A bloke named Ross Tinniswood (above) slagged me on Twitter a week ago.

Normally I wouldn’t have noticed such a thing, as I reckon social media is the last resort of the wretchedly insecure and give Facebook and Twitter and all that jazz a very wide berth as a general rule.

But in this case the little bird that brought it to my attention also told me a little tale, and the swallow’s story was that Ross Tinniswood – hereafter referred to as Roscoe because he’s shot himself in the foot – was a one time Director of the Brisbane Turf Club who’d sold his Doomben members into an amalgamation with the QTC across the road and sent them straight into the Cabbage Creek branch of the BrisVegas river.

I had a quick peek at a couple of old BTC annual reports and few other bits and pieces to verify that the little bird was singing straight and then, duly satisfied that the bird was bang on, I baited the hook and cast it back at the clown.


Step right up, step right up! Every player wins a prize!

Like a floundering fool the former Brisbane Turf Club bit.

Thanks Roscoe.

I never king a hit a bloke with a weak heart, but if he throws an ill-advised heap of hay makers only a hypocritical child-abusing Anglican Church official would ever try to argue that the cheap shot chucker weren’t fair game.

Blokes who drink in clubs and pubs not far from Geebung should be wise enough to know that fellas who sit and sip pink lemonade on a Saturday arvo always watch and listen to the pissed punters paralytic rants.

Some of them have bloody good memories you know.

Buy your ticket, take the ride son.



No Roscoe, as usual you’ve got it absolutely wrong.

The number one rule for mudslingers is never take on a bloke who’s smarter than you, or be so arrogant as to thing a bloke from the Bung is by definition dumb.

And the number two rule is to actually read the words on the paper before you sign the contract, and don’t put pen to paper unless you’re absolutely sure you’ve got it correct.

Of course the third rule is that when you’re a Director of a Racing Club in charge of other people’s money you don’t piss it up for own drunken pleasure, or lie to your members and lead ’em down the garden path.

Last but not least there’s the fourth rule, and it’s the simplest bloody one of all, just these four sweet little words:

Don’t fuck with Archie.

This is where Roscoe claims I’ve shot a dud bullet.


Now at first glance a mug punter who only reads form guides, or an supposedly educated man who’s as stupid as old Roscoe, might surmise that I was saying that the spivs are all gunna rock up to the 10.00 am Wednesday morning AGM and stick their hands and a hundred proxies in the air and declare themselves re-elected.

At first glance both the Racing Minister’s staff and the PR spinner at Racing Queensland did when they saw my CC’d email to Whimpey Dave too,

None of these bugger’s know anything about boxing do they?

That right hand Money Mayweather’s waving in front of your face that your eyes are following ain’t actually your problem sweethearts, it’s his left one that you’ve just taken your pork pork pies off that’s gunna knock you on your arse in a second and all you’ll hear is Whoosh! then Boom!

The arrogant administrators of the public interest with the ingrained ‘he’s got a mental illness so he must be a moron’ discriminate against the disabled jockeys clearly haven’t clocked Sun Tzu’s classic compendium on the ancient art of war either.


Their bosses know boxing and have read the wisdom of the old Chinaman though.

Or the boss at the Racing Integrity Commission has anyway. After all you don’t rise to be such a huge threat to an incumbent cop Commissioner that you have to be removed a million miles away by being a dumb c*nt who can’t spot a dummy and doesn’t know the score do you?

But you can rise to the top of the union movement on the back of a pair of double banger X chromosomes and a wave of affirmation action aimed at ending discriminatory practices and breaking glass ceilings by casting a mirror down on the floor.

So while coulda been and one day still might Commissioner Barnett of the QRIC’s suddenly seeing Archie’s deliveries like watermelons, and realises that plausible denial days are over and he has no choice but to initiate an investigation, Gee Gee’s still in la la land counting her Stevie Wilson company shares.

Doubt me? Then tell me where the delightfully named Vincene Overs has gone in the 48 hours since she inadvertently took the unders and innocently responded to my email with what she imagined to be a short, kind but condescending ‘yes you poor thing Mr Maddie Butterfly, we will get back to you in due course’ message?


Siberia that’s where, after her boss Mr Barnett twigged to the fact that Ms Overs and Unders had dropped her organisation smack bang in the middle of a crazy-woven spider’s web trap set by a long-legged rort-hunting Daddy, and screamed OMFG!

See sportsfans, the Queensland Racing Integrity Commissioner’s office can no longer claim that it wasn’t aware of the allegation swirling around about the Bet Fairy, Knight Frank, Optimal Media and a whole bunch of other racing industry scams can it?

Just like the QRIC can’t say that it was made fully aware of fact-based allegations that the bloke who is running Queensland’s leading race club had dodged up his CV, and that in the process of applying for the top job in SEW racing he’d forgotten to mention that he used to be a soft-porn, pole-dancing, mud-wrestling, chicks to perv on by limp misogynist dicks salesman and an unethical and unlawful inside runner beyond compare.

I’ve got an email to prove it haven’t I? A couple of them in fact.


Here that ‘clunk’ sound punters? That’s the noise a penny makes when it drops to the floor of the office of a Racing Minister reading Its Not Normal.

So back to Ross Tinniwood, the bullsh*tting former BRC Director and the most stupid and arrogant half-wit of a scientist who ever lived.

Did I ever say that the Brisbane Racing Club’s rorting Board Members and Directors were going to carry a pocket full of proxy votes and cast them as election ballots d*ckhead? Or did I say they were going to use them to get themselves re-elected? Read it again and look a bit closer you ranting fool and raving f*cking idiot.


Your fatal mistake Roscoe is that you assumed I was an idiot and hadn’t read the BRC Election Procedure By-Laws.

Did you really think that I was that f*cking stupid?

Of course you did. I’m disabled aren’t I? I’ve gotta be a raving half-wit.

What do you call fellas like my mate the Mayor of Aspley who’ve got MS and kick around the track in wheelchairs?


What about kids like Gorgeous George’s nephew who copped brain injuries when the birthing room doctors f*cked up their delivery?

Do you call them spastics?

How about Down Syndromes sufferers like little Stevie Payne who led in a Melbourne Cup winner?

What’s he? A retard?

Or do you just save your malice up for the mentally ill?

There’s only one bloody idiot in this fight Roscoe, and I’d strongly advise you to take a look in the mirror brother because that particular f*ckwit is you.

Game on sunshine.

Hope you don’t get burned.