Category: The Punt

You’d Think They’d Have a No Punt Parole Condition on a Compulsive Gambling Crook Who Stole Hundreds of Tons of Gold From Racing Queensland, Wouldn’t You? – Is This What Tabcorp Call Responsible Gambling Practices?

INNES

This photo was taken yesterday at the Aspley Tavern in Brisbane.

See the bloke on the phone on the right?

That’s Wayne Innes.

He’s a former NSW cop who rolled on his mates and sent them to jail in return for an immunity from prosecution during the Royal Commission.

Then he conned his way into a job as the construction manager for Eagle Boys back in the days when pizza franchises were all the rage, and new shops were being built all over the country.

Innes set up a secret third party company and skimmed a slice off every invoice without his boss’s knowledge. He ripped off hundreds of thousands, and punted a large part of it.

He got a couple of years jail for that one.

When they let him out he came up to Queensland, where for years he pulled all manner of rorts without getting caught, including knocking off the TAB at the Brothers footy club on Crosby Road at Albion for about ten grand.

Then he set up an earth moving business, and wormed his way in with the worms who run the Brisbane Race Club. They sold him a life membership, even though he was a jailbird thief who had only been in town for five minutes.

Birds of a feather flock together I guess, but most are still wondering if the BRC brass knew that he paid for the membership with dough stolen from Racing Queensland, and are many are keen to know whether the BRC handed the black money back to the people of Queensland from whom it was lifted.

The good times were really rolling back then, which was a only a few years ago. Innes was buying horses for his best mate Kelly Schweida to train, he was swanning around at trackwork at Eagle Farm every morning buying his great mates Kel and Chris Anderson flash coffees and scones, he was sponsoring races by the bucket load with money stolen through his dodgy company Landfill Logistics, punting up a storm at tracks and TAB’s all over town, and at the urging of his drinking buddy the invisible Chairman of the Creek David Fowler he even sponsored the Winter Carnival at Albion Park, although of course he never paid the bill.

Wayne Innes never paid anything out of his own kick. It was all dirty money that he made from corruption and frauds.

You see he’d teamed up with Billy Shuck, son of the well-respected former track manager and starter Alan, and now the boss of procurement at Racing Queensland, and the pair of them were hooking up dodgy contracts for jobs that made Innes millions without even lifting a finger other than to count the folding.

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At the same time the jailed fraudster was pulling huge rorts over at the Ipswich City Councoil, copping contracts for million dollar jobs from the CEO Carl Wuulf in return for battleship sized backhanders paid under the table to he and the Mayor, old honest as the day is long during a winter in Norway, the dishonourable Paul Pisasale.

Most of the dough Innes stole went on the punt of course, $400 first fours plucked by number on every race going from Geraldton to Gilgandra and in between being the fraudster’s preferred form of gambling fancy.

Innes got sprung eventually of course. Dumb pieces of thieving shit always do.

But the cops who put the collar on him for the Racing Queensland rorts – ever wondered why the Eagle Farm track cost so much, and was so flawed in its construction? – had no idea about the ripoffs he was pulling out at Ipswich.

Not until Innes offered up a deal to tell them in return for a light sentence, that is.

The jacks jumped at it, and Innes said you beaut, and for the next 18 months we wore a wire everywhere he went and taped everyone he talked to, and he had his phones and computers all rigged up and rerouted to CIB headquarters too.

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I twigged to it the first time I met the prick, which was the night I drove to his house and stood in his driveway waving a baseball bat as I rang him and asked if he’d like to come down and have a chat about the threats of bodily harm toward me that he was making all over the town to anyone who’d listen. Funnily enough he declined my polite invitation, and threatened to call the constabulary.

“You don’t need to you dog” I somewhat aggressively replied. “They’re already listening you scumbag”.

Of course Innes immediately went running around telling everyone I was a loon the next day, and not to listen to anything I was saying about him.

The smart folk who know my form as a good judge of a crook took my sage advice that we was wired up like a cyclone fence, which I imagine saved many of them a good deal of unwanted bother later, but the feckless fools who fell for his sucker punch story had to find out the hard way when they themselves got called into star chambers and cop shops for a rather nerve wracking please explain.

Innes’s wired up chats sunk Pisasale and the CEO, and their long-time bent Labor mate and lobbyist Wayne Myers, a sharp grifter who had never in the 20 years I’d been loosely acquainted with him through politics failed to spot a slick, quick easy earn. They copped their due and are serving lags. The dog even sent the CEO’s wife to jail too, which tells you everything that you need to know about the character of the rat posing as a man.

Wayne Innes own appearance in court was rather curious, because the charges were cut down by a tenth, and so were the sums rorted, and the prosecutor forgot to hand his criminal history up to the judge, instead slipping the wig a little envelope marked POLICE INFORMANT – PLEASE GO EASY.

Easy the judge went too, especially after Innes beak – paid no doubt with blue money or black cash – got up on his feet and told a sad tale about a good man ruined by a gambling addiction, who was full of regret and remorse. The only thing they forgot was the truth and a violin.

Innes copped a ridiculously light twelve months, and served it in style under protection, and they even say that he undertook and completed gambling addiction courses in between watching races on the free to air TV in his hotel room cell while inside.

It worked great didn’t it?

Innes got out 8 weeks ago, and headed straight back to the Aspley Tavern and the TAB.

And here he is sitting there in front of the Sky Racing screens with his prick of a mate and co-owner in the horses ‘Dirty’ Neville Brownlow yesterday afternoon, with a thick wad of pineapples in his hand, and first fours flying around like fairies.

If guts were garters, and honesty was a handbag, and principles were petticoats, and remorse and reform were red raincoats, we’d all be looking at Wayne Innes sitting there in the nude.

The back of his head is a far better view.

Me though? I’d rather just see the back of the wretched rat who stole a fortune from racing, lagged up his mates, thieved from his boss, ripped off honest battlers, and sent a woman to jail.

We don’t need his type in this town.

Tabcorp are a disgrace for having him.

I wonder where got the wads from though?

Which poor sucker Wayne Innes is ripping off now?

 

 

 

 

 

 

If You Believe That David Attenborough Has Resigned From His CEO Post at Tabcorp Because the Time is Just Right, Then I Have the Brooklyn Bridge to Sell You – Twice

golden

David Attenborough is the CEO of Tabcorp.

Attenborough is not the animal wildlife man – that’s a different bloke.

This one is a former chemist who has presided over the Luxbet the debacle, the $71 million loss Sun Bet disasters, the $200 000 bribe paid to the Cambodian Prime Minister, and the $45 million fine that the company copped for money laundering corporate crimes.

The bloke earns $4.5 million a year.

Today he announced his resignation, effective next year, telling the ASX and the shareholder that the time was right.

If you believe that, you believe in fairies, and I have a bridge to sell you.

Tabcorp is about to announce a massive loss.

Attenborough presided over it, and if you subscribe to the buck stopping at the top theory, is responsible for it too.

We all just walk away from near $5 million a year jobs because we feel in our water that it’s a good idea don’t we.

And pink pigs fly.

Tabcorp to chase new CEO - David Attenborough to step down

Attention All Palm Cove Widows, Their Daughters, Publicans and Punters – There’s a Butterfly and a Bookie on the Beach – The Only Missing Now is Satchel Swinger Stuey – And a Stiff G and T

stewy

Well, I never thought I’d meet any bastard as mad as me, but you wake up to a new surprise every day.

Here I am in some flash 5-star hotel in Godzone (aka Palm Cove) at 2.30 in the morning, and there’s a bloody bookie pissed on the couch and snoring louder than a 7.6 on Richter Scale earthquake.

How the hell did the satchel swinger Danny Crimmins sneak in to my room while I was reading tomorrow’s form on the Brasco?

Next thing you know that Robbie Waterhouse who used to field on the stand next to him at the Scone Cup will be rocking up and knocking on the door.

All we need know is Stuey Gordon to bowl in with his ledger and a handful of tickets and it will be time for this writer to hurl himself off the balcony head first.

Bloody hell.

I need a stiff G and T.

A double please barman.

What’s that?

Crimmins drank them all.

Aaaaggghhh!

 

 

The Smartest Man in the Room

hysa

Geez, dreams can come true can’t they?

How the hell did my sleeping brain know that Adam Hyeronimus’ cousin Blake Paine only earned a grand a week?

I guess Robbie Waterhouse, and Fractions, and the Golden Greek, and the Byron Bay kid must be right after all.

Archie is just stupid.

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You know the sad thing?

The NSW Stewards must be as stupid as Archie too.

Look what those fools have found in relation to Blake Paine.

ablakaWe’re all just stupid.

It’s obvious.

Robbie Waterhouse and his mates are the smartest men in the room.

There is one thing to remember though.

It’s a very small room.

Space-Saving Designs for Small Kids Rooms

Will My Mate Mr Waterhouse Still Love Me Tomorrow? – Did He Ever? – Oh Woe is Me – My Heart is Broken – And Goodamn, the Cops Have Got My Phone, and My Lawyers Have Got Copies of All the Recordings Too

 

I’ve been having trouble sleeping recently.

Why?

Because someone told me – no, a number of people have told me – that Robbie Waterhouse and his men like Fractions and the Byron Bay Kid and the Golden Greek and others have been spreading the word all over town that Archie Butterfly is a broker, a welch, a nutcase, a bum, and a lunatic who doesn’t shit from clay.

It really upset me, because I thought Robbie was my best mate.

It upsets me more because they are so stupid to fall for the feint left hook and sucker punch.

I thought they were real smart blokes.

They tell everyone that they are, Robbie particularly.

But just look at this.

aaarr

 

Robbie’s phone number is on the extract from my phone that the Queensland Police seized from me under warrant, and later tendered in the trumped up cases they laid against me in the hope of shutting me up, just above the number of Wayne Innes, the fraudster who threatened my family and shut right up when I landed on his doorstep and asked to have a chat about the matter.

The phones that they didn’t miss, because they forgot to look in the back yard and find the underground safe that the real important ones that I didn’t want them to find were secreted in.

Hey, they might have asked, but when you exercise your right to silence from whoa to go and respect your grandma’s sage advice delivered as a bub on her knee – and a million times afterwards – by never talking to coppers, you don’t have tell, do you?

The bloke under Robbie listed as Wayno is Innes, who subsequently went to jail for a year for robbing Racing Qld and the Ipswich City Council for millions, a sentence greatly discounted by him being a dog and wearing a wire for a year and taping every conversation that he ever had with anybody, chats relayed directly to the people listening in at Police HQ.

Gee it was lucky old Archie the idiot was stupid enough to to twig to it from day one, and take advantage of the slimebag slug’s perfidy to conference call every ring a ding ding he got from people pretending to be his friends that he knew weren’t, isn’t it?

Calls like his friendly chats with Robbie the Ring In King that he stuck Wayno into without the shithouse rat knowing why, wasn’t it? And to tell the cops to make sure that they copied all the texts and emails from Gai’s husband into the court records that are going to be tendered in a civil matter being heard in a month or two’s time.

Here’s a tip for the technically unsavvy.

It’s real easy to lure a mug that you know is bullshitting you into a conference call, and when the bloke you chime him into is hot every word spoken is listened to, even if it goes through to message bank.

What’s even better is that the cops with the big ears then get access to the caller’s phone, and after they rip all the data off it – including texts, emails and other messages – they can then listen in to the caller’s phone forever, or for as long as it tickles their fancy.

Here is how you do it.

acalla

A child could. Like the one you pretended to be tending to when you tell the caller “Hang on for a second Rob, I just have to get the wife to grab the grandkid who is crawling all over me off and shoo him away”

The smart money is that Archie might have conference called his convos with Robbie’s QC mate Tim Game into Wayno as well, and the calls made to him by the Golden Greek from the Brisbane rails ring and the Byron Bay kid too.

Who is the fucking idiot now do you reckon?

Archie Butterfly?

I doubt it.

But I guess you will just have to ask Robbie Waterhouse.

He’s a genius don’t forget.

Just ask him.

That’s why he got away with the Fine Cotton sting so magnificently, and concealed his stupidity in laying bets to his man in the ‘Ji and the ‘Pines Peter McCoy so well.

I’d send him a copy of the recordings I made of unprompted conversations made at their own behest with the Golden Greek and the Byron Bay kid too, except the cops took them in the raids.

The one thing a poor Geebung kid who grows up on the track learn before they leave primary school is that every stupid yuppie prick living off his old man’s money always thinks they are the smartest person in the room, and imagines that the kid from Hicksville, Nowhere is a dumb arse fuck.

Letting the rich boy fed with the silver spoon believe it to be true is the trick we learned in Grade 7 at the Bung.

Did I ever tell you that I was the school captain?

I never told Robbie.

I’m not real concerned about the oblique third hand threats I’ve received from people who claim to be his mates either.

Talkers don’t shoot, and shooters don’t talk.

And R.W. Waterhouse doesn’t have any real friends anyway.

Don’t you worry about that.

Robbie Waterhouse offers up his Magic Millions tip

Sshhh Archie – someone might be listening. Yes Robert, they were.

 

The Former King of the Brisbane Rails Ring Pulls a World Class Sting – The Concreter Collects the Bling – The Pope Cops His Sling – Ka Ching – A Ring a Ding Ding!

fierymiss

It’s the 19th of August 2014.

The Former King of the Brisbane Rails Ring is off on a secret mission to meet Pope Benedict.

He’s won a gazillion on the book this year, and the missus has always wanted to go to Italy to look at the paintings on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

The King has always resisted, because it costs money, but Mrs King’s employer QANTAS has just had a cracker of a year, and gifted its long-serving staff members a return business class freebie to anywhere in the world they’d like to travel.

At the same time well-connected goat riding punt addict who can’t pay his tick has offered to square his ledger by offering to arrange the King a one on one with the funny hat wearing, former Nazi Youth brigade member who has become the head honcho of the Mick church.

Most folk in punter land believe the King’s long running con that he hates Catholics, but this bloke who is into him for a fortune has spotted him sporting a wig and sneaking in to the 7 o’clock mass with Father Norris at St Kevin’s at Geebing one Saturday night, and slipping a sly grand into the Papal fund, so he knows that he might be able to avoid the welcher tag and a spot on the Forfeit List by offering up the King a meet and greet with the pontifical leader of the world ring.

To make a good thing if it, the hugely in the red compulsive gambler has dropped the invite in front of the King’s missus, so the Bookie of the Year has no way out.

There is just one problem.

The King might have to shell.

Bugger that, he thinks, and picks up the phone.

kinmgas

 

The Concreter answers.

“Look son, we’ve got an emergency on our hands. I’ve gotta go to the French Riviera on some urgent business, but it’s going to cost. We need to cover the coin”

“So this is the go. I’ve lined one up in the maiden at Ipswich. Mickey Mair’s given it a soft, slow run in real heavy iron boots with the jock on board wearing a 30 kilo Rambo vest. It would have broken the track record if we’d raced it square, but we’re not that silly. So it’s run looked like shit. We’ll get 20’s. I want you to to use your mates bowler accounts and back it for a poultice”.

The Concreter’s a young, wet behind the ears novice at this stage, even though he’s the best jumpout judge this side of the Indian Ocean, so he says sure boss, whatever you want, no worries.

Fast forward a week and the King is in Vatican City, sitting in the Papal Knghts coffee shop in the square sipping his complimentary coffee real, real slow.

Where to Eat Near Vatican Museums and St Peters - Essential Guide

It’s midnight, but time stands still in the richest house in the world.

His missus is looking anxiously at her watch, and tells him that they’re due to meet Pope Benny in ten minutes time, and need to get moving.

Her ever loving husband tells her that he just has to make a phone call first, and leaves her and wanders off to an alcove in the corner of Vatican Square.

The King dials the Concreters number, but there’s no answer.

He keeps ringing.

Nothing.

On the other side of the world the Concreter is crawling along the Ipswich Motorway in the new truck he’s bought with all the dough he’s won since hooking up with the King as his jumpout man and punter, stuck behind a semi-trailer and sweating bullets. He hears the phone ringing, but is too busy trying to find a gap in the oncoming traffic so he can hook around and overtake it to answer.

With five minutes to go until the jump in the Maiden, the Concreter spots his chance and shoots the gap. He floors it, and reaches the track just as the field is heading to the barriers.

He screams to a stop outside the main gates, grabs the laptop and bolts for the ring, leaving the keys in the ignition and the truck still running.

The Concreter land in the ring just as they’re loading them into the gates, and starts whacking bets around faster than Usain Bolt flies out of the blocks, and within 60 seconds he’s knocked the price in from $26 to $8 and backed the hot one to win a hundred grand.

The phone rings again.

It’s the King, and he starts screaming down the line, saying “You idiot! Are we on?”

“We’re on for a hundred gee King” the Concreter tells him. “But they’ve wound it in to 8’s, and they are about to jump. I reckon we’re done”

“You bloody halfwit!” the King booms over the dog and bone. “Have another 5 grand on the damn thing!”

The Concreter sees the starter hit the green light, and drops the phone and sprints.

He gets the last five on just as they jump.

The hot one goes off at $6, and pings straight to the lead.

The short-priced fave trained by Chris Anderson’s cousin Steele Ryan misses the kick.

It gets tightened about a hundred metres later and loses a length and a half.

Jockey A. Allen drives it up into a zip fastener on the rail.

Unsurprisingly it gets held up on the turn.

It gets held up in the short Bundamba straight.

Meanwhile, the hot one is freewheeling in front and is home for the world.

At the 200, with the hottie 3 lengths in front, a gap wider than the Grand Canyon opens up, and unless jockey Allen wants to spend a year or two packing shelves at Woolies he has to take it, but he does it the hard way by hooking wide around the heels of the leaders and losing another length.

Ho ho ho the Concreter’s thinking, and starts dialling the Kings number.

Suddenly he stops and turns white.

The fave’s suddenly turned into Bernborough, and is jumping out of the ground.

It’s flying faster than the 747 that took the King in business class to the Vatican, so fast that despite his best efforts the rider can’t stop it.

They hit the line and it lunges, hard.

“Dead heat!” the caller cries.

The leader’s run its last 600 in 33 1/2.

The fave’s run it in 32 and a bit.

The Concreter is as pale as Casper.

Casper The Friendly Ghost

The King is hitting redial after redial, but keeps getting an engaged signal.

All eyes are on the judges box.

A hand comes out, and a number goes into the frame.

The fave’s missed by a nose!

They’ve landed the plunge!

The Concreter phones the King, who answers almost before the phone even rings.

“Yeeessss!” the Concreter cries.

“Idiot” replies the King, deadpan. “Loose lips sink ships”.

The King trundles over to the wife, grabs her by the arm, and tells her “Hurry up you old fool, the Pope’s waiting”

They go and meet Benedict in the funny hat, and the King kisses his ring.

So does his missus, and while she’s doing it the King slips Benny a very fat envelope full of big Italian notes.

Retired Pope Benedict reemerges to step into the roiling clergy ...

Benny does the sign of the cross, kisses the King on the forehead, and says “God bless you son”.

They part company, and the King tells his missus that some urgent business has arisen, and they need to get home pronto. He hails a cab, and they go straight to the airport withour even stopping to collect their luggage from the airport.

Mrs King tries to ask what the hell is going in, but the King just touches his nose, winks, nods and says sshhh.

Within an hour they’ve boarded the plane and are headed home.

At exactly the moment the Aussie bound 747 takes off, the Pope opens the envelope and starts counting the booty.

He gets six notes in, and strikes a weather-beaten bookie’s ticket from Eagle Farm. Then he strikes another, and another, and another, and by the time he’s got through the wad he finds 276 of them, all marked XXXXXX Bookmaker, Eagle Farm.

The King’s missus hears an ear splitting shriek as they reach 1000 feet, and turns to the King and asks him “What was that noise?”

Mission accomplished, the King – who is wearing the replica papal ring that Benny slipped on his middle digit when he copped the fat envelope – is already asleep and snoring.

God bless the bookmakers.

No-one else will.

Especially not the Pope.

Idealism of Pope Benedict XVI intertwined with scandal - CBS News