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Extract from transcript of Dubois triple murder trial. Or farce, whichever you prefer.

It’s waned, not waived dickhead.

And Archie didn’t indistinct himself.

He was unprintabled by an assembly of unprincipled unctuous amoebas.

But Archie didn’t fly away.

He just escaped the chrysalis.

And just by chance, and by way of an island in the sun, the jurisdiction.

But just like The Terminator, he’ll be back.

You may wonder where I’ve been for the past fortnight or so Sportsfans,

In despair is the answer, struggling to cope with watching my Dad take the fast march toward death. He’s not there yet – and I hope he won’t be for centuries, although I’d be kidding myself to think so – but it’s been hard, real hard. Gee I love that man, and it hurts watching him wilt.

But every darkness has a dawn, and so I’ve expended my anger at the Gods and the time of my grief plotting revenge on certain Henry Lawson the wife-basher loving fuckers who haven’t read the Banjo thoroughly, or understood ABP anyway, and thus in their ignorance believe that you can put shit on Geebung boys and get away with it scot-free.

How wrong can a clown be?

You bloody idiots.

The way to get revenge on smart arsed judges and lawyers is to prove them wrong, and have them tossed on appeal.

So guess what Judges?

(Yes one has become two – funny that – and maybe Mr Meredith will be hurled a wig too and we might find ourselves with a holy, or unholy, or perhaps wholly hopeless trinity).

Guess what?

You fucked up. It’s all a matter of evidence, and statute, and law.

Let me give you a little clue.

Douglas Meredith.


Double Hearsay,

Triple hearsay even.

Let me give you another clue.

Painters and Dockers.

Ten tonne importations.

Royal Commissions.


Harboring murderers.

Growing dope in Warwick.

Can’t work it out wig wearers?

Let’s try again.

Billy McCulkin.

The Evidence Act.

Section 93.

Judicial responsibility.

Shortly after.


Williams para 49.


Really? Did anyone think to tell the apple that fell from the tree?


Statements. Witness statements.

Contrasting witness statements.

Or should that be conflicting?

Still lost fellas in red?

Summing ups.


Corroborations about chats in cars. Or not.


We have it all.

Oh dear.

You should have read the Banjo fellas.

And not been such arrogant cuff and collar wearing c*nts.

I know that you can’t understand what I’m on about sportsfans, but just bear with me, okay, ‘cos in the coming weeks I’m about to show you that in Queensland the verbal never really died, and how the legal and judicial arms of our great democracy have hooked a murder trial to put a man away for life on evidence that he should never, ever have faced.

I’m not saying Garry Dubois is innocent sportsfans. I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t know.

But neither were any of the people who jacked up the case against him, and they couldn’t know either.

This is the important thing though.

If they can do it to Dubois, they can do it to you too.

And then what hope do any of us have?

Only the ghost riders of the Geebung Polo Club, that’s what.

That and butterflies.


It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn’t ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash —
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished,
and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city’s smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called `The Cuff and Collar Team’.
As a social institution ’twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode ’em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator’s leg was broken — just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died.

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There’s a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, `Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.’
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies’ feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub —
He’s been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.