.

As the Twirler was turning the key in the Torana’s ignition though, she suddenly realised that she didn’t have a bloody clue where Huddo’s house cum law practice (no it doesn’t always make perfect) was, so she grabbed the antiquated Samsung with the smashed screen and called on Dr Google to prescribe a cure as she dashed down the driveway of the District Court and set off up the one-way Turbot street headed in the wrong direction.


My old Mum always used to say when she was alive that prevention is better than a cure, and although it didn’t do her much good in the long run she was right, for it wasn’t the blaring horns of the trucks hurling at her head on that stopped the Twirler in her tracks on Turbot Street, but rather the discovery from the Doc that our man Huddo had form for putting his paws on sheilas and assaulting them.

That was no idle speculation on the old quack Google MD’s behalf, but rather the learned opinion of a Supreme Court judge, and if there’s one thing the Twirler respects more than the size of Gorgeous George’s genitals it’s the law. And if there’s one thing she hates worse than weirdo wanker lawyers and trivia types, it’s blokes who go the bash on women, so there was no way in wonderland that she was going to go anywhere near Huddo on her own, not without the Butterfly family Glock anyway, and as I later found out that particular piece of powerful weaponry was in the wax sealed envelope that I’d handed to Gorgeous only minutes before.

There was only one thing for it she decided: just like George, she needed a bodyguard (he’s got three, but the Twirler’s made of sterner stuff than the Greek stallion, and is a whole tougher too. After all, she’s got the stick). So she called up the six foot four nephew who holds the State junior heavyweight kickboxing belt and demanded his presence at Huddo’s house at number 40 Ralston Street, Herston on the double.


The bodyguard nephew echoes what we all think of Huddo’s behavior toward women

The young fella who’s handy with his fists instantly agreed – he’s seen the stick too – but teenagers being teenagers he had to finish the fifty-fifth stage of Skyrim on the Xbox first, and then he had to gel up his hair and change his muscle singlet three times, and send a squillion texts to his twenty true loves, and make a few raids on the fridge, before finally getting his arse into gear and rocking up and meet his Aunty at the Maccas up the road from Huddo’s to accompany her to the loose-handed lawyer’s joint and by his presence dissuade the decidedly unchivalrous cheap shot merchant from having a crack at her.

He succeeded, and the defense was delivered, but of course by this time it was an hour late and the hapless Huddo, deprived of the opportunity to harass another defenseless dame, decided this was his opportunity to topple Archie Butterfly, and off he raced to the registry to lodge his third doomed application to have your hero deemed defamatory.

Funnily enough though the low-rent lawyer seemingly had a change of heart between Wednesday of last week – when I served him with a notice that I wished to cross-examine him about his historical conduct toward sheilas and the presumed ongoing threat that he posed to their well being – and Friday, because when the half-baked halfwit turned up to court for the hearing he was brandishing a brand new piece of paper that he pegged at me as he rose from his pew to address the court, and it turned out to be an amended application that he had lodged with the court just the day before.

And lo and behold, there was no mention of the hour overdue service of the defense!

Strange that, for I’m sure Huddo held no fear of being stung like a bee by a floating butterfly probing him about his ungentlemanly behavior toward birds in the past. He wouldn’t would he? Surely not, because if he didn’t stand by his dastardly deeds he wouldn’t have done them in the first place would he?

The whole thing’s a mystery to me, but anyway the upshot was that he got dusted again by the beak and it seems that it’s three strikes and you’re out because the stupefied solicitor was sternly advised by the boss on the bench that under no circumstances was he to make any further crazed applications to the court other than to politely request a trial date and have his bloody bonkers heard, just like he should have done in the first place. Who says there’s no such thing as justice hey?

And that would have been all she wrote, and all I wrote too.

Except for one thing.

In his amended court documents the dickhead protested that I had failed to seek comment from the Sky News broadcaster Paul Murray – whose baby son Huddo’s client called a grub – prior to publishing my story calling McMicking one. A grub that is.

So manna from heaven, the Good Lord provides just like the sex-abuse covering-up Chaplain at St Paul’s in the 80’s said he would, and Archie has been gifted another story to strap the solicitor and his queer client with, and the pain in the arse pair of plaintiff pretenders can read it below and weep.

Never wrestle with pigs my old Mum also used to say, and as usual she was spot on.You both get dirty, and the pig likes it.

Oink oink!