And so it is, just like Archie said it would be,
The BRC board’s under the pump.
Some prolific writer who knows his stuff is starting to expose the rorts.
The CEO’s been sprung fiddling with Fairies and copping kickbacks and finds him self standing in the middle of the straight with a 24 horse field a half a furlong away and coming straight at him hard.
The writer’s applied to join the club, and told ’em why. He’s planning to run for a Director’s spot and shut all the scams down.
Geez Louise what the f*ck are they going to do?
What they’ve always done.
They pull a rort.
The rude boys admit 45 new members, almost certainly all their mates, but they don’t admit the scandal exposing writer who was ahead of nearly all of the 45 in the membership admission waiting queue.
Of course they don’t have the guts or the common decency to advise the writer about what they’re doing with his membership – like all cowards they hide behind a woman, and let the office girl cop the flack – and they don’t tell him what they’ve done, but the writer’s not surprised because he used to chuck jellyfish at his brother down on the beach at Cribb Island when they were kids, and knows that no see-through wobbler has ever had a spine.
The slip it in your pockets and suck free piss plonkers issue an updated Strategic Plan that’s got a whole lot of the bullsh*t and waffle from previous one stripped out of it, so it looks like they’ve refocused on racing, and that they care.
The plan’s full of dodged up numbers that have been hustled to make the ham-fisted hustlers look good, but in their haste to halt the marching honest soldiers they’ve forgotten that that their fiddled figures don’t match what’s out there publicly in the annual reports.
They’re oblivious to that though, or they were until now. Rude boys rushing to cover-up their rorts and save their skins always are; if they were smart they would never have thought they could get away scot-free with doing the wrong things from the start.
They announce an Annual General Meeting and send out the notices late on a Friday afternoon after close of business , and give the absolute minimum notice period for members wishing nominate as Directors of the Club Board.
The blokes who f*cked the track and turned the lights out on cup day have made their move, and have the shellaleigh pulled and firmly clasped in their claw.
They’ve hit the lead and kicked away and they;re cheering and think they’re home.
But blokes who reckon they run charity Kingston Town clubs shouldn’t forget what happened on a Tuesday in November in ’82.
And Malcom Johnston was only up in the writer’s hood in Geebung just the other day.
They’ve gone before the clocktower.
But have they gone too early?
Have they made their run too soon?