Some birds talk a good game but can’t sing for more than six hours solidly at a stretch. Don’t those little blue pills work for sheilas, or is it just that they can’t stay the course?
Need to check, but my understanding is no drums were found. They were only ‘seen’ being carried by ‘the man’ (one) a ‘witness’ spotted walking to the bottom of the stairs, pouring it out, and igniting it. Don’t hold me to it, but that’s my recall. Had to be just one cos the other was driving – Stuart and Finch, 2 man job.
The theory that is going to be presented at the inquest is that it was Stuart, Finch, Vince and Tommy Hamilton (wheelman). Maybe McCulkin too, but probably not because that would fuck up their triple murder motive. They alternatively had rape (1) or Torinos (2). Touched on Whiskey, but only a little bit.
Here’s something odd. O’Gorman made a pre-trial application to get Whiskey out, and succeeded. Then, at sentencing, Vince – who never says a thing the whole committal and trial – bursts out with some crap about Whiskey. And the Judge uses it as justification to bring Whiskey into the sentencing remarks, and lo and behold with days the Attorney-General announces a resumption of inquest 44 years later.
You can smell it can’t you, even though you don’t know what it is. I don’t either. The odour’s there though, don’t you worry about that.
The verbal never died, did it. It just evolved.
People I know back that bloke we talked about to the hilt. A few times I have thrown mirror balls in the air that don’t show his reflection too good, and each time my friends have told me that the ball must be crook, not old mate. My gut is that it’s 100%.
Brian Earl Toner from Baffle Creek.
424 plants – street value $2.14 million estimate – put it in the billy and swigged it with milk and 2 sugars. Yeah right. Curious thing is that the prosecutors put this nonsense up in 2004 and Daubney ran with it. Murphy was still alive then. Old but alive. Could he have run the show until the grave? Or did he have an heir? Dunno. Maybe both.
Hallahan, not Halloran. Didn’t want to appear rude and correct you earlier, but am now – not being rude, correcting you.
Any game Redmond had going had Murphy in it. Would have been the big game. The politicians. It’s little known – maybe not at all – and certainly not published (other than by me) but I have a working theory they were boyhood friends – Murphy the older kid, Redmond friends with his brother, or vice versa – Murphy encourages Redmond to become a cop, old days stick. Murphy runs the rugged street stuff but doesn’t want his old mate Ronnie’s hands dirtied, so keeps him out of it. And lets him do what Ron is good at – schmooze. Always with Murphy’s interests in mind. Both their dads were small businessman, not coppers. Murphy’s a newsagent, Redmond’s a butcher. At the Fairfield fiveways, their shops 20m away, their houses 200m.
Redmond and Murphy had their own game. The others knew it, but didn’t complain, because the Red/Murph game stitched up the pollies and if you didn’t have the pollies stitched you couldn’t get the lucrative street earn could you, and then how would you buy your fucking caravan or boat?
Shady Lane was in the Redmond/Murphy joke. Certainty. Copped slings from the other, but he was the third man in the big one. Bet my life on it.
Redmond lived opposite the house where Brifman got killed.
He owned 2 other houses down the road, both on Bonney Avenue, both on corners. My mad mate and I (see below) went out there for a drive a couple of months ago and stood outside them all. Walking up and down the street in the dark even now we saw how easy it would have been. Looked straight in Shirley Brifman’s window. Could have killed her ourselves if we were that way inclined, and had a tardis.
Gee Murphy was an evil prick. It shows in his early photos – just look at his eyes – but somehow he became softer looking with age. He aged quick too. Devils always do. Speaking of, Norths aren’t travelling too well in the Q-Cup are they? Guess nothing much good comes out of Nundah, except my Mum and my mate Donnie and his lot.
So Brifman dies and Redmond and Lane move to Hamilton (Lane went there before Shirl ‘OD’d’. Ronnie after), mansions on the hill. Neighbors with the pollies at the top end of town. Murphy had Labor, Lane had Liberal, Redmond – Sir Ed Lyons will be the link – had the Nats. Fucking perfect. A total stitch.
Rogerson wasn’t on secondment like the article you read said, nor was Fred Krahe. Very little reported and very hard to find, but 4 NSW cops and 2 Victorians flew to Brisbane on the first plane the morning of the fire. We know Roger and Fred, and the 3rd one is a cop named Noel Morey who never got fingered but was clearly dirtier than Provan and Summons after playing a Grand Final in the mud. Dunno who the 4th man is. I could guess, but won’t. And the Victorians names have never ever been mentioned. I bet a bloke name Brian ‘Skull’ Murphy (no relation to Tony) was one of them.
Why would Qld detectives – notoriously close shopped – want 6 interstate coppers to help them find a bloke who must certainly have been a gimme, given how quick they collected Stuart and binned him?
Redmond typed the Stuart/Finch statements. Greg Early did the shorthand. All but 2 in the room were bent. And Early later protects his mate Kevin Lynch the Ped. D’uh.
Koch is just a mad right-wing Pell style fundamentalist Catholic. Not crook, just stupid. The stories he made hay from are just ones that were fed.
Reason I first raised junkie juice was that a wise man widely – and I say half-wrongly – regarded as nuts told me that the way the fire went up reminded him of how the fires used to go up in Vietnam when he served over there. Can’t remember the name of the stuff they used but basically it was something to so with napalm.
Got me thinking, and keeps me thinking. Professor of my acquaintance named John Jiggens – PHD topic drugs in Australia – tells me that heroin didn’t kick big til 1975, and you tell me a similar thing. Normal person would give the idea up. But my old man, who was a Commonwealth Government driver 1965-73 and was always parked on street corners or in side streets and alleys waiting for the big shot he was chauffeuring to finish drinking piss, told me he saw American soldiers shooting up in the dark for at least the last couple of years during that time.
Someone had to be selling them the gear. And a smart bloke would foresee that perhaps something that made people feel so good when they’d been feeling bad might become popular, just like it had a year or two before in Sydney, and inspired a bloke named Bernie Houghton to move over here from the States and set up the Bourbon and Beefsteak bar at the Cross where I used to occasionally – and never on a Sabbath – buy a tab of acid/ecstacy as late as 1988 from my mate from work and boss who picked his retail stock up there.
Houghton was one of the Nugan Hand boys. Sounds whacko, but it’s the key to the whole lot. They were all part of it, the Golden Triangle run.
I reckon the GI’s were getting their whack from the Little boys (whiskey owners, kiwis, almost certainly in the Terry Clark cartel, minor players at the brissy end) and Murphy, through his Sydney connections, saw the future. And decided to burn every other cunt out and put his own boys in. The wogs, dagos to be sure but catholic like him and mafia code too.
Someone fucked up with Whiskey, and it all seemed to fall apart. Bet it fucking didn’t though. Funny Billy Phillips lived behind Barb and Billy Mac wasn’t it? And had a gate between their yards. And that in his first statement – before the bent cops saw it and went WHAT THE FUCK! – Norman Wild, Billy Mac’s sober driver, said the first time he took Bill back to the house, the day after he was supposed to have discovered his family gone, Bill went downstairs and over the back fenceto the neighbours, and returned carrying a sports bag.
Guess what was inside the bag?
A shottie. Sawn off.
Fair dinkum. I have copies of the original statements (so does my mate the Brain, a judge in New Zealand, and my wife’s cousin the doctor in Europe, and a priest, and a couple of lawyers both here and abroad, and lots of comrade bloggers all over the show).
This is far too way out there and obscure for ordinary punter journalists who have led a decent life and regard angst as some existential issue to see, even good ones who write outstanding trilogies about Qld crime. This is a jigsaw, the sort of case in which it takes one to know one, in broad terms, to put the pieces together if you know what I mean.
Not that I’m one.
But victims can see too, and understand. Especially smart ones who don’t seem so because someone sinister sent their sensibilities to Siberia just because they could, and didn’t care about the consequences, and liked it, lots.
Loading up villains is easy. Most of them live in the redneck sticks or the Housing Commission, and are suckers for smart copper’s sucker tricks. Not disparaging the fellas, it’s just the truth and I like telling it, and respect them just the same.
Every nation has castes. It’s how the punters deal with them that tells a nation’s story. And ours is fucking great. It’s why there are two-one millionth of fuck all Aussies in India and Pakistan and Bangladesh, and a million and sixteen from there trying to sail down the Brisbane River in a leaky boat; because Australia is fucking great.
Real Aussies know that telling a bloke hey mate ain’t too bright but you love your kin and feed the chooks too so you’re ok isn’t knocking him, it’s saying you’re just like me, only different, cos we all are. Different I mean. We are one, but we are many and all that, and we all sit down to shit don’t we, even the Queen.
Equality and honesty are hard concepts if you intellectual wank them, but when you break it down to the simple ‘G’day mate’ and ‘Give the poor bastard a fair go’ it’s really pretty bloody easy.
Pulling up pedophiles is easy too if you’re a quarter smart copper with an ear to the ground and have a bit of the fire of decency in your belly.
Problem is that the pay’s a lot better for a cop if he doesn’t. Men in suits carry cash, and transactions are swift, and hard to trace, and blokes who can close their eyes and ears and look toward the ground when kiddy fiddlers are around tend to get rich. Never forget for a second that Queensland’s a young pup of a settlement built on the back of killing, conquest, rape, convicts, queers, cruelty, cock-ups and ceaseless white collar crime. And that some things never change.
Some do too, but a hundred and sixty years of history ain’t enough to even tell the weather, let alone justify or let slide the deeds of a generation of swine, and if anyone truly believes one hard hotting inquiry with terms of reference that limit it to certain blokes and years and never touches on drugs or child sex is enough to change the course of Corruption River then have I got a deal for them on this bottle of water full of the fountain of youth.
The truth has gotta be told, otherwise we are all just liars. Let these c*nts get away with it and you might as well give up. A couple of years ago I decided to be like the bloke in that movie and always tell the truth, and to the consequences devil may care. I don’t want to be called Johnny Layonmyback, or Geeva Miup, or officer, inmate or Sir.
I just wanna be called a bloke who said it like it was. And loved his kids, and wanted to leave them a better world. Shoot me? No worries, ready, aim, fire. Better make sure you don’t miss though, if you know what I mean.
I don’t. I rarely do. Not that I’d ever admit to anyway.
A few shots of free whiskey usually blurs a bent cops vision.
Don’t let it blind you.
PS Did I tell you why those birds are so bloody tired? Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!