A couple of days ago we printed a part of the criminal record of Courier-Mail racing ‘writer’, drug user, basher of women and hurter of little girls Grant Stockwell.

True to his weak-gutted form the cowardly c*nt did a drive-by and threw a bottle at my ailing, aged and cancer riddled father’s window, and followed up with a couple of heavy breathing phone calls that he obviously thought were intimidating.

I just laughed at the c*nt. What does he think I am, a squid like him or something? The fool obviously hasn’t read this website fully and doesn’t understand the breadth of close friendships I have with good folk from across the social spectrum, so I used the silence productively and laid out exactly what is going to happen to him when the Polynesian and Maori bros that Mum and Dad fostered as little kids and gave unbridled love care to for the first times in the boys who came to call me brother’s lives (it’s what we do in Geebung, look after our own; we also have very firm rules about hitting women, and mandatory sentences for those that break them, although you won’t read about this form of justice in the Law Reporter).

After the fool pulled the pin-dick bottle trick my Dad, who was not intimidated by the teenage wanker trick – quite to the contrary, we are talking about a long-time former anti-terrorist operative who held an ASIO clearance for 30 years here, why would a woman bashing pissant skulking around under cover of night and blocked phone numbers cause him anything but steely fury – picked up the phone and had a wee word to a couple of the lads who now wear funny badges on their jackets and ride motorbikes when they are not driving Lexus’s or Audi’s, but still call him Pa.

The boys weren’t very happy when their Pa told them what had happened, particularly given that they know he’s seriously ill and that his heart’s been broken since Mum passed away last year. I don’t know exactly what was said, but I do know that after he got off the phone Dad told me to get dressed, and instructed that I was to wear the boots with the steel caps to offset my Levis and t-shirt ensemble, and less than half an hour later an Audi pulled up in the driveway and beeped twice, and I was off for a foster family reunion pub crawl at Grant Stockwell’s favorite water holes.

Fortunately for that big-talker who is about to learn that you also gotta be a walker, the c*nt wasn’t there at any of them – he was probably hiding out in shame instead of being a man and fronting to explain his bullsh*t and lies to his ‘mates’ – but I left messages with his drinking buddies and the bar staff asking them to let Stockwell know that a bloke named Archie was around looking for him this arvo, just in case he’s in any doubt that I always tell the truth on this website, and that I prefer promises to threats.

He’ll keep, and I know where he lives too. In fact I was around there this arvo and left a note on the car that was parked outside his unit to that effect, which was funny because I could have sworn that it was the same car I saw standing illegally outside my Dad’s house yesterday with two blokes sitting in it sussing out the joint. It even had the same rego number.

I know this because I spotted them when I was going to the TAB for a punt, doubled back and then back again to let the clowns know I’d clocked them, and then chased them when they took off like little cats, and gazumped ’em with superior knowledge by letting them think they’d lost me when they cut into a back street at the last second without indicating and then doing a right, right, left, right two streets down (the 1st is a dead end) and giving them a bit of a fright by suddenly appearing front on at their bumper.

Two on one and they wouldn’t even get out of their car. What a pair of pansies. I didn’t even produce the iron bar or the landlord that I had on the seat next to me so what was their f*cking excuse other than being pea-hearted play-heroes? It’s easy when you’re bashing women and little kids isn’t it tough guy?

It’s a bit harder when you strike a bloke who hits back, especially when he is a whole lot better connected that you ever in your wildly misplaced arrogance imagined, and he really, really wants to hurt you for what you did to his dad. Hurt you badly. Bit of a miscalculation that one you maggot, and don’t think its going away ‘cos I got a real long memory and whole lot of patience and I always get square no matter long it might take.

Anyway, enough of the promises (I don’t make threats).

The article below is a reprint of the rest of the hero with the sugar cube sized hearts criminal record.

Yeah, yeah I know it’s pretty pansy – the boys are here now, they’re staying over nights in shifts for a while, and they almost fell on the floor laughing – but its not really the sort of rap sheet a bloke doing PR for law firms and working for Queensland’s only daily rag should be running around with is it?

Tell ya what, a bit later after dinner (I eat it around 1 or 2 am) I might go for a ride over to number 32 Agnes Street at Breakfast Creek on the back of one of my bro’s bikes like I did this arvo and push the buzzer on Unit 23 to ask Stockwell if he’d like a copy of his form. I might even invite him to come downstairs to get it too. Nah, it would be a waste of time, that flea would simply be on the phone to triple 0 before I hung up the intercom.

Know two things that are really funny?

One is that criminal c*nt lives right next door to the QRIC offices, and Mick Dowie’s car park is almost exactly outside his flat.

The other is that a few concerned readers who know Stockwell have phoned up and cautioned me to be careful about the c*nt because he’s a psycho.

My mum brought me up to be polite so I didn’t burst out laughing while the well-meaning folk were on the phone, and only fell down on the floor rolling around guffawing after they’d hung up.

He’s a psycho?

Fuck me, I’m Grandmaster Flash at that game, and have a raft of doctors and specialist letters to prove it.

Wanna play a ‘who’s the maddest c*nt on the block and cares least for consequences’ game girl-basher? Do you wanna bat or bowl?

Oh yeah, you’ve already bowled haven’t you, a glass bottle and a couple of cock-arse anon phone calls. Guess you’re batting then, or copping a couple anyway.

You know sportsfans, I’ve always had this theory that blokes who hit women and hurt little kids are closet poofs with deep-seated love-hate relationships with their Mummies, and Fathers who could see through them and didn’t like the view, and so gave them heaps about their limp-wrists their whole lives, and meant it too.

I don’t know anything about Stockwell’s background so I can’t say whether or not he fits the mould, but with his laquered pretty boy hair and his penchant for pastel shirts and lairy suits, and his inner-city bachelor pad close to the pink Valley precinct he certainly looks the part, and you don’t bash women because you’re attracted to them do you? You do it because you need someone else to blame for the fact that you can’t get it up because she’s the wrong gender don’t you?

Will anyone give me 6-4 that I’m spot on?

I’ll back it for heaps.

I wonder if the bro here’s cousin is on shift at Bowen Hills tomorrow? I’ll find out, and if not see if can do a swap. If we get lucky it might be a rougher than usual ride for Stockwell tomorrow when security march him from the News Corp premises and hurl the c*nt head first into the gutter.

If I get up early enough I might just go along and watch the show.

Have a good night sportsfans.

Me and the boys are staying up late watching Scarface for the 700th time.

Why does every lad who’s spent a few holidays inside love that movie so bloody much hey Ernie?