It appears that the publication of a series of photos that I took of the setup for BRC Chairman Nifty Neville Bell’s 70th Birthday party at Eagle Farm has really ruffled a few feathers, in particular those of Nifty himself and his Black Caviar of a CEO Whimpey Dave Whimpey, a man with long form in the art of exploiting vulnerable, innocent women for his own gain.

Black Caviar’s silks never changed their black spots, and I guess Whimpey Dave will never change his and that’s just the way it goes. Which is a polite way of rephrasing the old Geebung saying “once a c*nt, always a c*nt” and adding an extra line which says Dave Whimpey’s a c*nt, and a low one at that too.

Nifty Nev’s a c*nt too, a vainglorious self-obsessed peacock who like his good mate Jeff Kennett is addicted to the rort and lives his life as if its a never-ending procession of quick ways to make a buck, and getting other people to pay for things so that you don’t have to spend yours.

Whether it’s conning naive committee members into forming a conglomerate so you can snaffle their land for development and sale and get hold of the benefits that flow from a whole lot of new ‘not for profit’ sporting clubs that you control’s pokies, or ripping off the taxpayer by skirting just on the quaky side of the tax-minimisation by breeding barn losses laws, or selling off someone else’s land and securing yourself a penthouse apartment at the right price and on the right finance terms, or by running a non-brave and un-warrior like legal case that you know will destroy the state breeding industry that you are a member of because you know they’ll have to settle and you want to pump up the price, or a hundred and one other different fiddles big and small, our man Nifty can’t seem to help himself, he’s just gotta get himself a piece of that fish roe pie.

Dave Whimpey’s the black spots.

Nifty’s the shiny caviar silk, the one that the worm’s chewed all the holes out of.


Let me give them both a tip though: that uphill stretch in the home straight at Ascot is more taxing than you might thing, and the run home is hard. You don’t to get over-confident and be easing up or dropping your hands, but if you do what’s even more important is that you don’t panic and unbalance your ride, because someone might just come out of nowhere and run over the top of you, and you never know one day they might not just miss by a nose.

Nifty Nev and Whimpey Dave have become unbalanced after I called them out about their plot to hold Nifty’s 70th birthday soiree at Eagle Farm on the same day that Brisbane was hosting the Australian Race Horse of the Year Awards, and slip the costs of the party into the BRC accounts as ‘Director’s Hospitality Expenses’ incurred for entertaining interstate visitors to the awards ceremony.

We put a stop to that one didn’t we sportsfans?

And now Nifty has to shell for the piss-up out of his own pocket, and he while he may have plenty he didn’t get it by spending it, and the reality that he has to pay a near $50 grand bill all on his Pat Malone has send him into the sort of wild fury of the kind you usually only witness while watching the hyenas and jackals on National Geographic on the telly, and just like those ever-hungry beasts Nifty wants blood.

What Nifty wants, Whimpey Dave wants too, for the Whimp’s a fraud and the form book says that he’s about as great a CEO as my mate Bernie for Geebung who wears a cowboy hat and works on the matchboxes at the Endeavour Foundation is. In fact until Nifty Nev slipped him into the BRC’s big chair with a smile and a shoeshine, and Bernie became the President of the Indoor Carpet Bowls Club at work after the other two members had been banned for chucking the jack at the joker in the big cardboard box section who kept singing “You’ve Blown It All Sky High” as they were lining up their cannonballs, neither of them had ever even been a CEO before, let alone a Black Caviar of one.

A Black Caviar CEO wouldn’t have jumped when Nifty shouted “I want a witch hunt! I want a scapegoat given the shunt! Get to it you c*nt!” and thundered back “Yes Sir Mr Bell! Which Witch Bitch Boss Shall I Send to Hell?”

When a by now scarlet faced Nifty roared “The Set-Up Bitch! The Slave Who Snitched! Find Her, Burn Her, Bury Her Body in a Ditch!” a Group 1 performer wouldn’t have positively screamed “I’ll Get The Cow! I’ll Get Her Now! I’m Not Sure How! But That’s My Vow! Anything for Thou! Fire Up the Blowtorches and Plows!”

But the Whimpy pretender is no Black Caviar, and so that’s exactly what he did. It was just like Salem all over again as the con-man of a CEO barked out orders all over the course and demanded that the usual suspects be hauled into the star chamber so they could be tortured into confessing their every sin.

He’d find the evil seditionist traitor who leaked that bastard Butterfly the photos from his boss’s bash. If Nifty wanted their blood, he’d hand it to him on a bloody platter. The only problem was that he didn’t have a clue whodunnit, or in fact if anyone actually had at all,  but he cast all doubt aside and got to work, for in Whimpey Dave’s self preservationist who’s slipped in a made up qualification into his CV’s mind Nifty was the all powerful, and knew all.

If Nifty said that water is actually dry then it must be, and if Nifty declared that Sky Heights wasn’t just a mile and a halfer who couldn’t get two that jockey error cost him The Cup then Sky Heights should have won The Cup, and if Nifty declared that a 99 year joint venture funded by tens of millions of the developers cash to carve up the racecourse wasn’t an asset sale by disguise then it wasn’t a goddamn sell off by stealth, it was just a joint venture entered into for the love of the thoroughbred horse.

The pretty one near the gate, with the nice dapples and the green coat that looks just like some neophyte with no idea about thoroughbred loving and value added experiences delivered by increasing the prices of beer and pies that we all know.


Oh yes sportsfans, if Nifty Nev said that one of the staff members must have taken the photos that the evil Archie Butterfly had published on his website and slipped them to him after the slap up soiree, then one of the staff members must have taken the poison pictures that the prick used to embarrass Nifty Nev and his honored guests like Mr Kennett Pay the Rent and his friend carrying the iron bar who spent most of lunch scowling at the portrait of Darby McCarthy.

It never for a second occurred to him that the inventive Archie who’d previously embarrassed the club who’d spent hundreds of thousands on IT Security by finding an publicly open back door to all the BRC’s data – including staff and membership records and details that being a journo who respects the privacy laws he didn’t look at or touch – might simply have found an open door again and walked on through it with his wife’s Nikon around his neck and taken the amateur snaps himself.

He didn’t contemplate the thought for even a single second, which is a shame because it might have saved a long serving and loyal middle-aged respectable woman and now former staff member a whole lot of embarrassment and distress, and it might have saved the BRC members the expense of a costly unfair dismissal compensation and damages payout – casuals with regular, predictable rostered hours who have worked for an outfit for more than 6 months are treated the same as permanent employees under employment dismissal law Whimpey Dave, even if they only usually work a few hours on a Saturday arvo, did you know that son? – and it certainly would have saved Nifty Nev and the Black Caviar of mud-wrestling titty girl promotions a whole lot of bad press, but we all in this life have to live by our decisions, no matter how wrong they may be, and it’s too late to turn back time now.

So in shades of the first 2 botched attempts at the simple task of putting down some soil, sand and grass at Eagle Farm and watering it so that the horses could have somewhere to race, Whimpey Dave decided that every staff member in the joint who had anything to do with Nifty’s birthday bash, from the concierge to the cooks to the cleaners, from the barperson to the bouncer to the Barista, and the red carpet roller-outers and the greeters and the waitpersons and washers of dishers was a suspect, and one by one he hauled them into the office and put them through the grill.

“Did you take those photos?  Did you? Did you? I know you did! Don’t lie! It was you wasn’t it? Confess! Confess! Confess or I will throw you into Cabbage Tree Creek and we will see how you swim! Confess!”

Apparently he ran the same or similar lines about 25 or 30 times, which to a normal person would have been agonisingly boring and a seeming exercise in futilty, but given that most of the staff he was standing over and bullying were women I’d take plenty of six to four on that Whimpey actually enjoyed it, and guess what?

It worked.

Or that’s what Whimpey and Nifty convinced themselves anyway, because my mail is that some poor bird cracked under the pressure and coughed, admitting that she took some photos of the room because she was proud of the way her girls had set it up and wanted to show off their sterling work to her friends down at the city club to show what great work her team at the Brisbane Racing Club do. or did as the case may be.

Now I’ve never met or spoken to the bird, and wouldn’t know her if I fell over her in the street – I have been told her first name, but I’m not going to repeat it because I don’t repeat injustices, especially when there are lay down misere law cases in the offing – but if what I’ve been told is true and that she had worked for the club for more than 20 years and was a sort of mother hen and mentor to the younger staff, you could understand her pride and see why she might take a few pictures to show off to her friends can’t you?

And if she doesn’t read – and older women working in the hospitality industry tend not to, because they’re not the target audience and I don’t print a lot that might interest them – then you can understand how she would be totally oblivious to the fact that Archie Butterfly, moi, had been at the course that same weekend and taken some pictures of the set up himself too, and had published them on his website and in doing so had chucked enough mud, egg and a pay your own five figure bill at Nifty to fire him up so much that he’d order the 21st century Salem Witch Trials begin.

I didn’t think of that either, and I feel really, really terrible for that poor innocent lady who had nothing to do with the whole thing because my mail is that the second she said that she’d taken a few photos. and before she could properly explain, she was being marched off the course by security guards and her shouts of “Who the hell is Archie Butterfly?” were drowned out by Whimpey Dave’s screams of “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

This apparently is fair dinkum I’m told, as hard as it is to believe. The BRC have sacked some poor older woman who has worked for them for more than 20 years because the brain dead f*cking skimming scamming morons have convinced themselves that she’s the deep throat for a writer from Geebung that she’s never heard of or met, and doesn’t even know exists.

It gets worse though, because apparently they summarily dismissed the poor old duck without even giving her a chance to get advice or representation on the issue, or to submit a written response.

These clowns would have to be f*cking kidding wouldn’t they? What sort of an arsehole would do that to a person? To an older woman who has served you faithfully for more than 20 bloody years? All because she took a couple of happy snaps of her handiwork to show a few other old ducks to impress them, and was unlucky enough that totally unbeknownst to her I had been at the track on the same weekend and taken some too.

F*ck me she’s going to have a cracker of a compo and damages claim. An absolute bloody monster. And if the mail I’ve got about the way the old duck was treated by Whimpey and Nifty is right she will deserve every bloody cent of it too.

That pair should be absolutely ashamed of themselves, and in about 3 seconds they are going to be hugely embarrassed too, because this is what really happened, and it had nothing to do with any old bird who works in the members at the races because I’m barred for no reason from going in there as so don’t know any of the staff.


My missus Maggie has a stall down at Eat Street Markets on the river. Pluckdamus Designs it’s called, just on the right as you enter through gate one.

Maggie sells beautiful hand made fruit-themed jewelry she designs, assembles and fires herself, and it’s both very popular and as cheap as chips. Ten bucks for a pair of bright, groovy one of a kind earrings, 20 for a necklace, 30 for a pineapple shaped bag (my idea those ones, and trust me at that price they’re a snip), and various equally cheap prices for a range of stuff like fascinators (hand-made, garden design or made to order), brooches, contact lens cases, clutches, rings, prints of her paintings (100% of all sales received goes to a DV help charity), and other stuff I can’t remember.


Bet you no-one else at Eagle Farm will be wearing one of these designer piece beauties. Maggie calls it the “Never Get Lost in a Blackout at the Farm on Cup Day” fascinator.

You can look at it all on her website, and trust me Maggie’s work is bloody crackerjack and Jackie McDonald who used to be on Hey Hey Its Saturdays her biggest fan and wears it all the time. So do yourself a favor and get down there to Eat Street and grab yourself some stuff, because its the best priced, coolest jewelry in Vegas, and tell her Archie sent you cos if she gets lots of sales Maggie might just be persuaded to slip me a few bucks for a Cup Week punt fiesta. She’s the hot bird in the picture below, just so you don’t miss her.


Anyway, spruik over and back to the story.

So we used to have 3 cars and Maggie used to drive herself, but a couple of months ago her sister moved back from New Zealand with the kids and Maggie being big hearted Maggie while I was down at the Bunger – after having slipped out to avoid the tag-team hard time the pair give me because they find it fun – she gave her sister one of the cars, the Rav 4,  and told her that it was hers.

I only found out later when I got home, and when I reminded Maggie that because of Dad’s terminal cancer condition we needed to have 1 car at home at all times and I wanted wheels too, and asked her how she thought she was going to get to Eat Street and back 3 times every weekend now that she’d slung her sis the Rav her reply was simple.

“You’re going to drive me”.

I opened my mouth to loudly protest but before I could get a word out she got in first, saying “You love a punt don’t you Arch man? How’s your bank looking? Need me to lend you a mothball? Selling any stories sexy? Gee its hard to punt with no money because you’re wife’s spending it on Ubers to get to and from the markets isn’t it?”

“You silly goose, you jumped in and cut me off when you didn’t even need to” I sweetly replied. “Of course I am going to drive you. I was just about to suggest exactly that”.

She didn’t believe me of course, but it didn’t matter, because I got the punting money and even though I have to listen to a couple of races on the car tranny because my Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays are spent driving from the Bung to Hamilton and back (twice) each day, a man would be a mug to complain when he’s rolling in love, sex and punting cash clover wouldn’t he?


Hey look! Maggie’s made some Whimpey Dave and Nifty earrings! Get em at Eat Street!

So since I started doing this I’ve made it a bit of a habit to drop into the Gallopers Club on my way home for a punt, and sometimes a feed and a small bit of watering depending on how I’m traveling, and occasionally even to take a leak because by the time I get her to the markets and unload and set up and tell I love her and all that crap its usually been a couple of hours since I last went to the dunny and at my age you don’t have the luxury of going a whole lot longer.

That’s exactly what I was doing on the day I stumbled across Nev’s party set up and took the pictures that have ended up getting some poor dear unfairly and unlawfully sacked. I was driving up Nudgee Road on the way back from the markets and thinking about whether I stop off at Gallopers or keep going down to Norths Leagues to put a few bets on and was starting to get the tight bladder coming on and needing to take a piss so nature determined that the old Hammo Bowls would be about as far as I would get.

So I hooked a left into Lancaster Road and was about to pull into the car park when for no reason at really other than that I remembered that I had a joint in my pocket that the lady who runs the Mexican food stand had given me and I wanted to smoke it I thought f*ck it, I’ll go and piss on the roses at Eagle Farm and have a look at how this new track work is going while I choof the spliff, and then I’ll go and punt, and that’s exactly what I did.

The gates were open and no-one was on them, which wasn’t any surprise because there was no racing on cos there’s no track, so I just drove on in and pulled up near the gate. I’m sure it will be on the CCTV tapes – the whole episode will – so if anyone from the BRC wants to check just go and grab them and push play. Silver car, Hyundai Grandeur purchased from Big Alan “Quality Assured But Sorry I Can’t Offer a Warranty But You Won’t Need One Anyway Cos This One’s a Ripper” Gilligan (and he’s correct, it is a ripper, sun roof and all, you’ll see it in the video), and I was wearing my usual uniform, black t-shirt, skinny Calvin Klein jeans color dark blue, brown riding boots and I had Maggie’s Nikon hanging around my neck so I should be bloody easy to spot, plus when I arrived and entered the course there was no-one else around out the front.

I’m not really into cameras but Maggie had wanted to take some pictures of her stall to put up on Facebook or Instagram or some nonsense like that, and did (Maggie always does what she wants to; I don’t complain, did I mention that she gives me punting money?) and she didn’t want to leave the camera lying around because she wisely thought some market going bludger might pinch it when she was distracted with another customer, so she’d given it to me and told me to take it home and NOT TO LOSE IT (emphasis hers not mine). I thought while I was there I’d use it to grab a couple of shots of the dug up course and so chucked it around the old Gregory Peck and off to piss I went, and I remember I was busting too.

The entry gate to the course was open too, and there were other cars around so I figured it would be okay to go in and I did. I walked quickly around past where the Strawberry Road bar used to be, crossed what used to be the paddock in front of the stand, and pissed on the garden at the outside running rail and started thinking to myself “why the f*ck is this grass still down? It should have been torn up. Monteith said they should do it straight away? What the hell are these idiots doing? Don’t they want a winter carnival?”

When I finished peeing I gave the old fella a shake and that’s when I looked up and saw the semaphore board (it’s the biggest in the southern hemisphere you know, they always put them in ghost towns in case Caspar the sheriff wants to use them for their birthdays) and said out loud to myself “Jesus Bloody Christ”.


I took a couple of shots of it from ground level but the light was shining off it funny cos I was down and it was up, and I don’t know how to aperture or whatever its called when you twist the lens and all that, so I decided to go up to the members stand to get a better shot because its right on the winning post, so doubled back and around where the rails bookies used to be (its a bloody mess down there by the way, crap everywhere) and went into the members, and before I’d taken about 2 steps I bump into this young bird in a bar uniform and think to myself “sh*t, I hope they don’t smell the REDACTED on my breath”.

Now I’m not into self-incrimination, so I’ve taken out the word describing whatever it was I may have been worried about stinking of, but if you want a clue just look in the title of the story I wrote about Nifty a fortnight ago and you might just be able to work it out, and while you’re at it note that I wrote and published that piece well and truly before the Salem executioners started slaying their own staff.


Anyway the bird just smiles at me – they usually do – and I twig immediately that because of gear I’m wearing and Maggie’s Nikon on my neck she assumes I’m a photographer, so I smile back and take a picture of her and she blushes and I think hang on I might be half a chance here but quickly realise that I’m REDACTED and if the Nev whose name is on the sign is who I think he is he won’t be too happy if I’m hanging around his parade with a camera so I just wink at the sheila and keep on moving.

To cut a long story short I’m there about 5 minutes all up and take a stack of snaps, including the ones that I whacked up on the website. There’s nothing too controversial in any of them except for the fact that the Ascot Bar looked a whole lot different to when I last got pissed there, and that’s because whoever has decked it out has obviously spent a sh*tload of time and effort making it look flash, and dropped a poultice on the one-off exercise too.

After going snap, snap, snap and just acting cool so no-one stops to think why is the photographer here before the guests I get the shots I want and then leg it, cos I’m from Geebung and we’re taught very early in life that when you discover something you weren’t supposed to find its in, grab, out and go, and put plenty of space between where you’re going and where you were, and don’t f*ck around in doing it.

So its back in the car and off, and mindful of the long held rule my grandad taught me that I’ve related above I decide that neither Gallopers nor Norths is the right option and so end up at the Bunger with Annie and that’s about all she wrote, or all that I’m writing about the subsequent events anyway because sometimes when she’s totally bored Maggie reads the site, and like I said I’m not into self-incrimination.

Well not unless I’m wracked with guilt because some poor bugger has lost their job because of what I’ve done. Doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger or what, it’s just not right that another person should be affected – and in a real bad way from what I hear – for something that they have nothing to do with and know nothing about. Giving yourself up goes against the Geebung grain, but letting women get hurt and standing by watching while a bunch of mongrels beats her up goes against the grain a whole lot more.

So I put my hand up Nev.

It was me, and you’ve got a full confession and all the details above. You can see it all in the CCTV recordings I imagine, so go and take a look and you’ll find that it’s all checked and correct, and then you can run off and play Johnny Dog by ringing the traps and setting them onto me for trespass or pissing in public or whatever else tickles your fancy.

I’ve managed to get 50 years thus far with a clean sheet, and all I was really doing was going to take a leak and look at the track and smoke a bit of REDACTED, and I don’t reckon any of that’s a capital offence, but my old man will never forgive me if I stand silent by and let some innocent old bird take the rap for something that I did, so I’ll cop what comes and if I go down for it such is life.

Tell you the truth Nifty I’d just almost be willing to do a year in the hole at the old Boggo Road just to be a fly on the wall looking on this morning as you review the tapes and see me there as large as life pulling up and walking into the Farm with Maggies camera around hanging off my neck. I’d nearly do another just to watch your face as it dawns on you how badly you’ve f*cked this whole witch hunt up, and how much it’s going to cost you in reputation and club in dough to fix it.

The whole thing would be dead set hilarious, except for the fact that someone’s suffered and suffering as a result of your stuff up. To the lady involved I apologise profusely, but promise you that I had no idea you had taken photos as well, and not the slightest inkling that these crooks and cads might try to fit someone up just so that they can put the fear of God into the staff about what might happen if you go talking to Archie, even though neither you nor anyone else employed by the BRC – or by RQ for that matter – ever has.

I’m really sorry this has happened to you luv, and I would have come out and told the story about what really happened earlier, but I’ve only just found out about the whole thing yesterday and have acted to set everyone straight the earliest opportunity.

Now its up to the blokes – after what they’ve done I won’t be calling them men – who have done this to you to fix it.

Over to you bully boys.

PS: Maggie made these earrings especially for you last night. Want me to get them to hold them for you until you get down to Eat Street to pay and collect them?


PPS: It’s cash up front fellas. I’ve seen Double D’s betting sheets, and the most recent figures still in the outstanding column. There’s no tick for any of you lot.