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I’m not afraid of boats Clip Clop Kev – why I once sailed from the Opera House to up past Port Arthur with my cousin Kieran on his Dad Uncle John’s racing yacht Shogun, and met Jack Rooklyn on the trip too – but I’ve read all about Roger Rogerson and Tony Murphy (did I ever tell you that I played footy with his son? he was a prop, I played fullback, always quick on my feet me) and I’ve seen the Blue Murder mini-series, and I also have a fair idea what really happened to the McCulkin girls, so on this occasion I reckon I’ll pass on a trip out to Moreton Bay if you don’t mind. No offence intended.

Kevin Seymour is Mr Queensland Harness racing.

Or so he says, and I actually agree with him.

It’s not is or if  he’s the Emperor of Albion Park that’s the question though, it’s why.

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I know a lot of people in this crazy world, a hell of a lot.

Prime Ministers, Premiers, millionaires, billionaires, business leaders, dole bludgers, disabled folk, child abuse victims, judges, lawyers, world boxing champions, respectable business men with big hearts that some unkind souls brand as gangsters, real gangsters, bikies, coppers, horse trainers, sports stars, ad agency owners, drug dealers, anti-drug campaigners, Lord Mayors, lobbyists, union bosses, construction company CEO’s, award winning writers, convicted murderers, wrongly convicted triple murderers, prostitutes, professional punters, junkies, Archbishops, hairdressers, inmates at insane asylums, jockeys, drivers, blokes wrongly convicted of live baiting and warned off for 10 years, bookies, bank robbers, nuns, NRL coaches, a multitude of footy players, publicans, chairman of racing clubs, chief stewards, actors, musos, tv stars, poets, charity workers, surfers, MS sufferers and Neville and Norma nobodies.

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In fact if one of the most annoying symptoms of my chronic PTSD wasn’t losing my phone every 2nd week and failing to back it up my address book would probably be as big as the bible and twice as thick again, but as it stands I have about 3 numbers in the phone I bought yesterday to replace the one I’d purchased four days before, so if I haven’t returned your call please don’t take it personally, and it might be useful if you shoot an email with your number on it to archiebutterfly@gmail.com.

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Me and Doug Parkinson down at the Kedron-Wavell RSL. He was once in a stage show with my Auntie Geraldine Turner, the singer, dancer and actress whose house at Kawana I used to holiday at when I was a kid. Her Dad Uncle Leo loved a punt too, and taught me to fish.

Yeah I know a hell of a lot of people, from all walks of life. It’s what happens when you spend a lifetime hanging around racetracks, bars and politics, and hold a world view that the old carpenter Mr Christ was correct and that one should not judge others unless they themselves wish to be judged, and despite my clean sheet and impeccable on paper form I can assure you that I have a huge aversion to gavels and jokers in horsehair wigs and ermine gowns.

One thing I’ve learnt bumping around and about the place over the years though is that dodgers are always dodgy, and crooks will always look for another earn even when they already have three angles running off the same scam and thirty million dollars in the bank. They just can’t help themselves, it’s an addiction just as bad if not worse than a heroin habit, and it’s not ever about money but instead always about ego, sociopathy, insecurity, a desire to one up their old man or Mum, and just the sheer thrill of pulling one over another punter.

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My favorite respectable businessman and adopted brother Gorgeous George Alex. I’ve got it all over the wog boy at pinball and frogger, don’t you worry about that.

This knowledge is perhaps the primary reason that I’m such a bloody brilliant researcher despite my extremely limited financial resources and my PTSD-driven aversion to driving, walking, sitting around waiting for planes, using public transport or traveling any more than about 10m outside the grounds of the Geebung Polo Club unless the reason for my journey is to attend a race meeting or get into a threesome with a bird who rates 9 or above on the Richter.Rooting scale.

It’s because I can spot a rort and a rorter from 2138 metres away.

Clip Clop Kev’s been on my radar recently, and now he’s locked and loaded.

And it’s Gold, breeder, don’t you worry about that.

Maggie reckons that she has this terrible feeling that my application for membership of the Albion Park Harness Racing Club is about to be refused. That’s because despite the travails of her childhood and her multi-decade marriage to me she somehow remains pure of heart and an innocent babe in the woods, even though she’d kill anyone who tried to harm her family as soon as look at them.

Clip Clop’s a lot like me, only he likes money and makes acquiring it his life’s aim, and enjoys holidaying among the coconuts distantly related to Maggie in Hawaii and I don’t. Fundamentally though there is far more than unites us in personality than that which divides, and I’m prepared to bet London to a Brick that Clip Clop himself will personally rubbers stamp my membership application, just because he’d find it humorous and enjoy the challenge, and because despite all the crap I throw at him and the fact that we’ve never met I reckon deep down he likes me.

Me him too, in a very similar way to how Richard Nixon and Hunter S Thompson actually liked each other, even though both swore black and blue that the opposite was absolutely true, and continued the charade unto the grave and beyond.

Only piss ants like Nifty Nev, Little Dickie and Whimpey Dave refuse a fella’s membership because they’re afraid of a stoush. That’s because none of the trio have any balls.

Clip Clop’s got balls.

Just you watch and see.

Vote 1 Archie – He may not have the cash, but he’s got the bloody dash!

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