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Regular readers will be aware that a few months ago – after Mrs Butterfly’s car was towed from the car park of a Cafe in Racecourse Road, Ascot while her indoors was urgently rushing our pregnant eldest child to a public toilet to spew her guts up from morning sickness – we declared jihad on the towing companies and wrote a series of articles exposing the rampant rorts, cons, kickbacks, car thefts and straight out extortion that is rife in the towing industry.

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Some readers have written in asking what the hell happened to our war against the hoist and hook car thieves, and suggesting that we may have gone soft. In fact as recently as yesterday we received received correspondence from a reader wanting an update on the status of the conflict.

This was our reply:

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Loose lips sink ships so we’ve had to keep things under wraps while certain investigations sparked by our expose were taking place, but when it comes to declarations of total war readers of this site never need to worry about our resolve, or be of little faith, for as I have stated consistently if you punch a Geebung boy in the face you’re going to get a f*cking kicking in return.

And if we have to wait a while until you forget the danger and drop your guard before we strike, well all the better because we can piss ourselves laughing at you for your foolishness and call you a f*cking imbecile while we’re sinking the boot in, and that just doubles the fun, especially if the lair copping the leather is a jumped up jackass toff from the top end of town whose tow-truck driver mate threatened my wife and my life.

As I was telling my mate Gorgeous George when I rang him straight after the threats were made for a bit of advice, the missus and I were quaking in our bloody boots. Not from fear of course – once you’ve been raped and someone’s tried to kill you and failed you tend not to be scared of anything ever again – but from laughing so hard that we were our wetting our bloody undies.

We were laughing even harder when we received a letter from the tow truck company owner’s lawyers making all manner of spurious claims about what the fairy with the big mouth who likes threatening women claims I may have said when I called him back after hanging up from the chat with Gorgeous George.

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Archie and the Plastic Gangster Wog Wonderboy sucking margaritas down by the beach in Sydney (above); a holiday snap Gorgeous got me to take one day when we were down the Goldie having a beer with a couple of his mates (below); and a book George’s mate Mick gave me when we were having lunch one day in Carlton (bottom). It’s a good read too.

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All I said when I rang this Abu-Zaid clown’s unlisted number was that George and I wanted to come around to his unlisted address – which I quoted to him, just in case he’d forgotten where he lived – for a cup of tea and a chin-wag. What the hell’s threatening about that? I was merely offering out the hand of friendship, but the bloody bastard just bit it instead and bolted off to hide behind some boys in blue. What a weirdo.

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I blame Gorgeous George myself. He runs around town pretending he’s tough and talking it up to journalists just to make himself look good in the hope that he might one day pull a sheila, and this is what bloody happens.

I guess I can’t blame him for what’s gone on today. I’ll have to take that one firmly on my own shoulders and nod to the beak and say ‘guilty your honor’.

Then smile and softly say ‘it was a pleasure’.

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