Want to know what I’ve been doing for the past eight hours?
Well I’m going to tell you anyway, because my exertions are going to make me more famous than Pheidippedes, the ancient wog ancestor of Gorgeous George who invented the marathon, and I feel I owe it to my loyal readers to let you be the first to know, so you that in 2028 you can quite honestly look the grandkids in the eye and tell ’em ‘I know the mad bastard who dreamed that up, and I was there’.
Have I got you puzzled about what Archie’s been up to since the clock struck twelve and Cinderella didn’t come home? Well wonder no more, because all is now revealed.
I’ve been inventing a new Olympic Sport.
I’ve named it the Glancy ShoeBrick, in honor of that pervo director who deified pedophiles in the movie Lolita, and later became famous for his use of special effects in fantasy films he created like 2001 – A Space Odyssey ,and A.I. – Artificial Intelligence.
You know, that bloke who made the movie Clockwork Orange, and shot that perverted paean to wannabe kinky weirdos Eyes Wide Shut.
Old Stan would be bloody proud of me too I bet because the event I’m named after him is an absolute cracker, a sport in which blokes and birds can compete on even footing, and that no amount of steroids or EPO can ever help a drug cheat treat win. In fact the Glancy Shoebrick is probably the only sport in the history of the whole wide world that can be contested by top-ranked punters from across the globe and won by none, because the built in degree of difficulty is so bloody high that only a genius can score a perfect ten.
A genius like corrupt Queensland copper Pat Glancy, the unsung hero of the five-ringed circus who was the inspiration for this amazing new invention of mine. I’ll tell you more about the great man in a minute, for his humility is an inspiration to us all, but first let me explain how the Glancy Shoebrick works.
The game’s quite simple, and the rules are straightforward.
First you have to go to an unlicensed dyke bar full of underage fresh meat in the Valley, take some illicit drugs in your palm or up your arm, and wash them down with a sh*tload of illegally sold piss served by a bull who backhands slings to corrupt coppers.
While you’re doing so it’s compulsory that you work yourself up into a frenzied blood lust, and then tell all your mates that you want to go out and kill some someone, but just like 100m sprinters have to stay in their lanes, your someone has to be a stranger.
When you’re fully tanked up enough that you’re ready to go out and murder someone you’ve never met, you then have to convince three of your mates to come and join you, because there’s no You in team. and two’s never been a relay team and three’s always been a crowd.
Next you jump behind the wheel of your car and start driving around town looking for the lucky punter on whom you’re going to demonstrate your expertise in the fine art of Glancy Shoebricking, and when you find him you have to entice him into your car by telling him that you want to f*ck him senseless and making him want to do you too even though you’re 136 kilograms on a good diet day and are dressed like a bull dyke.
After you get the by now lust-struck or totally pissed punter in the car you have to drive him to a deserted park and take him in the shadows under a tree, which must be located near a river and behind a dimly lit public brick shit house.
There you have to get him to strip, taking off first his shoes and then his work clobber and last of all his undies, making sure that during the rapid disrobing you leave the bloke with his socks on.
After that it’s easy. All you have to do is stab him like a stuck pig enough times that he carks it, making sure during your frenzied attack that you leave a gaping hole in his neck wide enough for you to suck blood through, and then take a good guzzle of the said red wine before it all gushes out onto the ground.
Sounds bloody easy doesn’t it sportsfans, if you’ll pardon the pun, but it’s absolutely bloody not, and therein lies the innate beauty of the sport of the Glancy Shoebrick: what you see is what you don’t get, and what you get is what you see.
Allow me to explain.
Most Olympic events are built on illusions, like the 100 meter sprint. The mug punters sit in front of the idiot box imagining that the bunch of suntanned blokes they’re watching bolt neck and neck down a track at maximum velocity are motivated solely by the imperative of winning the prize of a gold medal struck from a mine dug by Cecil Rhodes and a lucrative endorsement deal with a cobbling company founded by a Japanese sly-grog merchant that makes a motza manufacturing knock-off imitation footwear in a global chain of third world sweatshops.
The reality though is that the sanitised, rose-colored suckers sales pitch about the sprinting spectacle that the sportsfans have been sold – and stupidly fallen hook, line and sinker for – is nothing of the sort. In fact it’s an absolute and utter crock.
What these punters are really watching is a modern day homage to the cotton plantation dash; a recreation of the age old run from Massa’s farm to the Canadian border that was made for centuries in days of yore by swift young African men who had been stolen from their homes by greedy white slave traders and sold on the block to even greedier white men, who using encouragement in the form of steel-spiked lash forced the young now Afro-Americans to work themselves to death picking cotton.
The only way out for these forebears of the rap generation was to fly off and out of the blocks and be lighting fast enough to bolt over the border, and thus the Olympic sport of athletics was born, and don’t let Gorgeous George or anyone ever tell you any different.
Of course no story is quite as simple as I’ve just told it, for once they’d won the 100 meter dash the slaves had to swim across the Caribbean through shark-infested waters to sparsely populated islands – erroneously these days described as ‘paradise’ due to a mis-spelling of the word used to described slave owners, ‘parasite’ – on which many of them starved. These gold medal winning flights across the water spawned the modern Olympic swimming events, but that particular quirk of history is a tale for another day.
The point I’m wanting to make is that lounge lizards of the world have been sold a massive dummy by sponsors about what Olympic sport is really all about, and that’s why the Glancy Shoebrick is so unique: because the name of this new game and its objective is 100% honest.
See sportsfans, the Glancy Shoebrick’s not about fitting slave descendants living in ghettos into cheap shoes spruiked by steroid junkies, it’s about fitting folk up.
Fitting them up with falsely planted evidence to be precise.
It’s game that anyone with a modicum of skill and a skull full of smarts can compete and win.
All you have to do is in drop a credit card in a shoe from shoulder height and make it land flat and snug. And do it in between stripping your intended murder victim down to his socks sans jocks and stabbing the bludger until he’s dead.
Sounds easy doesn’t it?
So bloody easy that a Vampire Lesbian Killer can do it.
But I have some bad news for you sportsfans.
I’ve made three thousand seven hundred and sixty four attempts to drop the card into the shoe so it lands exactly like it does in the picture at the top of the page, and I’ve failed every bloody time.
Now it’s your turn punters.
Go on, have a crack.
Go for gold and prove me a mug.
There’s only once condition – you’re not allowed to pretend that the dead bloke put the card in his shoe himself unless you can produce fingerprint evidence to show that he touched it. If you can’t then it’s cheating.
You never know, you might even prove that the evidence that convicted Tracey Wiggington guilty wasn’t crook in the process.
Yep, cards might fall flat in shoes. The fourth defendant in the Baldock murder might really have been innocent. Pigs might even fly.
And Tony Murphy may well just have been an honest cop after all.