No way Dave!
Was that Pretty Boy Collins that I just saw dropping off your ex-missus Del in the QUT lay-by and giving her a huge tongue-laden smooch goodbye?
Deputy Premier Jackie Trad’s Chief of Staff would never in a million years be the type of back door bovver boy who would cut his Old Guard mates lunch would he?
Of course he would.
Archie has a memory like an elephant, and never forgets a face, particularly one that screamed abuse at he and the Branch Stacker when once upon a time at an ALP State Conference they offered a polite and considered joint opinion that killing unborn kids wasn’t cool, and thus proved the eternal truth of the old adage that here is more that unites us than divides us.
Well, well, well, well, well.
Pretty Boy Matt Collins you dirty dog.
You little town flirts.
The mainstream media is a curious c*nt of a beast isn’t it?
A few months every rag in the land was talking up the electoral prospects of Pauline Hanson’s One White Nation party and positing it as potential government breaker, even though every journo with a brain knew that the disparate mob that Malcolm Turnbull’s desperate and idiotic double dissolution had breathed new life into was polling less than two percent.
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story a bloke named Samuel who called himself Mark once said, and goodness gracious me wasn’t old Mr Clemens spot on the money when he declared that a fraction too much fiction is never quite enough?
Pauline Hanson interested in dollars per vote?
James Ashby equally as interested in an earn as his new found political soul mate and latter day boss?
They are sprung on tape plotting a scam, and it’s a front page story?
What was it that Kevin the Great the first once said?
If you build it they will come.
And don’t spare the horses.
brian fitzpatrick, brian parker, cfmeu, dyson heydon, industry super, jeremty stoljar, John Agius, julia gillard, leah charlson, michael ravbar, Peter Biagini, ravbar, Rita Malia, royal commission, SDA, stoljar, tom roberts, tony sheldon, trade union, union
The grub gunman Monis and his mad missus – string ’em up from the nearest tree
The gunman has been identified and he’s not a terrorist, he’s a fucking lunatic – a bloke who writes disgusting and disgraceful letters to the bereaved families of diggers and an alleged party to murder to boot.
Mans Monis – an asshole who calls himself a Sheik but is nothing of the sort – sent letters and DVD’s to a number of families of Australian soldiers killed in Afghanistan, accusing them of being child murderers, comparing them to Nazi’s and saying they were going to hell. All the while he was ably assisted by his girlfriend Amirzh Droudis, a piece of shit who is currently on bail for murdering Monis’ ex-wife, who was stabbed at least 18 times, doused with petrol, and set aflame.
Monis, who tried to create a bizarre alibi for his ex-wife’s murder by filming himself with a clock and faking a car accident outside a police station at the time of his ex-wife’s death, copped a mere 300 hours of community service for his vile letters about the dead servicemen.
He was charged with being an accessory both before and after fact in the ex’s murder – which means that the Crown reckon he was in on it from the get go – but for some God unknown reason Magistrate Daryl Pearce – supposedly known as ‘Fierce Pearce’ for the rigour of his sentencing – gave Monis and his new missus bail on the murder charge in December last year. I hope he’s having a restless night’s sleep right now.
Monis poor dead wife – shoot this gutless bastard now
Last Friday the High Court quite rightly threw out his attempt to have his convictions overturned, and now it appears that in shades of Colin Winchester the psycho is taking his madness out upon the world. But without his girlfriend there does the dickhead have the guts to do anything but act the fool? We all hope not.
But let’s not leave it chance – shoot the prick now. Because if the police don’t we’re about to see the re-emergence of the lynch mob. And I reckon the queue will stretch from Sydney to Darwin.
I’ve just read the joint report commissioned by Abbott and the NSW Government into the Martin Place siege. This is the Liberal-sponsored ‘let’s get ahead of the Coroner’s findings’ report that was intended to be a forward advance white-wash of the whole disaster.
In fact though, it’s anything but, and despite the best attempts of the authors, it makes it clear that our National Security is simply a joke, and that the sequence of events that lead to 2 Australian’s dying simply because they chose the wrong joint to order their flat white was a f**k-up from woe to go.
We learn nothing about how the hostages died, because after consultation with the NSW Coroner, it was agreed that it would not be appropriate at this time for ithis report to address the issue.
But the fact that they even bothered probably tells you all that you need to know. The police killed at least 1 of the hostages and injured a large number of others.
The guts of it all is that Monis lied to enter the country – claiming he was a target of the Ayatollah Khomeini, when in reality he was just a garden variety thief who had fraudulently obtained $200 000 then taken the bolt – and Australian authorities believed him, without making even the most cursory of checks.
Within a few days he was on ASIO’s radar, but despite a number of adverse security assessments over the next couple of years he was dismissed as a shell-shocked victim – despite the fact that he had never seen war – and was granted a Protection Visa.
WIithin a couple of months Monis stages a hunger strike outside Federal Parliament, makes inflammatory comments on ethnic radio, then stages another protest in front of the NSW Parliament House.
INTERPOL Australia open a file on him and request information about his background from Iran; but because no extradition treaty exists between us and them, no info is received and Monis’ file is closed.
The day after the 9/11 tragedy, Monis phones ASIO with information that Iran is behind the attacks. It is of course total BS, and after a number of interviews ASIO mark his file with words to the effect of “Kook, Loon, Alfoil Hatter and Nut Job”, and forever thereafter information about Monis’ nefarious activities is disregarded.
Between 2002 and 2003 he pretends he is a spiritual healer, and commits perverted sexual assaults on vulnerable women, 40 charges are later laid against him. He is on bail for them at the time he enters the Lindt Cafe for the last time.
In 2004, Monis is granted Citizenship and becomes an Aussie. On paper, at least.
Over the next three years he makes numerous calls to ASIO offering ‘information’. They review his file and reconfirm his official status as a nut-case. His file is re-marked ‘Ignore This Imbecile and Anything He Says, or Anyone Has to Say About Him’.
He and some other f**kwit then register an organisation he calls ‘Hizbullah Australia’, and in 2008 he sends letters from the organisation to the Attorney-General, Prime Minister, Opposition Leader, Foreign Minister and ASIO, stating that the group is now registered in Australia and hopes to begin activity as an Islamic organisation.
ASIO look at their files, and again dismiss him as a nutter.
Monis then sends vile letters to the widows and children of Diggers murdered in Afghanistan, telling them that their Anzac hero loved ones were pigs, and deserved what they got.
A year later – a f**king year! It should have been 30 seconds – he is arrested and charged with postal offences with regard to the letters (he should have been charged with treason).
Four years later – yes 4 f**king years – in 2013 – he is convicted of the offences of telling young kids that their hero Dad’s were swine and deserved to be slaughtered. He cops 300 hours community service and a good behaviour bond. He should have been hung.
In the time between committing his vile deeds and being sentenced for his crimes, Monis is charged with intimidating his former partner, and a DVO is taken out against him. He contests and beats the charge and has the DVO lifted.
His former partner is then brutally murdered at her home. Monis’ girlfriend is charged with her murder. He is charged as an accessory. He spends a month in custody on remand, then for reasons inexplicable he is given bail.
In April 2014 the germ is again arrested, this time for the 40 for sexual offences committed a decade before. He spends another month in jail, and then unbelievably is once again granted bail.
8 weeks before the Martin Place siege Monis is charged with another 37 sexual offences. His previously granted bail is continued. Two people are soon to pay a heavy price for this gross failure of the judicial system.
In the week prior to the Martin Place siege 18 calls are made to the National Security Hotline expressing concerns about threats Monis is publicly making on his Facebook page. Because his file has been marked ‘Nutter’ the complaints are ignored.
On Friday 12 December 2014 Monis appears in the High Court, seeking to have his convictions in regard to the postal offences overturned. The High Court tells him that he’s a c**t and that he can get f**ked. They toss his appeal in the trash.
3 days later he tells Australia that we’re the c**ts and that is us who can get get f**ked. After another 17 hour failure by the authorities, Monis and 2 innocent cappucnio drinkers are dead. Many more are suffering trauma and injuries that will remain with them for the rest of their lives.
They are thankful that they still have lives, but increasingly angry at how this situation was allowed to occur.
After reading this report, we should all be.
The Martin Place business community is today sweating on Joe Hockey’s decision whether to declare the atrocities committed by the grub Man Monis – who all of Australia hopes is presently rotting in hell – a terrorist act for the purposes of the Terrorism Insurance Act 2003.
Although no-one really knows why the grub did it (although most suspect it was because he was a fucking unhinged narcissistic lunatic rather than an ideologically driven wannabe martyr), given Jughead’s repeated poll-driven declarations that he was a terrorist it appears a no-brainer that the Fat Man will declare the siege an act of terrorism and the wealthy business owners of Sydney’s eastern suburbs will be recompensed for their presumed trading loss by the Australian taxpayer, including the workers trapped inside the Lindt cafe.
Unfortunately for the workers themselves – the actual people subject to the terror inflicted by Monis; the traumatized victims who may be unable to work for months or years due to the nightmares that haunt them – there will be no insurance payouts: no workers comp, no income protection payments, no health insurance, no mortgage insurance.
Nil, zip, nada. And as for the families of the victims who lost their lives in the horrendous crime? Sorry. your loved ones life insurance doesn’t cover being murdered in this sort of circumstance. The government victims of crime office is just around the corner. Please form an orderly queue to fill in your application to access counselling.
The reason for this debacle is that almost insurance policies contain an exclusion clause ruling out any liability of the insurer for damages caused by acts of terrorism, despite the fact that such an eventuality is well beyond the policy holder’s control. It’s the reason that the Terrorism Insurance Act was enacted in the first place, because in the wake of September 11 insurers refused to insure people, businesses or governments for loss caused by terrorist acts. It bit into the shareholders dividends, and in a world where the value of your life is measured by your net worth that’s just not on.
Former MP Gary Johns is an expert on equating your value as a person to the value of your earnings – I am sure he can explain the whole thing to you.
Normally right-wing governments would shrug their shoulders and say hey, that’s market forces, but in the case of the insurance exclusions it wasn’t so easy, because it threatened to shut down a huge number of industries including aviation, hospitality and mining, for if companies couldn’t insure the large amount of capital they had invested in plying their trade then they wouldn’t ply it at all, and would put their gazillions in the bank instead. So the Jellyfish slithered in, and spineless Peter Costello – that lifelong lover of market forces – rolled onto his back and declared the situation a market failure.
And then Little Johnny Howard stepped in, bravely stumping up the average Australian’s tax dollars to ensure that business was protected by introducing the Terrorism Insurance Act and setting up the Australian Reinsurance Pool Corporation, backed by a $10 billion taxpayer guarantee to ensure that business owners wouldn’t lose out if a terrorist affected their trade. Our erstwhile then-PM even appointed Peter Costello’s close mate Joe Gersch to run the joint.
Gersch, a long-time Toryl and former director of the right-wing Liberal Party front the Sydney Institute – stamping ground of husband and wife Tories Gerard and Anne Henderson- is a pro-Israel activist and a supporter of Jewish oppression of the Palestinians. Some may suggest that he was a strange selection to head a government body concerned with terrorism, but hey, some people also believe that Palestinian families who had lived in their homeland for centuries shouldn’t have been dispossessed by immigrants from Europe, the US and Russia, so there’s no accounting for crazy beliefs.
And as for the common people who may fall prey to the tyranny of terrorism? Bah, let them eat cake. No soup for you peasant!
Here’s what the Terrorism Insurance Act covers:
(a) loss of, or damage to, eligible property that is owned by the insured;
(b) business interruption and consequential loss arising from:
(i) loss of, or damage to, eligible property that is owned or occupied by the insured; or
(ii) inability to use eligible property, or part of eligible property, that is owned or occupied by the insured;
(c) liability of the insured that arises out of the insured being the owner or occupier of eligible property.
And here’s what is doesn’t:
The scheme does not cover residential property or contents of residential
property, and does not cover Commonwealth or State Government property.
The Regulations also exclude contracts of insurance for other matters including
workers’ compensation insurance, marine insurance, aviation insurance, motor
vehicle insurance, life insurance, health insurance, private mortgage insurance,
medical indemnity insurance and professional indemnity insurance.
The Liberal Party – Building a Stronger Australia. Yeah right.
brian fitzpatrick, brian parker, cfmeu, dyson heydon, industry super, jeremty stoljar, John Agius, julia gillard, leah charlson, michael ravbar, Peter Biagini, ravbar, Rita Malia, royal commission, SDA, stoljar, tom roberts, tony sheldon, trade union, union
It sickens me to write this, but the truth must be told, and with each passing hour it becomes more and more obvious that the hostages of Martin Place were killed and wounded not by the barrel of the devil’s spawn Man Monis – the most inappropriately named person in history, for this asshole was anything but a man – but instead by bullets fired by the police who are supposed to protect us.
It’s time to be honest with ourselves – this was a f**kup of monumental proportions. Despite what the New York anti-terror Chiefs tell us, Monis was not an ISIS member. He was simply a mad, bad, lonely lunatic clutching for any straw that would feed his narcissistic need for relevance, and 2 lives have been lost as a result and many more irrevocably injured.
Waking from our grief and shock that this could happen on our shores, many are beginning to ask how and why it all happened. Why was this bastard on bail after being charged with orchestrating his former wife’s murder? How did he continue on bail after being charged with rape? How did he only receive 300 hours community service after calling dead diggers kids the sons of swine?
What the hell is wrong with our justice system?
But worse, at a time when our politicians have acquiesced in deception to raise the terror level to high, why was this deranged lunatic with a pedigree of violence and anti-Australian activity not monitored and tracked? Why was he free to roam the streets, to obtain a gun and walk into a cafe full of innocent, decent Australians and ruin so many lives?
These questions are starting to be asked, and will continue until they become a crescendo that will drown out the shrill noise from our sorry excuse for a Prime Minister, who to his eternal shame has become the cheerleader for the rabble, wantonly creating a narrative that Australia has been violated by Muslim terrorism, when in fact our peace has simply been violated by a vile individual with a world view akin to that of Martin Bryant.
Take heed of this moment. It is the juncture at which the average Australian – people like you and I – begin to realise that we are being conned. The moment that we begin to understand that our parliamentary representatives care nothing about our future, but only about theirs. The point in time that we are brutally forced to understand that the war on terror is merely a battle against ourselves, a test of our collective ability to see through the lies and understand that those that we trust to protect us cannot.
It is out to become worse. In the coming days and weeks we will learn that the victims of Martin Place died not at the end of a lunatic’s gun, but rather as a result of an unplanned and panicked assault by our security forces. The erstwhile Australians dedicated to protecting our land, who through a combination of poor planning, inept leadership, and arguments about command made the fatal mistake of storming the cafe and unloading their bullets into the terrified hostages.
While all the time the trained counter-terrorism experts stayed barracked at home at Holdsworth Barracks. How sad, how tragic, how totally f**king disgraceful.
We continue to be told that our innocence as a nation has been violated. That terrorists have invaded our shores. That repression is the only answer, and we must yield and surrender or suffer the wrath of hell.
It’s all lies.
A devil with a black heart and a big gun has ripped our collective hearts out. Our leader deceives us about how and why. We tremble as we walk down the street, and our heart skips at the sight of a hijab. Ours is a nation divided, wrought by loathing and fear, rained down on us from above.
Where do we go to from here?
Want to know what I’ve been doing for the past eight hours?
Well I’m going to tell you anyway, because my exertions are going to make me more famous than Pheidippedes, the ancient wog ancestor of Gorgeous George who invented the marathon, and I feel I owe it to my loyal readers to let you be the first to know, so you that in 2028 you can quite honestly look the grandkids in the eye and tell ’em ‘I know the mad bastard who dreamed that up, and I was there’.
Have I got you puzzled about what Archie’s been up to since the clock struck twelve and Cinderella didn’t come home? Well wonder no more, because all is now revealed.
I’ve been inventing a new Olympic Sport.
I’ve named it the Glancy ShoeBrick, in honor of that pervo director who deified pedophiles in the movie Lolita, and later became famous for his use of special effects in fantasy films he created like 2001 – A Space Odyssey ,and A.I. – Artificial Intelligence.
You know, that bloke who made the movie Clockwork Orange, and shot that perverted paean to wannabe kinky weirdos Eyes Wide Shut.
Old Stan would be bloody proud of me too I bet because the event I’m named after him is an absolute cracker, a sport in which blokes and birds can compete on even footing, and that no amount of steroids or EPO can ever help a drug cheat treat win. In fact the Glancy Shoebrick is probably the only sport in the history of the whole wide world that can be contested by top-ranked punters from across the globe and won by none, because the built in degree of difficulty is so bloody high that only a genius can score a perfect ten.
A genius like corrupt Queensland copper Pat Glancy, the unsung hero of the five-ringed circus who was the inspiration for this amazing new invention of mine. I’ll tell you more about the great man in a minute, for his humility is an inspiration to us all, but first let me explain how the Glancy Shoebrick works.
The game’s quite simple, and the rules are straightforward.
First you have to go to an unlicensed dyke bar full of underage fresh meat in the Valley, take some illicit drugs in your palm or up your arm, and wash them down with a sh*tload of illegally sold piss served by a bull who backhands slings to corrupt coppers.
While you’re doing so it’s compulsory that you work yourself up into a frenzied blood lust, and then tell all your mates that you want to go out and kill some someone, but just like 100m sprinters have to stay in their lanes, your someone has to be a stranger.
When you’re fully tanked up enough that you’re ready to go out and murder someone you’ve never met, you then have to convince three of your mates to come and join you, because there’s no You in team. and two’s never been a relay team and three’s always been a crowd.
Next you jump behind the wheel of your car and start driving around town looking for the lucky punter on whom you’re going to demonstrate your expertise in the fine art of Glancy Shoebricking, and when you find him you have to entice him into your car by telling him that you want to f*ck him senseless and making him want to do you too even though you’re 136 kilograms on a good diet day and are dressed like a bull dyke.
After you get the by now lust-struck or totally pissed punter in the car you have to drive him to a deserted park and take him in the shadows under a tree, which must be located near a river and behind a dimly lit public brick shit house.
There you have to get him to strip, taking off first his shoes and then his work clobber and last of all his undies, making sure that during the rapid disrobing you leave the bloke with his socks on.
After that it’s easy. All you have to do is stab him like a stuck pig enough times that he carks it, making sure during your frenzied attack that you leave a gaping hole in his neck wide enough for you to suck blood through, and then take a good guzzle of the said red wine before it all gushes out onto the ground.
Sounds bloody easy doesn’t it sportsfans, if you’ll pardon the pun, but it’s absolutely bloody not, and therein lies the innate beauty of the sport of the Glancy Shoebrick: what you see is what you don’t get, and what you get is what you see.
Allow me to explain.
Most Olympic events are built on illusions, like the 100 meter sprint. The mug punters sit in front of the idiot box imagining that the bunch of suntanned blokes they’re watching bolt neck and neck down a track at maximum velocity are motivated solely by the imperative of winning the prize of a gold medal struck from a mine dug by Cecil Rhodes and a lucrative endorsement deal with a cobbling company founded by a Japanese sly-grog merchant that makes a motza manufacturing knock-off imitation footwear in a global chain of third world sweatshops.
The reality though is that the sanitised, rose-colored suckers sales pitch about the sprinting spectacle that the sportsfans have been sold – and stupidly fallen hook, line and sinker for – is nothing of the sort. In fact it’s an absolute and utter crock.
What these punters are really watching is a modern day homage to the cotton plantation dash; a recreation of the age old run from Massa’s farm to the Canadian border that was made for centuries in days of yore by swift young African men who had been stolen from their homes by greedy white slave traders and sold on the block to even greedier white men, who using encouragement in the form of steel-spiked lash forced the young now Afro-Americans to work themselves to death picking cotton.
The only way out for these forebears of the rap generation was to fly off and out of the blocks and be lighting fast enough to bolt over the border, and thus the Olympic sport of athletics was born, and don’t let Gorgeous George or anyone ever tell you any different.
Of course no story is quite as simple as I’ve just told it, for once they’d won the 100 meter dash the slaves had to swim across the Caribbean through shark-infested waters to sparsely populated islands – erroneously these days described as ‘paradise’ due to a mis-spelling of the word used to described slave owners, ‘parasite’ – on which many of them starved. These gold medal winning flights across the water spawned the modern Olympic swimming events, but that particular quirk of history is a tale for another day.
The point I’m wanting to make is that lounge lizards of the world have been sold a massive dummy by sponsors about what Olympic sport is really all about, and that’s why the Glancy Shoebrick is so unique: because the name of this new game and its objective is 100% honest.
See sportsfans, the Glancy Shoebrick’s not about fitting slave descendants living in ghettos into cheap shoes spruiked by steroid junkies, it’s about fitting folk up.
Fitting them up with falsely planted evidence to be precise.
It’s game that anyone with a modicum of skill and a skull full of smarts can compete and win.
All you have to do is in drop a credit card in a shoe from shoulder height and make it land flat and snug. And do it in between stripping your intended murder victim down to his socks sans jocks and stabbing the bludger until he’s dead.
Sounds easy doesn’t it?
So bloody easy that a Vampire Lesbian Killer can do it.
But I have some bad news for you sportsfans.
I’ve made three thousand seven hundred and sixty four attempts to drop the card into the shoe so it lands exactly like it does in the picture at the top of the page, and I’ve failed every bloody time.
Now it’s your turn punters.
Go on, have a crack.
Go for gold and prove me a mug.
There’s only once condition – you’re not allowed to pretend that the dead bloke put the card in his shoe himself unless you can produce fingerprint evidence to show that he touched it. If you can’t then it’s cheating.
You never know, you might even prove that the evidence that convicted Tracey Wiggington guilty wasn’t crook in the process.
Yep, cards might fall flat in shoes. The fourth defendant in the Baldock murder might really have been innocent. Pigs might even fly.
And Tony Murphy may well just have been an honest cop after all.
So a 13 year-old kid gets caught smoking pot at School.
The Principal susses out that he was being bullied and bashed by rugby types – no doubt incited by their self-fashioned facade-building ‘man’s men’ teachers – because he was gay.
Although he’d never said a word to anyone about it, the Principal had created a job at the school for gay mate of thirty years standing after the sh*t had hit the fan at Brisbane Grammar (where the pair had worked together for a decade and a half) about pretty warm allegations being made by a parent that his mate had touched up young students, and things got so hot that even his mates long-term protectors realised that if had to walk the plank and exit the school stage left forthwith if they wished the scandal to be hosed right down and then made to disappear.
Of course they wished it very much.
So the Grammar power brokers leaned on a politician mate and made sure a seemingly inconsequential law change was passed by Parliament so that the mate in the gun could leave Grammar before it all blew up but still get his super; and the the Principal played his part in the play about Lords of Rings by creating a job for his mate and making sure that he got it, and now the gay bloke worked for him.
And had an office behind a locked door with a red light on the front.
The Principal knew how much his gay mate – who wasn’t really gay at all, but rather a pedophile who preferred young boys – would salivate at the thought of a confused young bit of trade walking through the door and into his parlor, so he recommended to the pot-smoking cutie’s parents that he may well be able to avoid the seemingly inevitable expulsion he was considering if only the boy would agree to reeducation by his mate, whose name was Mr Lynch.
The parents of course agreed, and no doubt told their lad that he better bloody play the game with the counselor and do exactly what he was bloody told if he knew what was good for him. The frightened and confused boy, who both wanted to stop getting bashed at school and not to upset his parents any more than he already had, of course agreed too.
The obvious questions about fact that he would have to see the Headmaster’s mate at his home after hours while alone probably didn’t enter the bong-pulling young St Paul’s pupils head, or his parents either. The Principal had provided him with a pathway back to the future and there was no f*cking way that he wasn’t going to take it.
Thus another sex abuse victim was born.
The Headmaster of course rushed directly to his mate’s locked office to tell him that a gay boy was on his way to see him, and suggest that video tapes of their fast-looming trysts would be just fine and dandy. His mate of course was so overjoyed at thought of a nubile new boy to play with, and equally so excited about the opportunity to show his savior how much he appreciated his largesse that he forgot to mention that gigglingly sharing the gossip about the new meat’s gayness may not have be quite kosher.
Who cared though because they had the whole game stitched up.
Given the inexplicably incompetent conduct of the Child Abuse Royal Commission’s investigation and examination of the crimes of Kevin Lynch and the institutions that aided and abetted him you’d guess they still do.
You see punters the fix was in at the Royal Commission. This is Queensland, the fix is always in. After all the linear descendant of a long line of corrupt cop commissioners wasn’t appointed to run the Royal Commission because he was good looking was he?
But why did they do it?
Why did the people who were supposed to uncover all the details about Lynch’s crimes and those who abetted them deliberately obfuscate the evidence by failing to call crucial witnesses, conducting unconscionably cursory examinations of those they did call, and leading us side ways and backward so they could set out a story that had been already long known?
The right Royal fix was in, of that there can no longer be any doubt. The Royal Commission’s failure to act on or even acknowledge the evidenced we have uncovered about about Kevin Lynch’s criminal child abusing past renders the crooked conduct of Case Study 34 a no brainer.
But why did they do it?
That my dear sportsfans is the million dollar question.
An finding the answer our challenge.
Here’s an interesting question for you sportsfans.
If a rug-wearing red-faced rogue gives advice to a kiddy-fiddling covering up Anglican Inquiry into child sex abuses conducted in 2003 and is quoted as telling the Archbishop – who he taken a solemn vow to serve – that a priest cum doctor who abuses a churchgoing patient isn’t the church’s problem, then what the hell might the same bloke have advised the Archbishop about covering up serial sicko Kevin Lynch’s crimes?
What the fuck is Freddie Whitehouse’s uncomfortably close friend’s nephew Paul De Jersey doing holding the office of State Governor of Queensland anyway?
And why the hell is a bloke like De Jersey the patron of the purported child protection charity Bravehearts when he has clear and demonstrable close connections to nearly a quarter of the institutions publicly examined in the case studies conducted by the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse?
Hey wasn’t De Jersey a member of the school council of Churchie when little boys were being abused by their teachers and gymnastics coaches?
Isn’t he the Official Visitor to Brisbane Boys Grammar where Kevin Lynch touched 200 plus boys dicks and ended a dozen or more of their lives?
Didn’t he directly provide legal advice to disgraced pedophile protector, absolutely discredited Anglican Arcbishop and shamed and shameful former Governor General Peter Hollingworth?
The old man reckons that in the swinging 60’s De Jersey joined some toy soldier outfit called the University of Queensland Regiment just so that he could avoid the Vietnam Draft. Don’t listen to that silly old cancer stricken c*nt though; poor old Dad’s never gotten over the loss of his three Geebung mates who copped bullets in the head in the jungle near Khe San, and it’s sent him a bit spacko Joe.
Governor De J’s a boy scout isn’t he? He’s gotta be okay.
Scouts honor and all that your former honor.
There’s one thing though that I’ve never understood.
Why is it that some queer quokkas call the draft dodger Daphnis?
And who are those blokes in the funny hats?