So here you are sitting on a goldmine.

You’re a director of a limited guarantee sporting club that owns a swathe of the most primo untapped freehold residential land in the whole of the Sunshine State, a collection of pieces of dirt that the white-shoe wearing spivs with access to deep lines of credit have been salivating over for decades. If you walk outside holding a for sale sign you’ll be knocked over by a bullrush of spivs before you can even knock it into the ground, and the queue of eager wanna be buyers behind them will stretch from Racecourse Road over the Gateway Bridge and all the way to Cleveland.

Selling this little piece of inner-city real estate heaven’s like backing Winx in three horse maiden against a couple of Clydesdale’s, it’s the best of unbeatable certainty good things. All you have to do is waltz up to the nearest satchel swinger and plonk your money down and then proceed straight to the collect cue and every punter at the track knows it. Winx is ten to one on with every bookie in the world and no-one anywhere is going to get you a better price even if you lay down in front of them and beg.

You wouldn’t go and engage a commission agent to go and plonk the cash down for you would you? Why on earth would you bother? After all, Winx is just as sure a thing to win than Jackie Trad is to sell State assets, so why the hell would you want to pay someone to put your bets on when all they’re going to do is take a cut of your London to a Brick certain profits.

So why did the Brisbane Racing Club pay Director Richard ‘Little Dick’ Morrison’s company a hundred and fifty grand to give away the company’s highly sought and totally in demand sliced off the racetrack Ascot land to property developer Mirvac when in fact the spivs should have been paying the BRC for the privilege of buying it?

Because it was a rort, that’s why.

A massively conflicted, blatantly confected and conflated con job that effectively picked $150 000 from the $10 a head limited liability company charged with the basic task of running horse races half-decent enough to incite a coven of compulsive gamblers to chuck everything they own into a pari-mutual pool that promises them an instant deduction of 16 cents tax for every dollar spent.

Paying someone 150 large to sell much salivated over rare inner city real estate is like slinging a sailor your life savings to take you down to the dock and find a boat.

Yet the Brisbane Racing Club did it, and the board didn’t just pay anyone the price of a brand new Merc to flog a gold mine to a salivating, proven corrupt construction company that would have offered them gilt-played options for the privilege, they paid a company directly associated with one of their own.


The payment wasn’t illegal because the company constitution – any impartial observer would swear it must have been drafted by George Freeman – allows for BRC Directors to directly profit from their inside run, but gee that constitution’s dodgy, and when you learn that BRC Director Little Dick Morrison – whose day job is as the Director of Commercial Sales at Knight Frank the Spivved Up Real Estate Agent – was gifted the exclusive rights to spruik the sale of the Eagle Farm gold mine, and you can’t find a tender document or expression of interest that could prove that the contract was open and above board, you are entitled to proffer an opinion that the fix was probably in.

So I will. The fix was probably in, and the whole thing’s as short a price as Winx in the three horse maiden to have been a boat race to benefit Morrison’s company, which should have been not just at arm’s length from the whole asset sale, but the length of the Flemington 1200 straight six barrier stalls away.

In an industry that spends tens of millions of dollars on a Racing Integrity Commission, it’s a f*cking disgrace.

There you go chaps – and the BRC directors are all chaps, no glass ceilings there – I’ve gone out on a limb and said it.

If it ain’t true, sue.

It’s not only George Moore who knows how to blow a whistle.


Great balls of where there’s smoke there’s fire – the Brisbane Racing Club Board of Directors – and not a single pair of tits to be seen