Well sportsfans as many of you probably know back in the days when the world was wide I used to work for many years as a union official, and in the course of my wide-ranging duties used to deal with many a personal workplace problem, and for a period there in the relatively early days of the internet the most common one were issues with blokes – and I’m not being sexist here, they were all blokes – looking at internet porn on the work computers and getting sprung.

I reckon I did about 40 or 50 cases over a decade, both here and abroad, and the breadth and the variety of porn that fellas used to spend their work hours wanking over never ceased to amaze me, so much so that the memory of it’s inspired me to put it in verse.

Brown girls, white girls, black girls, red

Missionary, 69 style, anal, head

Tied to a rack, strapped on a bed

Spank me Daddy, no I’ll pee on you instead

And that was just the half of it sportsfans, some of the other disgusting things that seemingly normal council clerks, power company senior executives and railway CEO’s became obsessed with to the point that they’d blow their jobs and their whole careers over them are too X-rated to relate on a friendly family website such as ours, but let me tell you they covered the gamut of sexual deviancy from A to Z and everything in between and there were some things that I had never dreamed existed even in the Karma Sicktra of the pervy plonkers world.

There was however one thing I never, ever came across and that was a bloke watching home videos of him and his wife while he was at work. These fellas would perv at moving pictures of bufty boys from Brazil, and women from all over the world, but I never encountered a single wanker who’d be pulling the wood over the princess bride he’d left snoring in the sack at home as he left for work that morning.

Well, at least not until I stumbled across the story of a cove called Darren ‘Dirk Diggler’ Diffey that is.

Regular readers will remember Dirk Diggler from the days when we used to call him Difstick and regale you with tales about how he moved up in the world from roles as a project manager in pubs working with Whimpey Dave to becoming the General Manager of Tracks and Facilities at the BRC, when the only previous experience he’d had with grass had been sitting around in his boss’s lounge room sucking a sponsor-contra acquired beer from the dawg’s built-in whole wall bar fridge and watching his mate pulling down bongs.

If you remember the tale you’ll recall that like a spent man’s spatula after a session of closed office door work porn what came up went quickly down, and after playing a starring role in the BRC Annual Report of the year two thousand and seventeen Dirk Diggler suddenly and quite mysteriously disappeared off the face of the Waynie Poo Innes dug up Eagle Farm earth.

Dirk’s disappearance was a bit like that of the boats that vanished in the Bermuda Triangle. No-one seemed to know where he’d gone or why, and the whole thing became one of those Lucky Lord Lucan-style mysteries that had every tongue wagging and every bugger scratching their heads – the ones on top of their necks, not the one down below – but despite all the speculation until now no-one has been any the wiser about why Dirk Diggler left the building without even as much as a wave goodbye.

Well punters, today we can exclusively announce that Sherlock Archie has solved the great puzzle that’s been bemusing BRC followers forever, and our man Butterly can now put an end to the mystery of the missing Dirk Diggler forever.

It’s an odd one alright sportsfans I have to admit, a seemingly totally unbelievable tale from well beyond the pale, but I am absolutely assured that it is 100% true.

Dirk Diggler copped his marching order because he got sprung watching home made videos of himself shagging the missus!

Yes, yes I know it’s hard to believe, but apparently one day when Dirk had temporarily left his station at lunchtime – maybe he went for a ride on the Gator with Whimpey D, before the boss lost it – a young bird working in the BRC office decided she’d use the computer in his office with the color printer attached to whip out a few promotional brochures for an upcoming race club event.

So the keen little doll entered the boss’s sanctum without knocking – she didn’t have to, cos Dirk had left the door open – bounced over to the big screen with the power saving image of Eagle Farm sans 2012 when it still had grass, and pressed her pretty little hand on the enter button on Mr Diggler’s keyboard.

Only a second later a shriek emanated from the Diggler Dome that almost shattered the deep dark tinted glass on Whimpey Dave’s secret stash compartment wall, and hordes of under-worked BRC public relations hounds came dashing through Dirk Diggler’s office door to aid the damsel inside who was clearly in some degree of distress, but as soon as they crossed the threshold and entered the room they stopped in their tracks as if shot, for their on the big screen before them was Dirk’s dongle hanging in the breeze in all its glory pointing at his naked missus lying spread-eagled on the bed.

Soon the sounds of screaming could be heard ringing out all over the course, and Whimpey Dave came flying back to HQ from behind the trees in the back straight revving the guts out of the Gator for all it was worth.

He pulled up out the front of office and, after dismounting in a singularly impressive flying stride with a pike and one and three quarter twist, he came flying through the door and came straight in on a scene in the home movie where Mrs Diggler was shaking her jigglers and cooing ‘come on Dirky babe, show biggler boy to me giggler’!

Word is that Whimpey Dave opened his mouth and was about to shout ‘Yeah baby! There’s a juicy role for you in my next jelly wrestling promotion princess!’ when he realised where he was and who was around him and suddenly became all stony faced and stern and said ‘When that Diggler gets back from the lunchtime titty show down the road at the Pink send him straight to my office’, then reached over and ejected the offending computer disk, turned on his heel and disappeared into the sound and smell proofed CEO dome.

Well the next thing anyone knew it was 3pm and Dirk, who had returned from lunch just 5 minutes earlier and gone into the CEO dome as ordered, was being frog marched out the door by the same three security guards who would later force Nick Meredith from the course, and as the goons were glad-handling him into the gutter Dirk was shouting ‘My disk! My disk! My missus wants my disk!’ and Whimpey Dave was shouting back ‘That’s bloody obvious Diggler but its the property of the BRC now and it’s all mine’, and the Bantam – who was at the course looking for the ribbed tiny tickler he’d lost while drunkenly showing a friend from South Australia the bronze Buffering after a free booze up at Silks the previous Saturday night – was behind the boss shouting ‘But I can’t I have a piece of it too’ and the whole scene was simply mayhem.

No-one’s seen Dirk since, but the word from over the water is that Mr and Mrs Diggler are in Vegas doing rounds of auditions with the world’s leading Adult entertainment film makers, and have been performing so impressively that the smut flick execs are saying they haven’t seen a stallion and a mare from the antipodes go so hard since Phar Lap and Let’s Elope visited the USA shore.

Whimpey Dave’s been inside the CEO Dome with the door locked ever since Dirk departed, and apparently is unfazed by the perennial presence of the Bantam who’s perpetually perched outside the window knocking and pleading ‘Please dawg can I just have a quick peek at Dirk Diggler’s wiggler, please, please, please ….”

The gator may be gone, but at the Brisbane Racing Club the memory of Dirk Diggler will never fade.