Harness Racing Cred and Advancing Age – Queensland Pacing Championships I Have Seen in the Flesh and the Legitimate Excuses For Those That I Missed

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F*cking politics – I was running for election in NZ this year and missed Blackie’s first win in the Championships. Spewing. I did sneak away and watch it in an Auckland pub though. What a hell of a win it was too. Blackie was the modern day Wondai’s Mate.


I couldn’t find footage of Wondai’s in the Qld Pacing Championship, so this Interdominion heat replay will have to do


My mate Mick Zammit the gun greyhound trainer’s Dad Sam trained and drove Sammy Karamea, the one briefly third on the fence in this never to be forgotten race


Calling Out the Media – Why Racing Needs Fiercely Independent Journalists to Tell it Like It Is Rather Than Parrot the Words of the People Paying Them to Pipe Out Self-Interested False Tunes – Oh Archibald, Here’s Looking at You Kid!


An article from http://www.racenet.com.au by reader Peter Mair

TAB punters, and the wider community, are in desperate need of a professional racing media establishment that is genuinely independent — prepared to raise and properly investigate very real issues of integrity in the management and conduct of racing  — issues that are routinely ignored even though they are clearly evident.

In western-style democracies the shortcomings of government and business are meant to be dealt with by the political process, by the courts and by the so-called ‘fourth estate’ – the free press responsible for identifying and publicising the public interest.

The system fails when those checks and balances are not working – and that outcome is normally associated with dictatorial, undemocratic and corrupt regimes.

Somewhat like the Australian racing industry — the system is failed — a free press simply does not exist in respect of the racing industry.

A fair question is whether racing industry journalists and broadcasters are meeting reasonable professional standards of objectivity and independence.

Consider two sentences of the media code-of-practice:]

Report and interpret honestly, striving for accuracy, fairness and disclosure of all essential facts. Do not suppress relevant available facts, or give distorting emphasis. Do not allow ………….. commercial considerations to undermine accuracy, fairness or independence.

As I am reading and listening to media reporting and coverage of the racing industry ‘independence’ is one concept that rarely crosses my mind as being respected and governing content.

On the contrary, what I mostly read and hear has all the hallmarks of bonded media employees tied to commercial interests and left without a sliver of independence if they want to keep their job.

The priority is not frank and fearless reporting in the public and punters’ interest but rather protecting the game: protecting the commercial interests of industry administrators shamelessly grabbing for the punters’ dollar in any way they can; protecting the commercial interests of profit-making tote and bookmaking operators apparently in league with the administrators against the punters and, finally – the imperative of politicians pandering to racing industry interests with funding diverted directly from the ‘racing take’ rather than more correctly making explicit budget provision after ‘putting and taking’ to and from consolidated revenue.

This industry has the hide and gall to mantra the word ‘integrity’.

There was a glimmer of hope last Saturday week —  on 2KSKY about 9.15 am when one of the regular ‘tipsters’ for the Melbourne program had the temerity to say clearly that one of the races on the program had no place being on a Saturday racing program: a very rare but welcome breach of the more usual code of dedicated silence when speaking up is the correct course.

One only hoped in vain for a similar flight into the realms of truthful objectivity and independence in the coverage of Race 4 in Sydney on the same day – one of the usual Highway-robbery handicaps, this low grade race, over the barriers-critical 1200m at Rosehill, was distinguished by having 22 acceptors, of which 4 were emergencies, and 15 started: one could say on Wednesday night that the race could not be fairly run but run unfairly, it was and the First 4 dividend in NSW was some $30,000.

Did it not cross the mind of one local journo/commentator to say ‘no – this is not on’?

For another glaring example, the same goes for 1400m races run at Flemington and Caulfield with inflated fields leading to congestion and interference and racing that delivers random outcomes being simply unfair for all involved.


Waynie Poo Innes the Dodgy Dirt Digger Has Taken the Big Bankruptcy Dive – But I Wonder Who Is Paying the $22 000 a Year For the Elite Private School Fees?

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The hangdog look works a treat Poo, but there’s a bit of lint on your jumper son

Wayne Francis Innes – aka Wayne Solomon and Wayne Solomon Innes – is presently on bail facing more charges of crookedry and corruption than you could poke seven sticks at, and if the odds on shot gets up as expected and he is convicted a proceeds of crime recovery order is quickly sure to follow.

Save the trees is my advice.

The Poo ain’t got nothing. Well not in his name anyway, for our favorite fraudster and one-time Balmain Tiger turned turtle has toddled along the well trodden path down to the sewerage works – stopping via ITSA along the way to falsely declare a few things and swear that stuff that is not true is – and plunged head first into every crim’s favorite pool dirty water, the Bankruptcy Baths.

Yes sportsfans, to none of your surprise the dodgy earthmoving contractor facing fraud-style charges relating both to the Brisbane Racing Club great Rock n’ Roll track rip-off and to Paul Taking the Pisasale’s corrupt kingdom in Ippy – a rare double indeed – has declared himself stony broke.

That means that when he eventually nods to a small clutch of reduced charges as part of a deal struck with the DPP in return for rolling over and naming names, the good folk and bad that the Poo robbed blind won’t be getting a goddamn cracker unless his bankruptcy trustee comes down to the members at Doomben one Saturday arvo, hides behind a tree until the Poo approaches the bookies, and jumps out and grabs a couple of grand in crisp green banknotes out of his hand before he gets on.


Either that or the trustee can park up out the front of one of Brisbane’s most elite Anglican Church owned private schools and waits for Waynie Poo to rock up with 22 large in his paw in untraceable used bank notes to pay his kid’s school fees, but I suggest that the ITSA fella brings about a decade’s worth of lunch packs with him on the stalk because it’s highly likely that it’s going to be a long wait both for him and the Bursar waiting to cop the fees.


It won’t hurt Waynie overly I guess, or the kid, because I’m sure he won’t need more than chump change inside – if he can keep away from the temptations of exotic betting options offered by the jailhouse SP that is, which is no certainty at all – and surely a good Christian school will offer a fee remission to a nice kid whose father is through no fault of the offspring banged up for a bit, and the Anglican Church has squillions and can afford it, so at the end of the day everyone’s a winner.

Except those who got ripped off of course, but hey that’s just capitalism sportsfans and every time a pie comes out of the oven some bugger gets a big slice and another bugger gets none, and that’s just the way the cookie or the pie crust crumbles.

Don’t worry too much about the Poo either, he’s a survivor and in just 30 odd months he’ll be as free as a bird, his debts will be wiped forever, and he’ll be back in the game and will soon be firing again on all cylinders, probably in Tasmania or New Zealand or somewhere where he hasn’t already pulled his pocket the up-fronts and mid-terms off the invoices and don’t pay or performs before, and as such nobody knows his name or is aware of his form.

A smile and a shoeshine, a new name, a gullible head contractor, and a greedy chief procurement officer fond of a drink and a punt is all Waynie Poo needs to pull his magic, and as careless as he is in getting continually caught he is by all reports pretty slick as he’s travelling along the way between recuperatory spells in the Eastern Seaboard’s best free bed and breakfast high-fenced farm accommodations.

We all have our skills I guess, and Waynie Poo’s is the grift.

As PT Barnum used to say, there’s a new sucker born every minute.

Ain’t that the truth Mr Innes.



Archie Tips You a Winner in the Queensland New Racing Minister Plate

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There’re no flies on old Pounds, but there’ll be plenty of leeches

Last week I framed a betting market in the Queensland New Racing Minister Plate and posted our old mate the Property Council’s bot ‘Pounds’ Stirling Hinchcliffe as the favorite to win the race, and lo and behold I continued my good form and rated the eventual winner on top.

I hope you took the tip and got on.

We’ll do a more in-depth profile of assessment of Hinchcliffe and rate his prospects of success as the Smurf of the Turf in the morning.

What are These Rumours About Scooter? – Is He Really Going to Hop Off Rupert’s Trike and Head Out Into the Big Wide Queensland Tourism and Events World?

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The most pressing rumor about nothing really at all sweeping the State as we wait for the appointment of a Racing Minister is that Peter ‘Scooter’ Gleeson, editor of that sub-erstwhile fish and chips wrapper the Sunday Snail, has been lined up by the Princess for the top job of CEO at Tourism and Events Queensland, one of the cushiest gigs in the whole wide Queensland QANGO game.

Scooter’s spokespeople are screaming out the bunker windows that it ain’t so, and we three-quarters believe him too because given that self-absorbed mediocrity usually rises to the top in the Rupert take no prisoners and promote no potential rivals with any modicum of talent, ability or competence world, you would think it a certainty that Scooter has bigger and better things down the track to come.

I guess though you probably would have thought that before the once upon a time in Townsville next big thing crashed and burned twice in his quests for the not exactly world dominating role as Editor of the Courier-Mail too wouldn’t you sportsfans, and the weight of crushing personal and professional defeat must eventually start to take its toll, and all the promises in this crazy world don’t mean a hill of beans if they’re just bullsh*t and never come true.

If I was Scooter I’d be facing up to the bitter truth and bailing, that bitter truth being that he is almost a decade past the age that Murdoch traditionally super-boosts bright young things, and that his star – if he ever had or was one – has waned to the point that sub-editing the Byron Shire Echo while living in semi-retirement seclusion in a Yurt in the Mullumbimby Ranges is his next logical career move.

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There’s a lot of prestige in that Tourism and Events boss’s job, and a whole lotta free travel for the job holder and his missus too, and coming as it does with a high six figure three year guaranteed salary and a platinum credit card with no limit I reckon Scooter would be an imbecile not to jump at this once only opportunity to prove himself something in life other than a gaffe-prone chief of chump newspapers in regional cities and states in the arse end of nowhere.

Face the fact Scooter, there’s no big chair in the Big Apple at the Times or Post or any other fair dinkum paper for you.

But there’re always the best Madison Avenue apartments and Park Avenue restaurants holding beds and seats for a bloke with free first class travel, food and accommodation vouchers to a 5 star eco-resort and noshery on the Barrier Reef son.

The future’s yours Mr Editor-In-Chief-Plod.

It’s up to you Scoo-ter, Scoo-ter.

Nifty Nev Has Abandoned Brisbane Racing in Its Hour of Speed and Need – Now the Bell Must Toll For the Chairman Who Doesn’t Care

If your wife gets diagnosed with a brain tumor, and your house is falling down, and the bank manager comes along and says “I’ve got a plan to save the house, and in doing so I might save your wife, and we’re prepared to pay for it” you do one of two things don’t you sportsfans?

You either look the bloke in the eye and say “you’re nuts, making my house look pretty for a while isn’t going to cure our cancer” and thank the bank manager and go about your business and do it your own way.

Or you jump in the air and say “you f*cking beauty, thanks a lot Johnny you’re a marvel” and get behind the bank manager’s plan and work your guts out until you can’t work them any more and then work them out twice as much again trying to make the house plan work because it might just save your wife’s life.

Your wife is Queensland Racing, the house is the Brisbane Racing Club, Nifty Neville Bell is the bloke, Racing Queensland is the bank manager, and the State of Origin Jockey Challenge Series is the plan.

Yeah, yeah I know it’s a stupid plan, and in the near future I plan to tell you all about why that’s so, but the point is that Nifty Nev and the BRC signed up to it and accepted the Racing Queensland dough, and as such the Chairman has the absolute obligation to support the series for all its worth and spruik it to the hill tops in the hope that it might kick up attendances and revenue, and help turn the club’s fortunes and that of racing in the Sunshine State around.

The Summer Series at Doomben is the second most important carnival in the Brisbane Racing Club calendar behind only the winter edition, and that was pretty f*cked this year due to the state of the Eagle Farm track – or the non-track, as the case may be – so this one is really, really important and if the Chairman really cared about and loved BrisVegas racing like so many of us do he would be there leading the State of Origin Series from the front.

Instead Nifty Nev is in f*cking Hong Kong swanning around in the Director’s bar with Race Club leaders from around the world who are pissing themselves laughing at him like loons behind his back.

“Fancy having a track that’s only raced a few times in three years and won’t race for a year more” they are chortling in Mandarin, Japanese, Malay, Korean, German, French, Swiss and whole lot languages more.

“What is this Brylcream and Bic combed cockerel doing here at Sha Tin when his wife is dying and his house’s burning down? Doesn’t the pompadoured prick realise that a big racing series in his home town of BrisVegas is more important that squaffing scorpion’s balls at a banquet for an international racing series in which his Pineapple State doesn’t have a single, solitary runner?”

Obviously not is the answer.

What is this man doing in charge of Brisbane racing.

Nifty Neville Bell, you are an absolute disgrace.

Why Me and My Mates Don’t Like Race Fixing – It’s Just Not the Australian Way


A lot of my mates from the pre-racing writing days have been questioning my decision to seemingly suddenly stop writing about crimes like pedophilia and rape and murder and police corruption and take a right hand onto the turf, and to a man they are puzzled and disappointed but not one has been as overtly confident and arrogant and sure of the core depth of our friendship to come straight out and ask me why I am so seemingly obsessed with race fixing that my writing appears as single focused as a Dubai Saluki’s jaw clamped around a gazumped gazelle’s Gregory Peck and playing Dracula.

Not until that little hypochondriac genius c*nt the Brain did anyway.

He’s not the second smartest prick I’ve ever met – Gorgeous George (picture at top) is the gold medalist – for nothing that Brain, who prefers these days to be called by his due honorific Judge, although as a lifelong Doc Martin wearing devotee of punk rock and Irish republicanism and global expert on union militancy and its economic impact on working class people he disdains the wankery of the PhD holder’s equally due and owing title Dr.

“What the f*ck is it with you and this grand obsession with race fixing Goose?”the bloke who in his dreams styles himself as Maverick asks, not being critical because he knows I don’t walk down false paths, but just curious like.

“It’s because race fixers are criminals Jackal” I reply.

I call him Jackal because when he gets on an obsession – like how he’s dying this week due to a microscopic sand grain sized blockage in some inner tube no-one else has ever hear of – calling him like a dog with a bone would be the understatement of the decade, and a crow over roadkill would still the thrice too light, so the Jackal it is and if I’ve pinched the nickname from a bunch of Kiwis and am too cock-glorious to admit that I don’t have a fu*cking clue what it means and I’m making it up as I go, well when was the last time you backed down to a sheep shagger and hummed yourself to sleep with Waltzing Matilda at night?

I’ll explain it to you sportsfans like I explained it to the Brain, and use the same hypothetical but 98% close to the truth – the only thing that varies is the number in the pool and the percentage knocked out – example that I gave him.

There’s $100 000 in the trifecta pool in Race 1 at Albion Park on Saturday night.

80% of the bets made have the favorite ImaClipClopKev on their ticket to run a place.

The driver of a roughie called Medabantam Handbagcarrier runs to the lead at the start and put ImaClipClopKev behind him, then allows another horse named MarshallDobsoninEveryoneInanga to cross him and suddenly ImaClipClopKev is three back the fence and in the washup never gets out and runs seventh.

80% of the $100 000 worth of bets made on the race are cactus, and as a result 8 out of 10 punters do their dough and the 2 in ten who left the favorite out of their trifecta selections sweep up their share of the $80 000 that the favorite punters have lost.

That’s gambling you’d say.

But imagine if the reason that the favorite lost was because a group of drivers, including the 3 on the horses we have mentioned, conspired to ensure that the pacer carrying the investments of 80% of the punters could not run a place.

Imagine that a bunch of criminals wearing white silk breeches, riding boots and brightly colored silk shirts topped by equally as bright white silk wrapped helmets deliberately deprived legitimate investors of the chance to make a return on their investments.

Defrauded them if you will.

Defrauded them of $80 000, and do similar several times a week?

This is not just the red hots and the way it’s always been.

This is grand theft and larceny.

These c*nts are common garden variety criminals.

And the bloke or blokes standing behind and above them are just king of the barrio crime lords.

That’s why I hate race fixing.

Because people are getting ripped off, and the c*nts who are doing it are rich or getting that way, and they are doing it in their advanced ages just as they were when they were young, by fraud and bribery and theft and corruption and because they need to and because they can.

It makes me sick in the guts.

I just want to back a horse and know that it’s trying, and I care enough about the sport and about my fellow tragics to want to make sure that they can too.

That’s all.

It’s for the love of the game.

We’re winning it too sportsfans.

We and the QRIC coppers are cleaning up the code.

By being interested you’re playing a big part in this.

Keep your foot on the pedal.

I will.

Cheers, Archie


The Ultimate Example of Going the Early Crow on a Plastic Gangster – Barricades, Brick Walls, BrisVegas Voodoo and Eternal Springs Sprung – The Story of How Archie and the Bead Twirler’s Onesies Turned Gorgeous’s George Favorite Footy Team’s Premiership Promising Season into a Pumpkin Scone (Or Didn’t, as the Case May Be) – First Published a Month Too Early on the 15th of August 2016


See that flash flood flowing east tonight down the Great Western Highway into the Sydney Harbour, washing through the Heads, then swirling into the Pacific Ocean and all the way down to Botany Bay before washing up right next to where the First Fleet landed on the oil-soaked black beaches of beautiful bayside Kurnell?

You’ve probably been wondering where the hell all that water’s come from, given that it hasn’t rained for days, haven’t you readers? Well Archie has the answer to the riddle, and it’s pretty simple sportsfans – the torrent that you’ve been watching is not precipitation, it’s tears.

Gorgeous George’s tears.

Poor bloody George.

After surviving a summer full of trials and tribulations – repeated defamatory attacks by Fairfax and the ABC, false testimonies about titanic wads of cash nesting in non-existent top drawers of dunnies, flawed fallacious findings by millionaire barristers mystified by the difference between boxers and  their managers, threats made by a translucent skeleton to arrest his hot sister and missus, and a gutless attack launched from the safety of a distant bar table by a cacophonous galah wearing cufflinks (see below) – the Cronulla Sharks number one fan began the NRL season with huge hope.




Georgenormous hope in fact, the same belief in Sharkie success and fairies at the bottom of the garden that he has carried since the day he was delivered in a Western Sydney maternity ward by the former master Bulldogs hooker turned medico George Peponis, who swaddled him in a blue, black and white nappy for a joke after Georgous’s Dad turned up at the hospital late and four sails to the wind with his equally sozzled mates Tommy Raudonikis and Terry Lamb in tow an hour after the full-time whistle had blown time on yet another flogging that the now-defunct but then deadly Western Suburbs Magpies had given the Sharks down the road at Belmore Oval as little George popped his smiling mug into the world, much to Big Jim Byrnes later chagrin.

Now there are some people out there who will bag a bloke for a lifetime of loving a team of pitiful losers with an empty trophy cabinet containing nothing but moths and a joke of a 1979 made-for-television Amco Cup.

In fact it’s widely rumored that during his recent decade-long stint as the Cockroach’s high performance scientist the long-haired, legendary lecture-hall luminary Albert  Einstein repeatedly advised the NSW selectors  that the definition of insanity was simply doing the same thing over and over again again expecting different results. Hence the wholesale changes to the Blues line-up after each year’s series flogging.

But Gorgeous George has always reckoned that a bloke who believes that E = MC2 when everyone knows that it’s made from MDMA mixed with large quantities of starch and glucose powder is nothing but a bloody Bavarian idiot, and scoffed that all you have to do is look at Albert’s haircut to know that the combless clown’s brains have been wrecked by squaffing far too many of the savagely-cut over-priced pingers, and that as a result the drug-addled atom-splitter’s advice is worth tw0-thirds of f*ck all, and that it’s overpriced at that.

Yep young Gorgeous is firmly of the view that that only a suckhole like Sticky, or a brickhead like Bellyache, or a loser like Loz the Schnoz would take such an ill-informed idiot like Albert’s advice, and so he sticks like La Famiglia brand glue to what he knows and loves and remains blindly loyal to his beloved Sharkies, despite the fact that the show-ponies from the southern Shire haven’t won a proper pennant or premiership since both the footy club and Vanilla Ice were born all those years back in the summer of ’67.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast the Pope named after George famously declared, and being a tit man from way back our Gorgeous has since New Year’s Day been telling anyone who would listen – the sum total of the audience being the deaf old bloke over the back and the underpaid shift-working coppers from the AFP surveillance team sitting in the black van with the tinted windows out front – that this was the year that Gallen and the girls would finally be swilling spumante from the Provan-Summons cup come that sun-drenched Sunday evening in September after Collette had kicked off the Steeden with a stirring rendition of the national anthem-in-waiting Ring My Bell.

And for four inglorious Emerald City months of mud, rain and freezing f*cking cold it seemed to the primary-school educated, Resch’s-sculling footy fanatic that Gorgeous George’s near half-century faith in miracles might finally come true, for despite the obvious handicap of having a team full of geriatric king-hit merchants like Paul Gallen, banned from Brisvegas bride-bashers of the cut of Benjamin Barba, and feckless fools with anger management issues of the ilk of Andy Fifita, the hitherto hapless Sharks appeared for a fleeting moment to be the eighty-minute equivalent of Samson before that cuckolding cow Delilah cut off his locks, winning game after game game against all comers until finally one glorious Sunday arvo in the Shire they equaled the Bulldog’s 2002 salary-cap rorting streak of fifteen in a row by carving up the absolutely useless Knights once led by Andy Johns, a man who just between you, me and top drawer of the dunny knew more than a little about E equaling MC, and like an idiot from the north coast kept the proof in his back pocket.

Geez the Sharkies streak made for a long 15 weeks for fella’s like me who are fond enough of George to push the green button on the mobile dog and bone the sixteenth time in six minutes that he calls, and then suffer his animated declarations that the drought was at long last over, and that there was no doubt whatsoever – ‘NO DOUBT WHATSOEVER! BUDDY!’ – that the Beijing-based bulsh*tters had it all arse up with their ideas that it was the Year of the Monkey, ‘cos it was without any doubt whatsoever -NONE ARCHIE! NONE! – that 2016 was in fact the Year of the Shark, and that in just a few short months Ennis the Menace was going to lead his bunch of black, white and blue perennial losers all the way from dummy-half to the promised land.

But there was just one problem with Gorgeous’s gushing proclamations, for although he may well have Googled ‘hope’ and ‘Pope’ and started sprouting quotations that gave the mug punter the impression that he was a PhD wielding poetry-loving mystic, the wiser heads among his mates such as yours truly always knew that George’s ADHD affliction meant that he never read a poem beyond the line or two that excited his attention, and as a result he always remained just shy of a furlong short of understanding the true meaning of the poet of the day’s refrain.

Of course the boys and I never stated as much publicly, for growing up in Geebung we were excellently educated and thus were aware from an early age that loose lips both sink smugglers ships and piss off volatile medicated wogs with tits, and it’s simple common sense that no erudite early morning drinker wants to upset his mate before the first at Bundamba, for how’s a simple Burwood bankrupt businessman who loves Joe Dolce supposed to back a bloody winner if the poor bastard’s got steam coming out of his over-sized small island south of Etruscan ears?

I can however share the secret of George’s reading difficulties with you now sportsfans, because for reasons soon to be explained a thoroughly gutted George gave us the imprimatur this evening after he had a sic-pack, slugged down a bottle of bourbon, sculled a scintilla of Sambuca slammers, and then damned near overdosed on a litre of over-proof imported Ouzo.

As you would imagine my mate Gorgeous was somewhat more than ordinarily affected by alcohol, and in this extremely inebriated state gave us the green-light to share the secret of his self-driven poetic semi-illiteracy, and after borrowing the AFP boys breathalyser and blowing .45 gave us the wink and the nod to quote you the next lines from his favorite poem penned by the Pope, and after the Hope Springs Eternal in the Homosapien Tit bit it goes like this:

Man never is, but always to be blest;

The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.

 Lo! the poor Indian,

Whose untutor’d mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

Translated to pictures for the benefit of dyslexic Doug’s and Dianne’s and artistic aesthetes like my ever-loving bride the Bead-Twirler who prefer illustrations to italics, Pope’s paean looks exactly like this:



And like this:



And like this too:


It’s not a pretty picture is it punters?

In fact it’s so bloody ugly that I felt compelled to drop my grieving mate Gorgeous a text, and a line with the fanatical Sharkies fan that the great pugilistic guru Eddie Futch was famously forced to say to Smokin’ Joe Frazier when, after looking the goods for the first 14 rounds against Ali, the later-failed nightclub singer found that he couldn’t go the distance to the finishing post. Eddies wise words went as follows:

“Sit down son. It’s all over”

Yeah OK, my text to Gorgeous George was a bit bloody harsh I know. But it wasn’t you that was forced to listen to the Alexander the Great-loving Greek bastard banging on about Cronulla’s prospective NRL premiership glory for 105 painful days and nights while the Bronco’s were falling in an explicable heap was it sportsfans? So judge not lest you be judged, or unless you’re the loud-mouthed Judge and Jury Judy at least.

But don’t for a minute think that your cocksure humble correspondent doesn’t have a heart me hearties, for knowing how much Gorgeous loves onesies, pumpkin scones, Queensland and good sorts, at 12.01am this morning I sent my Greek-Australian much-maligned mate a sweet selfie that I knew would cheer him up no end.

The grief-stricken plastic gangster hasn’t replied yet – he’s probably passed out pissed on faux fox fur ottoman in the outhouse – but I’m hoping that when the trust-funded hungover wanna-be hoodlum harboring the heart-wrenching broken dreams wakes up in the morning he reads the second line of my text and and forwards it on Gal just like I asked him to, for I’m sure it’ll cheer Cronulla’s Captain Courageous up no end.

And if that doesn’t then I’m sure a bit of E=MC2 will.

PS and BTW – does anyone have a couple of spare Storm onesies that they can courier up to the Geebung Polo Club post-haste?


PS – That cracker of a painting in the background is of the main street in Fremantle. We put the mocker on the Dockers too.