Geoffrey Luck, retired ABC journalist turned defender of dead pedophile protectors, commenting [posted this evening in response to our story about his school headmaster’s cover-up of the crimes of pedophile Churchie teacher Hamilton William Nation Leslie:

Bravo Archie/Brendan! A brilliant piece, well up to the quality of reporting by your mates Matt Condon and Mike McKenna. It’s what happens when you’re all fed by Amanda Gearing.

Pity about the facts tho’. Hamilton Leslie was dismissed from Churchie in the second term, 1964. Your two standover coppers, Lawrence Welldon and John Fulton were sentenced on July 25.1968 for their attempt to shake down Leslie on September 6. 1967. That was three, yes THREE years after he left Churchie. By then he had spent 18 months as a stockbroker clerk, then opened his arcade trinket shop with his wife.

You reported the Eagle St affair on May 10 last year, as I recall, but you’re always a bit light on with dates. Is that so people can’t catch you out?

BTW neither Tony Morris nor I approved of the abuse, nor excused Leslie. We just pointed out that Harry Roberts wasn’t responsible for keeping him on, or covering up the event, as Archbishop Aspinall would like everyone to think. It was his predecessor, Archbishop Strong and his school council who protected Leslie. Get with it Brendan!

What is it with these people like Geoffrey Luck who delude themselves that they are clever when, with a smirk on theirs stupid mugs, they insist on calling you by the long-renounced name you bore at the time you were raped as a thirteen year old child?

Do people like Mr Luck not realise that your birth name is no secret and never has been, or that you legally changed it – with your Mum’s blessing by the way – as a symbol of your determination to wash away the filth of the criminal child-abusing psychopath(s) who without a thought for anything in the world other than their deviant sexual desires violated your lithe, smooth hairless boy’s body, and in the process damn near ruined your life?

A fool named Ernie Terrell – whose sister was Jean was the lead singer of The Supremes, apropos of nothing – once refused to refer to Muhammed Ali by anything other than his despised former slave name Cassius Clay.

An incensed Ali declared that Terrell was nothing but “an Uncle Tom nigger who is going to get his ass whupped”, Tand being a man who prided himself on making promises not threats Ali was true to his word, extracting a terrible toll from Terrell for his intransigence when The Greatest beat him to an absolute pulp during their 1967 heavyweight title bout, screaming ‘What’s my name sucker? Say my name!’ during every bone-shaking furious fistilistic flurry he launched.

Ernie Terrell never called the champion Cassius again.

I grew up in Geebung and we were taught on our father’s knee not to land right crosses on the craniums of geriatric geezers or laywers – in the latter case at least not when they are looking and can easily ID you –  so he Ali strategy for dealing with dickhead recalcitrant’s is not available to me when during my deliberations on what to about Geoffrey and his old school tie loving mate Tony Faciem durum cacantis habes Morris.

The pen’s mightier than the sword anyway, or at least those who haven’t gone 15 rounds with Ali say, and I can wield a pen as well as most punters with a rape-interrupted grade 12 education, so the pen it must be and the pen it is.

Geoffrey, you’re a bumbling fool and an idiot. It was just a school, not the Garden of Eden, and Harry Roberts was simply your head school master, he wasn’t your Dad.

The simple fact is that he made an informed election to personally employ and protected later protect pedophiles in preference to keeping the little you and your equally little schoolmates past, present and future safe from harm, and if his decision to elevate the dark desires of deviants above the imperative to protect infants in his scale of priorities has in the fulness of time become his legacy then all I can say is that he did it to himself and that he damn well deserves the opprobrium too.

Henry Emmanuel Roberts was no hero; he was merely a harbinger of pain, a man  who who promised to turn the lads entrusted to his care into the leaders of tomorrow, but instead allowed depraved monsters to imprint ‘”Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” – abandon hope all ye who enter here – upon the bright young boys souls.

Reflecting by reference to my first-hand experience on the carnage caused by poorly-evolved predators, I have long argued that those who knowingly permit pedophiles to perpetrate their their criminal acts are equally as evil as the once-trusted Pans themselves. Perhaps worse even, for the child molester is an inherently deviant deceiver who carries inside an illness that no expert can cure; what then are the Harry Roberts, Max Howells and the Gilbert Case’s of the world, the men with knowledge of the indecencies that their kiddy-fiddling friends are committing against hitherto carefree young boys, but do nothing to act?

Try as I might I simply cannot find a word or phrase to adequately describe the gravity of their seemingly guiltless ambivalence to their publicly professed God-fearing hatred of sin, or the cavernous depths of their betrayal.

So, lost for words, I simply expose them by striving assiduously to deconstruct the vault like walls of deception, lies and deceit that they and their fellow travelers have for reasons known only to them constructed and, flying in the face of all the available evidence, they continue to maintain, thus demonstrating that the walls of deception are but hollow shells built by even hollower men.

It’s the year 2017.

The time for lies has come to an end.

Anyone who has listened to seemingly never-ending torrent of horror stories told by child rape victims at the Royal Commission must demand that the time of tolerance for the deceptions of loquacious liar by decent society has come to an end too.

The blinds are slowly being drawn down on the despoiled lives of so many boys whose psycho-sexual schoolmasters all those years ago taught to abandon hope. We owe it to them to rage against the dying of their light, to unveil the truth of the terrible deeds that were perpetrated upon them while men they trusted to save them simply turned and looked the other way, to put an end to all the lies.

Hamilton William Nation Leslie was a parasitic pedophile who lived for 81 years before  his brutal sexual misconduct toward boys was uncovered and he was forced by a court of law to confront the indisputable terrible truth about what he had done.

Henry Emmanual Roberts was his employer and his friend, the headmaster of an elite private boys school who did absolutely nothing to prevent Leslie forcing young men to fornicate with him, and then created a fallacious stockbroking fantasy to conceal what the hideous creature cavorting in his house was and had done.

Roberts lived a long and presumably happy life, and went to his grave without ever being called to account for his actions, or his criminal neglect of the children so trustingly placed into his care.

Dead men can’t sue, it is true.

They can’t be prosecuted either, or pay a requisite price for the devastation that they have wreaked.

The only place they can be tried beyond the grave is in the court of public opinion, and in that great old age forum of free speech there is no amount of tautological twisting and turning of yesteryear’s laws can ever hide what good people know innately to be the immutable truth of the words that Saint Matthew expressed two millennia ago in the famous book upon which the foundations of Churchie are proclaimed to have been built.

But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and [that] he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

The pedophile Hamilton Leslie did not leave the employ of the Church of England Grammar School in second term 1964, and I have never been fed by Amanda Gearing, a freelance journalist and conflicted Anglican Church adherent who I took drastic steps 12 months ago to prevent from ever having the ability to contact with me again. Despite my Christian upbringing I wouldn’t piss on Leslie or Gearing if either of them were on fire.

I’m not sure if I’d piss on Geoffrey Luck either, at least not while the man continues to practice his trade as a wholesale pedophile apologist and twister of hard truths.

I told you yesterday the true story of how the Churchie headmaster Harry Roberts covered up for the child abusing criminal Leslie for years, and how he allowed the miserable excuse for a man 9 months grace to pack his port after the actions of corrupt police officers forced him unwillingly to tell his colleague and friend that the full-time hooter had sounded on his kiddy fiddling career at Churchie.

As always, I have backed my claims with hard evidence and continue to do so – see the electoral records from 1968 below, and tell me if you see the word ‘Stockbroker’ next to Hamilton William ‘Abomi’ Nation Leslie’s name, because I see another word starting with ‘S’ there and it doesn’t say Sicko, even though it should.

Geoffrey Luck has accused me of being a liar.

But I can assure you all sportsfans that there’s only one pair of liars dancing this particular Tango of deceit, and neither of the pricks is me.

It’s funny isn’t it how Luck and Morris – the blowhard double team who claim to have conducted exhaustive research into the affairs of men and boys at their beloved old school, and the actions or inactions of head masters (space in between intended) in response –  have blown a blizzard’s worth of hot air in defence of their Heracles of a one time headmaster Harry Roberts and made a frenzy of furious claims about alleged facts relating to the matter, but somewhat more than oddly the pair have failed to place a single document in the public arena to prove that any of their assertions are in fact true.

What do you reckon we call that fellas?

A denial of justice? Or a straw house built on a foundation of lies?

Over to you Tony and Geoffrey.

Show us what you’ve got, or shut the f*ck up.

The balls in the Churchie deviant-defenders court.

I guess the balls always have been.

Editor’s postscript:

Hercules – real name Heracles – liked young boys heads too, and didn’t mind knocking a few of them off just for fun. In fact he once got so carried away with himself that he actually killed three young lads entrusted to his care.

The dead kids names were Therimachus, Deicoon, and Creontiades, which is tragic but also kind of ironic when you slightly mispronounce  the names in modern English – ‘There I Make Arse’, ‘The Con’, and ‘Cretinish Aides’. 

Hercules pleaded insanity and copped a not guilty verdict from the mislead jury. It’s not known if the deceased boys attended Churchie, or whether Tony Morris was the Queer Customer who represented the kid killer at the trial.

Later down the track the Gods granted Hercules the gift of eternal youth.

Geoffrey Luck and Tony Morris are still searching for it.