Deadline: Mongol bikie boasts of running stripper business from jail

It seems prisoners have come a long way from the days of making number plates, with one boasting of running a stripper agency while doing a 14-year stretch.

Prisoners have come a long way from the days of pressing number plates.

Andrew Rule and Mark Buttler with the latest scallywag scuttlebutt.

Jailed bikie strip boss’s simple pleasures

Prisoners have come a long way from the days of making number plates, if one recent social media post is anything to go by.

In it, a young go-getter jailbird called Robbiee_c_ says he started a stripper agency from inside while doing a 14-year stretch for unspecified crimes, although it’s safe to assume it wasn’t jaywalking.

Robbiee_c_ says he is a loyal Mongols bikie club member and started Abracadabra three years ago so customers could “party like a rock star.”

And what use is social media if you can’t put the hard sell on all those punters out there looking for some adult entertainment?

“We supply the hottest girls Australia-wide,” he boasts.

But running a stable of strippers doesn’t mean a Mongol can’t be an incurable romantic.

Much like their spiritual leader, Genghis Khan, who kept hundreds of concubines among his Mongol hordes.

In one of his posts, Robbiee_c_ appears to yearn for some of the simple pleasures that aren’t available behind bars.

“I really enjoy candlelit dinners and eating (censored)” he tells followers.

A family newspaper cannot repeat exactly everything the entrepreneur misses and is looking forward to.

Robbiee claims his stripper agency allows customers to ‘party like a rockstar’.

Let’s make a deal

Graham Gene Potter was right out of luck last week when his 12 years on the run ended in handcuffs and a prime position on the evening news.

Potter was arrested in a ramshackle house in northern Queensland among piles of junk that looked a tetanus risk to all concerned, even if the smart money says he might have had access to more salubrious digs nearby, given his ability to charm crazy cat ladies of a certain age.

Still, the fugitive life can be as punishing as jail in some ways, as it’s almost impossible these days to stay out of sight of all forms of electronic monitoring.

The creature comforts of captivity might seem a reasonable alternative for Potter, especially given that he may still have a good hand of cards to play.

Law enforcement and underworld sources say he has the kind of inside knowledge that might be giving some big underworld players night sweats.

Some of those identities could have been excused for thinking they had a foot out of the jail door in recent years, but Potter could conceivably trip them up.

“He could do himself a huge deal,” says one veteran investigator.

A case of watch this space. And, for Potter, a case of watch your step.

Fair chance he could eventually be sharing porridge with a murderous old underworld supergrass and a rogue copper or two hidden in a secure unit among the sex offenders at Ararat.

Potter arrives back in Melbourne in handcuffs. Picture: Ian Currie

Revealed at last: The real Cray Brothers

People will be talking about Ben Buckley for a long time after the legendary agricultural pilot is laid to rest after a hero’s funeral at Benambra on the Omeo High Plains this Friday.

One of the best stories never written concerning the controversial Buckley is that he was a key player in a crayfish-smuggling consortium that worked a rort under the noses of various authorities late last century.

It involved flying an ag plane over to Flinders Island, where old-time locals tend to be descended from sealers, whalers and the like, and are big believers in living off the fat of the land.

The scallywags would line the superphosphate hopper with black plastic to minimise the chance of unpleasant chemicals contaminating the payload, fill it with crustaceans from the islanders’ private cray pots, then fly them into Bairnsdale, cook them in a hangar in big laundry coppers, then distribute them through the Wy Yung pub and certain local football clubs around East Gippsland. All part of the cash economy.

At a rough guess, the crayfish rort infringed aviation and fisheries and wildlife regulations, the Health Act and the Taxation Act.

The regular pilot, of course, was the late, great Buckley. But his henchmen were a shadowy crew that we will call the Cray Brothers, naturally.

One was and is a gnarly figure who belongs to a family of horsemen currently agitating to stop brumbies being culled in the high country.

Another was known as “Chicken” for reasons unknown. But the key Cray Brother, the one who would have least liked his name associated with such an illicit racket, was for many years a respected racing official.

He died a few years ago, a prosperous grandfather fondly remembered by those who can recall the golden age of covert crayfish consumption.

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Bandido El Secretario De Hacienda was adamant no bikes were snatched. Picture: Chris Kidd

Win some, lose some: Brickbats and bouquets

Speaking of outlaw motorcycle gang members, there’s nothing like unhappy correspondence from one of them to make reporters sit up and take notice.

A critique came Deadline’s way last week from the Bandidos Motorcycle Club of Australasia, regarding reported speculation about a rumoured confrontation with Mongols members up near the Victoria-New South Wales border.

In fact, it’s all rumour and no confrontation, according to the club office holder known grandly as Bandido El Secretario De Hacienda, who writes to “categorically refute” any such fracas.

El Secretario said the organisation respects the freedom of the press but that the information was the work of an “obscure informant’s hearsay who has clearly a hidden agenda.”

That, of course, might well be the case. No arguments from this corner.

Just to show that there are bouquets as well as brickbats for Deadline, a former policeman has come over quite sentimental about last week’s item naming “Club 37” as possibly the most exclusive club in Melbourne, given its members were (or are) restricted to Fitzroy cops who had a working relationship with each of the 37 licensed premises on their “patch” back in the day.

Our correspondent writes:

“Regarding the old Club 37, of which I was a member: the origin of the name is as stated in your story and the club was the exclusive domain of the uniform and CI members of the Fitzroy Police Station.

“Once a year we would climb into a minibus and do a pub crawl of the 37 pubs within the Fitzroy sub district. A pot at each pub was mandatory! The yearly visitation commenced at 10am and concluded at 10pm, in line with the licensing provisions of the day.

“A much simpler life and arguably a more enjoyable era.

“My daughter has recently joined the job. When I tell her some of my old war stories she looks at me as if I have gone insane. Unfortunately, she will not enjoy the fun of the old days.”

A former policeman got sentimental about his days in Club 37.

Titanic hit the Big Smoke

More detail has surfaced about the drug crop recently found above the Titanic restaurant in Williamstown.

The grand ambitions of the green thumbs who planted the crackerjack cannabis plants unearthed by police may have sunk like the original Titanic but the people responsible are clearly primo horticulturalists.

Word has filtered back to Deadline that the upstairs area housing the 237 cannabis plants looked like “something out of Jurassic Park”, such was their size.

The plants, as Rex Hunt used to say, were “higher than Joe Cocker”, a reference to someone who knew a bit about the dope caper.