My youngest daughter can swim in a pure pool unstained by those with dirty coloured skin.
I can swim with her.
But where will her sister swim?
And what about her Mum?
Which kid shall she share the cool of the pool with?
Why is it that she’s forced to choose?
And how come black sheep are always painted bad?
Why is that Rolling Stones can’t gather green moss but still paint bad things black?
What if the driven snow isn’t pure?
Or if Cain’s stain was actually coloured white?
Random, meaningless questions perhaps, or maybe not.
Doesn’t really matter I guess.
In the end we all just fade to grey.
What sort of crazy f*cked up school for high society scions in the 21st Century has its own Freemason’s Lodge?
What misogynist faux-Nordic neanderthal outfit issues invitations expressing that Ladies and Guests are welcome to their cavemen’s cult gatherings?
What cabal of kiddy-fiddling cover-up club carousel-riders fill their ranks of all hail well met here’s a funny handshake fellows with perverted pharmacists and primary school child groping creeps?
What the hell is the wig-wearing pox-marked Governor of Queensland and poncing Patron of child-protection charity Bravehearts doing playing dress ups with these pretend-Christian pedophiles anyway?
Oh the headlines!
The false charges.
The specious allegations.
How dare any grubby penman from Geebung or beyond slander the good name of an esteemed elite private school Headmaster and claim that he facilitated and/or was involved in and/or covered up the abuse of children in his care and under his control as Brisbane’s most esteemed Anglican Church owned and run schools?
What do these potty mouthed peasants presume to be?
Child sexual abuse victims?
And who on earth do the proletariat street-sweepers imagine that they are?
F*ck the Queen. Phillip did. And just look what bloody happened.
I’m Archie Butterfly, and I’m from Geebung.
And you and your toffee nosed cane on the arse loving top end of town toff tosser posse child abuse deniers, pedophile protectors and ‘Oh gee I’m an idiot Fitzy I almost f*cked up the whole Fitzgerald Inquiry by doing the Old School Tie backdoor whisper’ wankers can go and kiss my arse.
(I’ll tell you the Fitzy story tomorrow sportsfans – long and short is that some pompous pizza faced Pilate attempted to cut a backdoor deal with his mate the Saint on behalf of his corrupt as f*ck client Angelo, got double played, taped and Vasta Pasta’d, and escaped by the chin of his pimply chin chin courtesy of a cover up the size of the Krakatoa Crater – more on that later).
This is today’s story punters.
A bunch of rich wankers from the top end of town led by a washed up hack never-was ABC journalist named Geoffrey Luck – who’s been kicked like an empty can all over the country by a quality media man called Mike Carlton who’s derides him left right and center of the desert as a dickhead and a dolt – and his mealy mouthed but well married media tart malcontent mate Tony, Tony, Tone – aka Anthony Hunter Morris QC, or Tony to the adoring throng who are clearly conspicuous by their absence – once upon a time, a long, long, while ago when they were little kids went to a school called Churchie.
Back then the rich-listers and assorted mongrel mob collective of Congregationalists, temperance tub thumpers, Church of England chutzpah’s and half breed high Catholic/Anglican kiddy lovers who jump-started the joint fout of tin shed in the back yard of an aboriginal-heisted Auchenflower estate the robber barons renamed Aidencraig referred to the refugee camp they ditched their offspring in as CEGS, an acronym for the Church of England Grammar School.
These days the wretched faux pommy replica that tries to pretend that the wretched mangrove ridden shark pit normal people call the Norman Creek is really the Thames is formally titled the Anglican Church Grammar School, but every bugger in Brisbane – and every buggerer too, most of them one time inmates of the East Brisbane asylum – call it Churchie, most of us taking the piss as we do.
Not Luck and his mate Morris though. They love the joint, and still do, and they love their old headmaster even more, at least Luck does because Morris didn’t graduate until 1977 which means that old ‘Play it Again Harry’ was a long begotten memory by the time that he was a kid in short pants learning to enjoy the pleasures of being beaten by lashes of the rattan across the rump while looking out over the Brisvegas River through tears to the other side to the place where the sinners ain’t.
Whatever. The past is only what we dream it to be. Unless of course we cobble together a half-baked research team and waste a year of our lives in a vain attempt to try and prove that five years of it wasn’t wasted in the first place, which means that we’ve now wasted six and still come up with seven/sixteenths of a slice of salami, which is pretty much where we started when be began in grade seven.
Blokes who don’t wear boaters and blazers and button up their old school ties every quarter know better of course than to waste their time following a crooked course, so they just shout ‘Hey Arch! Give these two-bob tub thumper’s an ounce of starch!’, and although the great man may, will and does usually ignore them because the footy’s on or the first at Jerilderie’s about to jump – and because the bloody pleaders never pay – sometimes like all of us the loud mouthed Butterfly botherer’s just get plain lucky and find the manic mad ADHD sufferer at a loose end, broke after a bad day on the punt, and bored sh*tless waiting for the child protege he spawned to collect her annual semi-trailer worth of awards and accolades.
Out of boredom the child abuse boy victim with the IQ of Einstein that’s been interfered with by evil idol worshiping ingrates says f*ck it, hits the accelerator and heads into full blown investigative mode for a couple of hours.
And that, as they say in the classics. is all she wrote, and you can stick your 12 months worth of retards wanker’s research in your rear end and light the fuse, because it’s about to be absolutely and utterly exploded/
Archie a narcissistic arsehole?
Yep. That’s what the Doctor says. And who’s going to argue with a bloke wielding a stethoscope and a warrant to lock you away for life? Not me Geoffrey Luck-ee or Mr Ton-eee QC!
This is what Luck and Morris say following 12 months of exhaustive research.
This is what Archie Butterfly the Insane says.
Bullshit. Absolute f*cking bullshit.
How doth thy Butterfly dispute this?
Stand aside Willy Shakespeare and let Archie count the ways.
Here we go.
Buckle in punters, ba da ba da BOOM!
The ‘part-time housemaster’ in question was a man named Harry John Wippell, who graduated from Churchie in the Senior Class of 1954.
Wippell was the typical suppressed sexual deviant sycophant in his senior year, and like so many lolly licking liars before, during and after his time was extremely active in the religious life of the school.
All the better to please you with little lover of Jesus.
The c*nt was a member of the Chapel Choir, a perve and church server (altar joy boy), bible reader and bum boy pleader, perjurer and verger (lay minister and/or church warden) and a criminally distended member of the school Chapel Council.
Henry Victor ‘John’ Roberts, the son of the Headmaster Harry Roberts, was also a member of the Chapel Council, and young Harry’s involved in each of the same religious nut job activities cloaking nefarious juvenile perversions as Wippell was.
I’ve had long chats to blokes who knew them both, and the testimony I’ve taken and assessed satisfies me that pair were, and remained throughout their lifetimes, close friends, although nothing suggests to me that Dirty Harry’s boy was a sicko like his cassock wearing mate Wippell was.
Young Roberts junior was just weird. That’s why he ended up at mad St Mary’s church in exile. the kingdom of the Catholic clown Peter Kennedy who claims to be a priest and a Christian but doesn’t believe in Christ’s resurrection or the Bible. It’s a bit like loving footy but refusing to score tries isn’t it? Work it out if you will cos I can’t.
Another bloke who was a member of the Chapel Council and remained a close friend of Wippell’s was definitely as suss as a sermon on the River Styx ferry. He was a boy named Bruce Maughan, who much later in his life when the chief cocks at the Cathedral needed to give him a bit of cover became reverently revered as Canon Bruce Maughan.
Prior to his ascension to the ranks of the protected Anglican arsenal – or maybe he was from the beginning – Maughan was for four decades simply a school teacher at The Southport School (TSS), another kiddy fiddlers farm fronted, owned and operated by the Anglican Church.
Maughan worked at TSS between 1959 and 1988, but in between managed to drive up the Pacific Motorway every couple of days to rub his cloistered parts against the rears of the big-wheel rum-pa-pum-pum of the legal fraternity in BrisVegas, and was throughout his lifetime particularly close friends with the Judge that some unkind souls such as the lewd cartoonist Larry Pickering labels ‘Doggy’.
I refer of course to Justice John Dowsett, a close friend and associate of the Queensland Governor Paul De Jersey, the Bravehearts patron that Pickering equally as unkindlyhas tagged as ‘Daphnis’, for reasons unknown or at least unfathomable ever since Kevin Lynch’s neighbor and best mate Assistant Commissioner of Police Greg Early cleaned out his this boss Terry Lewis’s sealed safe at Police HQ.
A wise man who has been banging on for ever about the demonstrably evident nexus between organised pedophilia and the Queensland University Regiment Association would of course lean over and whisper in your ear that it’s no coincidence that Bruce Maughan was the pastor for the tin soldier officer’s boys outfit for decades.
But where have all the wise men gone?
Maughan’s employer The Southport School was of course the infamous alma mater of the ill-fated State of Origin star center Peter ‘Jacko’ Jackson, the joker whose jovial exterior fooled the Maroon faithful into believing he was a bloke’s sort of bloke, when really he was just a kid crying out it pain and desperately groping for in hope that someone might hear his screams and ease his pain.
We didn’t though – we all f*cked up – back the none of us, even victims like me, really knew what to look for because we were drowning too deep in the depths of out own pain and thought it was just us, and so were blind to the reality that it was just silence that was making us think we were alone. And so another innocent victim of child sexual abuse died at the end of a needle and arsehole’s who did it to him stood over his grave ad preached.
No more man. No more, no more, no more. You ain’t dying in vain Jacko, no f*cking way.
Harry Wippel’s mate Bruce Maughan was a Housemaster for 22 of his years at The Southport School – don’t forget Jacko was boarder, and his abuser ‘Ossie’ (my arse) McNamara was a house master too – , and Maughan was actively involved in the Queensland Debating Society (QDS) for at least 16 of those years.
During the same period serial pedophile Kevin Lynch was also actively involved in the Debating Society as a coach, adjudicator and executive member of the QDS committee, and at the same time another leading member of the QDS was a man named Garth Kolter, a convicted pedophile who had recently been released from the tomato can after serving 13 years in prison for attempted murder under his birth name of Desmond Sanderson.
Kolter/Sanderson’s past was particularly well known to the folk that ran the Qld Debating Union, for he had become enmeshed with the organisation by way of his active involvement with the prison debating program, an initiative of a front outfit for pedophiles named the Prisoner’s Aid Society (PAS that had been set up for the express purpose by procuring little boy victims by crims and sickos given the green light for go corrupt Police Commissioner Terrence Murray Lewis and his mates in The Joke, who figured quite correctly that if you had the top end of town pedos by the balls you could control the courts, the bureaucracy, the government, the whole damned box and dice.
And for decades they did, and some say their anonymous inheritors still do.
One of the principals of the Prisoners Aid Society was a man named Paul John Breslin, a never-do-well with inherited wealth and Walter Mitty type-fantasies who was a friend and close associate both of Police Constable David Warren ‘Davey’ Moore and of ABC broadcaster William John ‘Bill’ Hurrey.
Breslin was also the pair’s perverted partner in crime, and he, Moore and Hurrey were later convicted and jailed for the heinous sexual offences they perpetrated against young boys, although if my own experience is any indicator then I reckon at the most what they may have nodded their heads to was about 1/1000th of what they actually did.
Meanwhile, while the high profile pair were committing crimes all over town Garth Kolter was being allowed unfettered and unsupervised access to teenage students in his role as coach of the QDU State representative team. The QDU brass – Lynch, Maugham, State MP Colin Lamont (real name Bird), Gilbert Case (soon to be St Pauls School headmaster and the employer of pedophiles Lynch and Gregory Robert Knight), Matt Foley (later State Attorney-General) and others either turned a blind eye or simply acquiesced to the pervert having his play.
The enablers in charge of the QDU even went so far as to name the State’s Senior Debating trophy in Sanderson’s honor, although of course under his post-prison name of Garth Kolter. It was only stripped from the trophy years later when former Senator Bill O’Chee – spurred on by the suicide of my abuser Gregory Stephen Masters after I published details of the crimes he (Masters) committed against me as a 13 and 14 year old student at St Paul’s School – revealed the truth about Kolter’s past and expressed his concerns that Masters offending may have been linked to abuse by, or a common enjoyment of committing abuses with, the convicted kiddy-fiddler Kolter.
The adult in the Churchie Chapel Choir photograph is a teacher named Peter Krebs. In 1960 he became the foundation Headmaster of St Paul’s School after being hand-selected for the position by then Anglican Archbishop Reginald Halse, pictured below with Harry Roberts at a Churchie school swimming carnival held at the Valley Pool.
A number of journalists have recently independently obtained statements from former students of Churchie and Slade College (Warwick) – another Anglican Church owned and operated boys school, now a satellite campus of Churchie – in the 1950’s alleging that Archbishop Halse was a serial pedophile who conducted ‘masturbation lessons’ with young male students when he conducted school arranged and facilitated one-on-one meetings with young lads in the privacy of the chapels of the respective schools..
The unrelated, but indisputably absolutely corroborated, accounts from the former students – all now wealthy men in their late 70’s and 80’s and with no reason to lie – reveal that these intimate auto-erotic stimulation tutorials conducted by Archbishop Halse were arranged by he headmasters of the schools, and that boys who attempted to protest against their unwanted lessons were silenced by by threats, sanctions, violence, or a combination of any of three meted out by those in charge of the institutions.
The Headmaster of Slade College at the time of the alleged mass scale child sex abuses perpetrated by Archbishop Halse was a man named Keith Dan. In what may seem an oddity to unbelievers Mr Dan later vacated his chair as Headmaster at Slade and was transferred to Brisbane by the school’s proprietors to became the Head of the Mathematics Department at Churchie.
We understand that in or around the year 2003 the Anglican Archdiocese of Brisbane was alerted to the alleged abuses committed by Archbishop Reginald Halse in 1950’s and 1960’s. A statement we have been provided by one of the victims confirms that detailed information about Halse’s highly improper behavior was forwarded to the Board of Inquiry commissioned by the church to investigate allegations of cover-ups of sexual abuse by then Governor-General Peter Hollingworth during his time as Anglican Archbishop and Primate.
The allegations that were made about Halse’s widespread abuses – and the involvement of Harry Roberts and Keith Dan in facilitating and/or concealing the abuses – have never investigated by the church.
Reginald Halse remains a revered figure within the Anglican community.
Back to Harry John Wippell.
The 1979 edition of the Churchie school magazine The Viking (volume 13, number 5)- reveals that in that same year Harry John Wippell – confirmed bachelor, chemist, businessman, and sole proprietor of the Everton Hills pharmacy on Brisbane’s north side – held the position of joint Vice-President of the Churchie Old Boy’s Association (OBA).
The patron of the Old Boys Association at the time was Mr William ‘Bill’ Hayward, then the Headmaster of Churchie, a role he had assumed in 1974 and would hold until 1986.
In April of that year – 1979 – a man named John William Burgess plead guilty in the Penrith District Court in NSW to two charges of carnal knowledge that he had committed when he raped a 13 year old student in his care named Dianne Tillett. At the time of the commission of the offences Burgess was teaching as a school named Masada College in Sydney’s west, and had been deregistered following his conviction.
Later that year Hayward would employ Burgess as a teacher at Churchie, and the admitted child rapist would work at the school from 1980-1985, after which time he became the foundation Headmaster of Ormiston College in Brisbane’s south-east.
Within a few years of the school’s establishment parents at the school became aware of Burgess’ conviction for child sex offences and he was quietly stood aside.
His replacement as acting Principal was none other than former Brisbane Grammar School Headmaster Max Howell, the man who had employed Kevin Lynch in 1973, and was last year found by the Child Abuse Royal Commission to have knowingly concealed the serial pedophiles crimes from at least 1980 when an eminent doctor had informed Howell of the school counselors improper behavior toward his son.
Lynch abused many hundred of boys between 1980 and his death in 1997. At least 20 of these young men took their own lived in the aftermath of their abuse.
Oh what tangled webs sick people weave.
This is a terrible story. Tragic is not the word. Too many lives have been lost for it to be a mere tragedy. It is an apocalypse of gargantuan proportions.
The death count as a result of abused committed in Anglican church run institutions is equal to that suffered in World War 1.
Do you hear me?
The rate of premature death among child sexual abuse victims in Anglican Church run institutions in Queensland is the same as the casualty rate in the War to End All Wars.
Look at the statistics,
Numbers don’t lie.
So if you think for a moment I am being harsh when I viciously attack those that I hold responsible for these atrocities think again.
They are war criminals. Look at the body count and tell me that I am wrong.
The Vice Patron of the Churchie Old Boy’s Association in 1979 when pedophile Harry Wippel was Vice President was Henry Emmanuel Roberts.
The man in whose honour Geoffrey Luck and Tony Morris QC wish to strike a brass bust.
The man they vehemently assert had no role whatsoever in, or any degree of culpability for, the continued presence at and involvement in the affairs of the Church of England Grammar School.
A man well known to be a danger to the welfare and safety of the school’s students, as acknowledged by Luck and Morris themselves.
A man who they claim had been marched from the school’s grounds by their heroic headmaster Harry Roberts, and was never to return, until some feckless and reckless later school Headmaster or Headmaster ignoirantly let him back through the gates
A named Harry John Wippell.
The records of the Old Boys Association for the years 1979 and 1980 – presumably the same records that by their own reckoning were so thoroughly scoured by Luck, Morris and their band of merry men – show that Roberts and Wippell were both recorded as present at a number of meetings of the Old Boy’s Association that were held during this two year period..
Pictorial evidence in our possession clearly demonstrated that Roberts and Wippell were both together in attendance at functions held during this this time.
How does Geoffrey Luck, a vastly experienced journalist who has made repeated vehement and unqualified assertions that Wippell was banished from Churchie by his Hector of half a decade hence Harry Roberts – assertions published at his own volition as fact in the national press and on a the respected Quadrant Online journal – reconcile his claims with clear evidence now presented displaying that they are not true.
Is it possible that decency and journalistic ethical responsibility may prevail and that Luck might withdraw his erroneous claims and apologise for misleading the readers of The Australian and Quadrant?
Is the foundation of the teachings of their Hector Harry Roberts sufficiently strong that it might persuade Luck and Morris QC to act with honour and admit that their claims of evidence based research disproving the allegations against Morris were untrue?
Can moral decency overwhelm ego and afford the pair the requisite degree of insight to admit that they have sinned?
Or their professed faith in the resurrection give them them the strength to say ‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned?’
My sincere Christian wish is that these two men may be able to step outside of themselves and into the shoes of the victims and their families who have cried so many tears, and whose pain swill never end as long as men like them continue to carry the poison tipped spear of the sinners who stabbed their self-pleasuring lances through they and their sons hearts/.
Deep down I know that I may as well wish for Santa to sail in through my southern window with a bottle of single malt scotch at sunset.
But Christ didn’t die so that I could continue to sin.
I forgive you fellas.
Can you forgive yourselves?
That is the true question.
Today at the Child Rape Royal Commission the nation was confronted with some sobering – in fact horrifying – statistics detailing the prevalence of child abuse within the Anglican Church in Australia during the 25 year period from 1980 – 2015.
The figures tendered revealed that a staggering 1 115 complaints of abuse – and let’s stop pretending that is spade is not a spade, and start calling ‘abuse’ what any Average Australian would agree that sexual violation of a child actually is: RAPE – .were made to the Anglican Church during that two and half decades.
Based on these figures alone, over the past 35 years a different child in the care of the Anglican Church was sexually abused – RAPED – every eleven days.
A child raped every eleven days. It’s staggering isn’t it? If it were a conflict between armed states this form of atrocity would no doubt be declared a war crime. But this isn’t a conventional war; it’s a massacre. A terrifying, premeditated attack on over a thousand unarmed and unsuspecting wide-eyed innocents.
An Australian child – one of our kids, a future doctor or engineer or perhaps even the scientist destined to discover the cure for cancer – has been raped every 11 days and their futures, and ours, destroyed: yet this horror passed by the public eye with barely a single shout of rage to drown out the screaming silence of the dead and the dead inside..
The collective silence of all in this lad girt by sea casts an ugly stain scar upon our golden soil that unless attended to immediately will take generations to remove.
I haven’t written a great deal on this website lately, because my attention has been focused on a project I’ve been working on to determine the actual numbers of children who were sexually attacked (RAPED) in the institutions examined in the case studies of the Royal Commission, and then identify those who have died prematurely – predominantly at their own hand- the end goal being to create something of beauty as a tribute to the lives of the victims, and a lasting memorial to our tragic loss of innocence and innocents, an object or space of contemplation, on a far smaller scale but of similar intent as the garden at Flanders Field
The analogy is apt.
One in seven Australian soldiers who left our shores and crossed the jeweled sea to fight in World War 1 never returned. There are statues and plinths, and gardens and memorial parks in towns and cities across the length and breadth of the wide brown land that commemorate their lives, their sacrifices and their deaths. Lest we forget.
Let me share a secret with you.
In the two institutions featuring in Royal Commission case studies that I have researched so far – both secondary schools – the early death rate among survivors is one in seven.
The same as the death rate in the war to end all wars.
They don’t tell you that at the Royal Commission do they?
Lest we forget.
Quami points the bone at Barbaro – but he’s too stupid to realize that its actually a mirror
The following is the transcript of a telephone conversation made on 30 December 2013 and intercepted by NSW police.
Two weeks before a man named Joe Antoun, whose family are known to me, was executed at his home in front of his common law wife and young twin daughters.
Farhad Qaumi, the former leader of the Blacktown chapter of the Brothers 4 Life gang, is currently serving a 43 year minimum in Joe’s murder and other crimes. He should have been sent to the gallows.
Pasquale Barbaro, suspected by the courts of commissioning the cold blooded execution – most likely in concert with a man named Les Elias, currently hiding but in in full view in Manila, the Philippines – is serving this life and the thereafter in a casket, and is missed by no-one.
Both small-time gangsters imagined that they were the big men around town.
Clearly they were wrong.
Whales always swallow sharks.
And dead dogs don’t bark.
VI: Farhad QAUMI
V2: Pasquale BARBARO
MIKEY: Michael Odisho (aka Cohen)
VI: Smash it on the head!
V2: Fucking settle down
VI: Yeah brother?
V2: Mate they’re gonna think you’re not talking about fish
VI: Na, Wallah, I’m talking about fish. I’m telling Tallo” Kill it, put it in the…
V2: You all right?
V2: You all right?
VI: Yeah brother, I’ve just been fishing brother, I’ve been out all day brother, on the boat
V2: This fucking dog rings me today’
V2: I never heard of him in my life, I don’t know who the bloke is, some cunt, he ring’s me up and goes,
V2: ‘Some cunt, Mike or Mick or Mikey or something’
V2: ‘He ring’s up, “Yeah mate”, I go, “Yeah’, he goes, “Where are ya?”, I go, “In the city who’s this?” He goes, “Don’t worry who it is”. He goes, then he goes like this, he goes, “You think your Afghan mates a sick cunt?”, I said, “Who, brother tell me who?”, I said “Who, who, who are you talking about?” Anyway, then he went on and on about it, it’s on my phone, anyway, I said, “Oh yeah, anyway, where are ya?” He goes, “Auburn”. So I went to Auburn, just to see who it is, I just want to go see who it is, may be he’s got a hot sister or something, you know’
V2: And I go there, texting, texting, nah, we’re at Yagoona KFC now, so all right, I went to Yagoona KFC, where are ya, eh, we had to go catch up another, I go “Who is it?” They go “Don’t worry”, he goes this and that, der der der, anyway, you ever heard of this cunt? He goes, his here, his there with um, with Weiss and some other cunt’.
VI: Is that the one that [I] got opped, popped or something?’
V2: I don’t know, I don’t know him at all, I don’t know no cunt that name’
Michael ‘Mikey’ Odishio (right) – Da last man standing- For da moment
VI: That’s the one I sho…., I think thats the one that got popped, I think’. [That the one that got sho… I think that’s the one that got popped, I think.]
VI: That’s the one I got sh.., is he Assyrian?’ [That’s the one that got sh … is he Assyrian.]
V2: I don’t know what he is, he reckons, he goes’.
VI: ‘Is it that Fred, Fred, Fred’s coey’
V2: I don’t know, don’t know the cunt’.
VI: Yeah, it’s probably him’.
V2: ‘Say, come down, “Who you with, where are ya?, again, nah, he goes Listen, I’m with that, this, that, all these names, you know, Weiss?, fucking Wally, you know, I said, oh yeah, I said anyway, I’m there, and they said your Afghan mate thinks he’s a sick cunt, I said I don’t know any Afghan’s, I said I don’t know none, like none, I don’t know any, who are you talking about?’
V2: ‘and then they started to bridge up, I said anyway, we’re talking on the phone, I don’t know what you’re talking about but 111 come and see youse, you know, where are ya?’
V2: Brother, I wasted three and a half hours, I went here, here, here, here, nowhere, nowhere, you know’.
VI: Why did they call you for but?’
V2: ‘Just called me, being sick cunts, they wouldn’t say who is it, I’m saying who is it, who is it, all they said is that, I don’t know why they called me, they didn’t want to see me’
VI: Yeah, but why would they call ya, why would they call, they got, they, that little cocksucker, aye’.
V2: They were calling me, they wanted to see me, I went to see them and they didn’t want to see me’.
VI: Yeah, that little cocksucker’
V2: ‘Nah, but you know what they are doing, they’re just trying to talk, talk rubbish on the phone, you know like, we don’t do nothing, you don’t do nothing, they’re trying to get us to talk, you know’
V2: But then, anyway, what they tried to do, they tried to go out of their way to mention all this about some Afghani, this and that, (unclear) I said, I don’t know man’
V2: You don’t speak to no-one that would fucking, huh?’
VI: ‘On the phone?’
V2: Yeah, on the phone’
V2: ‘So anyway’
VI: Yeah (laughs)’
V2: Yeah, funny cunts, brother I went there, you know how far it is, it’s fucking an hour’s drive’
VI: ‘From you’
V2: Yeah, I went there, Auburn, then I went to Yagoona’
VI: ‘You know what it is brother, it’s a facade brother, it’s a facade, you know what a facade is?
VI: There trying to put on a facade brother, you know what I mean brother’
V2: Yeah, but then, then they called, I said yeah yeah, anyway, anyway, like, I said I’ll come down’
V2: I said, anyway, you know who this, I said, “Who’s that, who’s with ya, who are ya?”, like, who, whoever the fuck it is. He goes “Don’t worry brother, you’ll see us when you see us, bring your sick cunt Afghan mate”. I said, “Nah, nah, I don’t have any Afghan mates, I don’t know anyone Afghan”, I said anyway, I’ll come down, this and that and they go, “Oh yeah, I’m with Weiss, we’re all with Weiss”, I said, “Yeah, you’re with Weiss, tell him I want to see him, I’ve been dying to see him”.
VI: ‘Oh, is that what they called you, him, Weiss?’
PB : ‘Nah, then they bring that, that’s in the third call, I said, “Oh yeah, that sick cunt”, I said “I’ll come and see him, have him with ya”, I said, “But listen, anyone who’s friends with him, or anyone who says hello to him, I’m putting on the dog” I said, “I’ll be there soon, so don’t talk on the phone”
V2: So I went there, no one to be seen, they said this Park, this Street in Auburn, no one there, I sat there for half an hour, (unclear) Mate, I sat there, anyway, it doesn’t matter’.
VI: I’ll talk to ya when I see ya brother, I’ll talk to ya when I see man, don’t worry about it’.
V2: ‘Nah, I’m not worried, but I’m just saying, have you heard of this cunt, no way, what do you mean, innocent brother’
VI: Bro, the only Mikey that I heard of cuz is the one that got, that got, Sh„ that, that I, that’s what I heard on the news and that, that he got shot’
V2: Yeah, I never even heard of any Mikey’
VI: ‘that’s, that’s, that’s the only one that I’ve heard, it’s that that Fred’s coey’s brother,
VI: I, I just seen it on the news I don’t even know that bloke, either, you know what I mean’
V2: ‘Ahh, yeah’
VI: It’s the only one I know brother’
V2: Why are they saying Afghan, what’s in their hearts to say Afghan, are they trying to talk something on the phone, you know what I mean?’
VI: Yeah, I don’t know man, but how do they even know that you know me?’
V2: ‘Nah, but that’s what I’m saying, I said, “Idon’t know an Afghan”, but I see ya, where are ya, you know’
VI: Yeah, yeah’
V2: Yeah, then they said, “Don’t worry, we’re not stupid, all good brother”
V2: Yeah, he rang with his number on it and everything’
VI: ‘He rang with his number on?’
V2: Yeah, his numbers on’
VI: ‘Oh yeah’
VI: ‘Forget em brother, don’t worry about em’
V2: I’m not worried about them brother, I’m just asking if you know the bloke, I don’t give a fuck, I went there and wasted my day, I was just gonna say hello, see, put a face to the voice you know’.
VI: Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell ya, I’ll talk to ya when I see ya face to face brother, aye’
V2: Yeah, anyway, it’s nothing, I’m just letting ya know if you heard anything, you know’
VI: ‘Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah’.
V2: Yeah but how did your fishing go, all right?
VI: Very good brother, just fucking, yeah. Here, there’s a few of us here fishing
V2: All right, sick cunt, have a good day anyway
VI: Yeah, thanks brother
V2: All right brother
VI: I’ll speak to you soon cuz
V2: Take care
Thinking of a master plan
‘Cause ain’t nothing but sweat inside my hand
So I dig into my pocket, all my money is spent
So I dig deeper, but still coming up with lint
So I…start my mission, leave my residence
Thinking, “How could I get some dead presidents?”
I need money; I used to be a stick-up kid
So I think of all the devious things I did
This is a journey into a new dimension, a place where all things real are unreal. Truth flows all around you like molten lava and sears your brain. Numbers swirl like vortexes surrounding your cortexes and overtake your mind. You disconnect and become dizzy, so dizzy, the world spins like a thousand records and the DJ scratches, scratches, scratches , until the only thing you know is chaos and cacophony and all you see is color and the only thing you hear is sound.
This is a journey.
This is journey.
Welcome to Wonderland.
Madness abounds ………
PWC Baseline Report – Figure 1: Model population with class utilisation (June 2015)
Well sportsfans here I am and there you and welcome to the wacky new world of welfare reform in the Wide Brown Land, a world in which everything our elected Government plans, plots, schemes, says and does is predicated on the findings of a report written by a bunch of tripped out wild-eyed weirdo’s whacked out on acid or junked up on juice that makes them fly so high that only a shot of Mr Brown might ever bring them down.
The report’s authors are the the Stock Aitken Waterman of the uber-inflated and incredibly over-inflated finance world, Price Waterhouse Coopers, the upright and honest laundry firm so lily white and gleaming that they are the obvious and only choice of to advise our government about all things financial.
The report in question is called the Baseline Valuation Report and it’s dated 30 June 2015, which is totally apt for a con job that’s more huge than the Sydney Harbor, because it wasn’t actually commissioned until 4 months later on 14 September and didn’t kick off for another 6 weeks on the 23rd of November.
Capiche? The whole thing was simply a scam from the start.
If only we’d heeded the warnings from the Department of Human Services for whom the report was written maybe we could have cut it off at the pass.
We didn’t though, and nether did the Australian Government or the Department of Social Services under its control and in its thrall, so now we find ourselves stuck in this strange nether world where every decision that the jesters in charge of our nation’s circus make is based on the scientific mathematical actuarial modelling of the Baseline Valuation Report.
Which is somewhat of a problem, because the report’s findings are wrong.
No, that’s not right – the findings are not just wrong – they’re absolutely wildly misleading, and knowingly, willfully and deliberately so.
And Australia’s entire welfare policy debate is being predicated upon them.
Something’s very, very rotten in the land of golden soil sportsfans.
How doth our Government deceive thee punters? Let me count the ways
Start at the beginning.
The first and most fundamental element of the scam is the baseline count, because if it’s wrong then so is every number that follows.
Let me give you a simple and easy to understand example.
You send your kid out to the shop with instructions to buy a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a box of cornflakes and a jar of jam, and you hand them a hundred dollar note and tell them to make sure they bring back the change.
The milk costs $3 and so does the bread and the jam, and the cereal costs $4, so all up the kid should be spending 3 + 3 + 3 + 4 = $13, and therefore our of a $100 you should get $87 change from the nipper when they get back home with the goods, and you’ll be going absolutely ballistic if they hand you anything less.
So if they return with only $37 and when questioned start carrying on like pork chops protesting their innocence and swearing that they didn’t spend a cent of lollies or slip any of the change into their pocket you’ll disregard their pleas as outright lies, and apply the most heavy-handed form of discipline in your moral arsenal to them won’t you?
But what if you’d only actually given them 50 bucks, and knew it, and were simply putting the blame on your kid to hide the fact that you’d dropped $50 on the pokies that afternoon from your better half, and were pushing the blame onto the powerless little punk who was now grounded and bawling her eyes out in her room?
You’d be an absolute piece of sh*t wouldn’t you? No parent would do that. It would be like a government lying to it’s people. It just couldn’t happen.
The PWC report is based on that $100 note.
Every single number, every single calculation, every single conclusion in the Baseline Valuation Report has been worked out on the basis that every single Australian is receiving some form of welfare.
All 23.9 million of us.
It’s a lie.
Less than half of the good citizens of the wide brown land do not, have not, and never will receive a cent in hand outs from the Government, and the authors of the PWC report know it.
For the love of pizza they even admit it!
But despite their admissions, the report’s authors don’t correct their dodgy initial assumptions, and the Government stays tight lipped with its arms folded across its chest too, and the numbers start off crook and poison flows through every single thing that follows and the a fraud is perpetrated on every single man and woman who stands up at and sings Advance Australia Fair whenever and wherever its sung.
Don’t despair about the fact that you’re Government’s lied through its teeth to you though sportsfans, because there’s some bloody good news too.
We’re all going to live until we’re 110!
Life – be in it today!
Yes that’s right Australia, Price Waterhouse Cooper and the Turnbull Government have just passed laws that will ensure that you, the missus, the kids and your mates will live until you’ve smashed a century and live for a decade more.
You bloody beauty!
There’s one problem though punters. Our sudden legislatively prescribed 25% in life expectancy is going to result in a huge blow out to the nation’s welfare bill, but never fear for our intrepid Social Services Minister and his bean-counting novelist mates at PWC saw it coming, and have already put preventative measures in place.
They’re going to drug test dole bludgers and cut them off benefits if the child-abuse victim bastards can’t bloody straighten themselves out and join the drug free world like normal people and a get themselves a goddamn job.
What’s that? There aren’t any jobs?
There’s always work for those who want it.
The pharmaceutical industry is always looking for people to flog their magnificent products to Doctors on commission. And Price Waterhouse Cooper are always seeking entrepreneurial types who can turn a 4 thousand dollar ounce of cheaply manufactured flu medicine into 2800 packets of point one of a gram of crystals sold at $50 bucks a pop and turn a 350% profit.
These are the type of business orientated, right thinking people this country needs. Men and women who can turn rancid bull dust into gold. Good folk who can inflate things by a factor of five without even blinking their eye.
Hard working, right-minded Australians who can help us reduce our projected welfare bill of $160 billion down to $4.8 trillion.
What’s that? A hundred and sixty billion is actually less than just under five trillion?
Get off the grass.
See I told you all these lazy dole bludgers were on it.
But we’ll sort them out.
Don’t you worry about that.
You’re an average Australian battler. A good person, never been in trouble with the law in your life, worked hard at the factory job you’ve had since you left school, raised 3 kids who’ve all got jobs – your daughter went to Uni, first in the family, she’s a teacher now – have 7 fantastic grandkids, you’re only 2 years from retirement, can’t wait, life’s great.
Then one night the Devil’s Dancer slips in through the window and lays his hand on her head, and the next morning you wake up and reach over to give her a dawn hug before work as you have for the past 40 years and she’s not there. You call her name. No answer. So you get up and look around the house. Nothing. Then you notice the dunny door’s shut. She must be in there. You call her name. and then call it again. Nothing. You knock on the door. Silence. So you open the door. And there she is. Dead on the floor.
It was a heart attack the government doc tells you a couple of days later, but you hardly hear her and the words are just jumbled in the haze. Everything was so good just a few days before, but now your life’s fallen apart and you can’t even remember your own name and you don’t know what day of the week it is, or even what year.
You use the money you’d been saving to take her on a cruise at Christmas to pay for the funeral. Two years with a carton of stubbies on weekend so you could stash the 50 bucks a week away and take her on the trip of a lifetime, now its gone in a day, and so’s she. You bury your wife on a rainy Friday morning.
On Monday you go back to work. There’s a job to be done, and you don’t want to let the boss and your workmates down. It’s what you do, who you are, an average Australian bloke who wants to do the right thing. A bloke who for the first time in his life feels all alone.
Just before smoko you drop a band saw and nearly take off your mate next to you’s foot. By lunchtime you’ve cut two jobs the wrong size, dropped a box full of screws and spilled them across the factory floor, and forgotten to put the safety on the nail gun and nearly taken out a blokes eye.
The foreman comes over and asks if he can have a word. He’s a good bloke, you’ve known him thirty years, he came to the funeral and his missus helped cook for the wake. He says its probably best if you take a few weeks off work. Your mind’s somewhere else at the moment he tells you, and as much as you protest you know he’s right. Money’s a worry though because you used up all your sickies and your holiday pay when you had that cancer scare a couple of months ago and had to get the radium treatment.
Don’t worry, the foreman says, the Government’s got this bereavement leave payment scheme just for situations like this. He tells you that Bill on the other line claimed it when his son died in the bike accident last year and he had to take a couple of months off work to get his wife through it after she had the breakdown. Its not much he says, only about 400 a week, but at least it’ll be enough so you can pay the bills while you’re dealing with this sh*t hand you’ve been dealt mate.
You thank him, hand up your overalls and set off for the Centrelink office. It’s the first time in your life you’ve been near the joint, so you have to ask directions from some young bloke when you get off the train, but eventually you find it and bowl up to the counter. apologise to the young woman on the counter for bothering her, and setting your pride to one side explain why you’re there.
She tells you that the Government’s made changes to the Bereavement Allowance, Sir, and hands you an application form for Jobseeker Payment, which she explains is the dole. You tell her you’ve got a job, and don’t need another one, the boss just says that you need a bit of time off to deal with your grief and get your head together, and he’s right, but you’ve run out of paid leave because you had to get cancer treatment not long back.
‘There’s no Bereavement Allowance for average Australian workers anymore Sir’ the nice young women tells you, ‘The Government stopped it last month. Now it’s only for people on welfare’.
You look at her blankly as your heart sinks. It’s not her fault, she’s just the person on the counter and doesn’t make the decisions, but you can’t stop yourself from asking
‘It was all the druggies fault Sir’ she says, reading from a press release issued by the Minister for Social Services. ‘They were all on the dole and using taxpayer’s money – your and mine, Sir! – to buy their drugs. Most of them had been doing it for 15 years and the drug habits of each and the average Australian taxpayer had to work 14 years just to feed these stay in bed substance sniffer’s addiction’.
‘It simply had to stop Sir. Something had to be done! So the Government abolished the Bereavement Allowance’.
Your head started to spin. What did your wife dying have to do with drug addicts and the dole? How was cutting the Bereavement Allowance for average Australian workers and giving it only to the lazy junkies on the dole going to fix the problem, even if one existed? And didn’t the foreman tell you that people on the dole COULDN’T get Bereavement Allowance?
None of it made sense, but you felt so tired, just so tired, and figured that the government usually knew what they were doing, and you probably just didn’t understand. So you thanked the nice young woman, left the Centrelink office and, using the last $20 in your pocket caught a cab home, wondering all the way home how you were going to afford to buy the groceries and fretting about the bills you wouldn’t be able to pay and about what your wife would think if you let the electricity and phone people down.
When the cab stopped outside the 3 bedroom home that you’d lived in with your wife for 40 years, each day of them filled with love and life and laughter, you eyes filled with tears. Now it was all gone, and so was she. You handed the cabbie the 20 and told him to keep the change. It wasn’t going to be any good to you.
You turned the key, walked through the door into the silent cold, went to the cupboard, took out the 200ml bottle of liquid morphine the hospital had given you for the cancer pain that you’d never used because blokes just grin and bear it, and sculled it just like the you had the beer in the yard glass at your 21st all those years before.
Clutching your wedding photo to your heart you lay down on the bed right next to where your wife used to be, turned and kissed the pillow that still bore her scent, closed your eyes and began drifting off to sleep smiling, thinking soon you’d be together again, but it wasn’t you last thought, for just seconds before you entered the beyond another flashed through the slowly drawing blinds of your mind.
And then, like a compassionate payment to a bereaved average Australian worker, you were gone.
The Angelo Vasta story is a long and torturous tale of everything and nothing and a sum of a multitude of the things in between.
It’s a biblical tale of deadly sins and layers of lies that, although centered around one man’s venal stupidity and fragile avarice-driven ego, shines a bright and inquisitive light down into the deep layers of the peat-bog of state and judicial corruption that formed the bedrock of the State of Queensland, and in all well-reasoned likelihood probably still do.
One day soon I’ll tell it to you, but right now it’s 5.00 in the morning and the dawn’s about to break, and this writer must rest his head upon the pillow before it becomes overtaken by Sol’s shards.
As I depart and step into the land of Nod I will leave you with a wee vignette about men who suffer from persecution complexes that blind them, and politicians in their pay, and men who are held to be honorable and esteemed but are really just rich folk who are rotten to the core.
The hour is late so I must keep it short, paint the piece in pictures in the trust you will work them out.
A son of a Mad Hatter who dwells in a House of Broken dreams and sustains himself by supping at the public teat is approached by a man who the Hatter once did harm. The two men hold discussions behind shut doors and a deal is struck, although the consideration of their private contract remains behind the doors and unknown.
The Hatter’s child lays a treaty upon the table of the Broken Dreamed House.
In part it alleges this:
So the tired writer turns to the commissioned inquiry’s report that it the object of such vitriol and the target of the Hatter’s son’s scorn.
This is what the writer finds, and below it are his thoughts.
And with that, writing in reverse upward from the end to the start, I bid you adieu, and wish you the sweetest of sweet dreams.
The Commission of Inquiry found that Angelo Vasta had lied in the course of making sworn declarations that formed the basis of his statement of claim taken in a defamation proceeding against a satirical magazine named Matilda.
It found as a matter of fact that denials that Vasta made in evidence in the course of the matter about he and his wife sharing a taxi ride with two journalists named Campbell and Goff were false, and that he had known this to be the case when he gave the sworn evidence to the fellow judge who had carriage of the matter.
That finding of and in itself raises serious questions about Vasta’s character and his suitability to remain on the bench – after all, if a judge will lie to suit his own ends, what guarantee is their that he will not make false findings to suit his or others? – but what came next rang alarm bells and sirens.
The Commissioners found that Vasta had willfully and deliberately lied to their Commission of Inquiry too.
Pause and think about that for a moment.
A Judge of the Supreme Court of Queensland had appeared before a lawfully enacted and constituted Commission of Inquiry, formed at his own request and presided over by three of the most eminent judicial figures in the State’s history – one of them a retired Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia – looked the trio in the eye, and told them bald-faced lies.
If you or I had done it we would have been placed in handcuffs, sent down, and locked away until tried for our impertinence and flagrant criminal dishonesty. At the conclusion of our trial, after the inevitable guilty verdict had been found and tabled and the gavel had been struck, we would have been placed in a prison cell and transported to a small, cold concrete cell without windows where the seasons would pass us by as our skin became sallow and our hair turned slowly to grey, desperately attempting to hold on to our last vestiges of sanity and freedom by summoning up in our mind images of that little blue tent that once we called the sky.
All animals may well be born equal, but in the eyes of the men who sentence other men to deprivation, defilement and on occasions even death there are animals that are good and animals that are bad, and though the good may stray from the path and wander into the paddocks filled by the bad they must not be permitted to stray so far that they fall of the edges of the cliff, for if they fall so far and hard that their inners become exposed so too may the immutable truth that they were always equal inside.
And so the erstwhile judges of all things fair and true, three men who had long ago sworn an oath to apply justice equally to the pineapple punter citizens subject to the Pineapple State’s laws pursed their blood-stained lips, and shut their failing eyes, and placed their gnarled hands over their ears and in soft voices pronounced in unison that they could not cast judgement upon matters they could neither hear nor see, and when their words sailed across the winds and in through the windows of the House of Broken Dreams not a soul among the leather-perched many whispered ‘why did you not simply ask?’
That’s the true story of how and why disgraced judge Angelo Vasta, the deemed and damned liar, was never called to his account for his criminal sins in a court of law, and the reason he was neither charged with nor faced trial for his raft perjuries and belligerently deliberate self-serving lies.
The men who tried him in a court of his choosing may have loathed him, but they too also lived lies.
In a land that was once a penal colony, filled with pineapples first planted by prisoners, justice has never been anything other than an unjust elite’s game.
Don’t you worry about that.