Warning: This article contains naughty words. If you don’t like strong language, then you should close this page immediately.
Estimated reading time: Not sure, but you should probably brew yourself a cup of tea or a long black.
In part 1, I introduced you to the two key entities who, beginning on 29 February 2016, joined forces in a quest to have me stitched up on a bogus “assault and property damage” charge.
These were the evil, sleazy, dishonest, highly misogynistic sex predator known as Harley “Durianrider” Johnstone, and the evil, sleazy, dishonest, highly misogynistic South Australia Police (SAPOL), which a 2016 report found had almost twice the rate of Harvey Weinstein-type behaviour than regular workplaces.
Their mission was to tar me with a criminal conviction, send me to jail, and rob me of several thousand dollars.
In pursuit of this agenda, they were promoting the absurd allegation that I punched Johnstone in the face while he rode his bicycle on the evening of 29 February 2016. This boganoid brains trust was further claiming I smacked Johnstone with such monumentally explosive force, I not only cracked two of his teeth but also caused thousands upon thousands of dollars damage to his bicycle.
The allegations, of course, were complete bullshit, but neither SAPOL nor Johnstone has ever let a little thing like the truth stand in the way of their shady agendas.
Getting Fined, Arrested and Groped
The arrest date was Saturday 9 September 2017 – some eighteen months after the sleazy Johnstone first made his absurd allegations. It was around 5pm, and I was travelling along Port Road towards the Adelaide CBD in my vehicle, obeying all road rules and minding my own damn business. I had just picked up a newly-built road bicycle, a lightweight carbon-fibre climbing weapon that weighed 6.3kg and whose retail value would have been … lots.
As I was driving along, I noticed a traffic cop car rapidly approaching from my rear, siren blaring and lights flashing. Given that I was doing nothing wrong, I initially assumed the speeding cop was chasing some other poor bastard. But as he continued to approach my rear, and came so close I could almost count his nostril hairs in my rear view mirror, I realized he was after me.
This brings us to the first of many ironies: The only person who broke any traffic laws in this whole encounter was the speeding cop, a Senior Constable Benjamin James Bowey. Because to catch up to me from the distance he did, as quickly as he did, could only be accomplished by greatly exceeding the speed limit.
This by the way, is hardly the first time I’ve witnessed this contradictory behaviour by cops in South Australia. Unlike Victoria, where police seem capable of diverting motorists off busy thoroughfares, in South Australia the cops have this bizarre habit of stopping people right on busy arterials. Judging by letters to SA newspaper the Advertiser, SAPOL cops even do this on the perilous South Eastern Freeway and Southern Expressway!
Australian drivers aren’t the most co-operative lot at the best of times, so you can just imagine the scene when a bunch of SA motorists are suddenly confronted by a cop car ahead blocking an entire lane. The resultant bottleneck brings the traffic to a crawl, and produces some of the crappiest lane-changing behaviour you’ll ever see. Tyres screech, hearts jump and rear end collisions become a very real possibility as a revenue-raising cop remains blissfully oblivious to the danger he has just created.
Yep, creating a traffic hazard, in order to to nail someone who probably wasn’t even creating a traffic hazard: Welcome to ‘road safety’ policing, South Australia style!
South Australia: Where Keeping Insects Out of Your Grille is Illegal
I pulled over on North Terrace, outside the giant white elephant that is South Australia’s new Royal Adelaide Hospital. Bowey approached my vehicle. He did not even begin to explain why he’d pulled me over, but instead asked for my license. I obliged, and when it became apparent Bowey was in no hurry to explain why I’d been stopped, I asked.
“Your number plate is obstructed,” replied Bowey.
Bowey then walked back to his car with my license, where he stayed for an awfully long time.
While Bowey was checking my details on the SAPOL database, I got out of my car to see what the hell he was talking about. Had some sneaky sod covered up my number plate without my realizing?
Nope. My number plate was not obstructed, it was covered by a legally purchased and transparent mesh insect screen specifically designed for mounting on motor vehicles. I’d put the mesh screen on my car to prevent bugs from entering the grille area during the long drive between Melbourne and Adelaide. I should further point out that the mesh had been affixed to my car since January 2016, and in that time I’d driven past countless police vehicles in Victoria and South Australia. Nobody had a problem with the mesh screen, until now.
Normally, when police officers take your license back to their car, they return within a minute or two and either let you go (my usual experience in Victoria), or treat you like a mobile ATM and hit you with some absurd fine (South Australia). Either way, you’ll usually know the imminent outcome within minutes.
Bowey, however, remained in his car for what seemed like a lifetime. “What the hell’s he doing in there,” I wondered to myself. “Writing his memoirs?”
The first inkling something was amiss was the arrival of two more cops (Scott Willi Osborne and Ryan Pollard ) in a divvy van.
Bowey eventually returned. “Here’s your driver’s license back,” he said, “and this is a fine for driving a motor vehicle on a road with an obscured number plate.”
“It’s not obscured,” I replied.
“It is,” replied Bowey.
Feeling like I was about to be drawn into a game of “Is not! Is too! Is not! …”, I instead replied:
“It’s covered by a mesh sheet which I purchased legally at a well-known auto supply franchise…”
“It’s still classed as obscured,” interrupted Bowey. “It’s not visible from a distance.”
I asked Bowey if he truly could not read the number plate from where we were standing. He replied: “From this distance, I can. From the distance, further back, say 20 metres, 30 metres, it’s not visible.”
Bowey’s ambiguous responses suggested he was contriving these distances on the spot. Either the law explicitly states that a number plate must be clearly visible from a specific distance, or it does not (and for the record, it does not).
So I asked Bowey again: “How far back?”
“Twenty metres”, he replied.
Twenty metres, thirty metres, twenty metres ... which was it?
And so I walked to a distance I estimated to be twenty metres from the front of my vehicle. I then invited Bowey to come join me. He approached, but did not look at the number plate. He again simply insisted “It is not visible. It doesn’t meet the regulations.”
I asked: “What regulations?”
Bowey responded: “It’s in the Motor Vehicles Act.”
I asked Bowey to write down the relevant legislation. He wrote on a piece of card "Section 36(1)(a) Motor Vehicles Act SA" (the card is pictured below).
I also filmed the interaction on my phone, and captured Bowey clearly stating "it is section thirty-six, part 1, part a, of the Motor Vehicles Act of South Australia. That's the relevant legislation that you need to look up."
When I finally returned home after spending several hours in custody, I did indeed look it up - and the legislation Bowey cited did not exist. I thoroughly examined the current SA Motor Vehicles Act and it did not contain a "Section 36(1)(a)".
In order to justify his absurd fine, Bowey had contrived ad hoc distances and cited a fantasy piece of legislation.
As noted earlier, while Bowey was busy with his highly creative approach to traffic policing, SAPOL cops Ryan Pollard and Scott Willi Osborne had arrived on the scene. Astonished at the fuss being caused by a simple piece of mesh screen, I asked “What was the emergency? What was so important that you needed to see my number plate from twenty metres? What was I doing wrong?”
Bowey again replied: “You’ve got an obscured number plate. That is the offence.”
Setting aside the fact the number plate was visible, I am yet to hear of any person or object being harmed by a number plate covered by purpose-built, transparent mesh. So I asked Bowey once more, “What was I doing wrong?”
Bowey finally admitted: “Aside from that, nothing.”
So despite the fact I was doing nothing wrong, and I had not hurt anyone, had not committed any crime and showed absolutely no indication that I was about to do so, Bowey took it upon himself to issue me with an exceedingly harsh fine totalling $524.00.
Having learned from my previous encounter with another SAPOL officer, one Senior Constable Ian Stanley (see Part 1), I now knew the moment a SAPOL cop approaches you, you need to get your phone camera out and start filming. I recorded the entire incident right up until Osborne placed his handcuffs on me (that’s not all he placed on me, but more on that shortly).
I also took photos of my number plates. Those photos clearly demonstrated that anyone with reasonable eyesight could indeed read the front number plate, and would later prove instrumental in getting the fine withdrawn.
South Australian law also states that SAPOL officers are required to provide their name, rank and ID number when requested by a member of the public. When I asked Bowey for all three, he simply kept pointing at the ID number he’d written on the ‘expiation notice’ (that’s South Australian for a fine, mate!)
It was only after I repeatedly asked for his name and rank that he finally blurted out, “Senior Constable First Class Bowey!”
Another Revenue-Raising Shakedown
As with the untenable speeding fine issued to me by Stanley, I flatly refused to pay Bowey’s even more absurd fine. For a SAPOL traffic cop to be driving around fining people for ‘obstructing’ number plates that are in fact clearly visible, and contriving off-the-cuff distances and citing non-existent legislation as justification, is deeply concerning.
In letters to SAPOL’s Expiation Notice Branch dated 11 September 2017 and 27 September 2017, I described Bowey's behaviour and false information in detail. I also supplied them with copies of the photos I took of my front number plate. The ENB refused to withdraw the fine and had nothing to say about the patently false information Bowey had relayed to me.
Not only that, but - as with the previous speeding fine - the ENB prematurely escalated the fine and handed it over to the FERU goon squad. I then applied for a revocation and it was granted - implicit confirmation that the fine should never have been escalated in the first instance.
When I explained the fine and showed the pictures I’d taken at the scene to my barrister, she immediately remarked, “that’s an easy one.” Indeed, after she took up the matter, the fine was withdrawn and I was awarded almost $1,300 in costs. The reason? The photographic evidence I provided showed the number plate was indeed visible with the mesh in place.
As with Stanley and his untenable speeding fine, all that Bowey achieved with his carry on was to cost the taxpayers of South Australia a multiple of the bizarre fine he tried to issue me.
You’re in great hands, South Australia!
As with the speeding fine, all this nonsense could have been nipped in the bud right at the outset. Early on, I provided SAPOL with the evidence conclusively showing the fine was hogwash. Not to mention conclusive evidence that Bowey recited patently false information in support of the fine. But it wasn’t until I engaged a competent barrister that I prevailed. When I fought the fine singlehandedly, SAPOL and the ENB thought they were good to screw me around incessantly.
So once again, folks: When in South Australia, video record all your interactions with the police, take photos of the scene/your vehicle, etc., and get the officer/s name, rank and ID number. I’d also strongly recommend you install a quality dash cam with a GPS function, so when police falsely accuse you of speeding, you can use the GPS co-ordinates and time stamps to prove them wrong.
Yes, I know - it’s a pretty sad state of affairs when you need to employ such measures to protect yourself from people who are supposed to be protecting the public. Unfortunately, SAPOL’s predatory antics make such precautionary measures necessary.
"Hi, We're From SAPOL, and We're Here to Arrest You For Something You Never Did. Smile!"
After issuing his ill-fated fine, Bowey eventually left the scene. As he did so, I was approached by Pollard and Osborne.
The duo informed me they were placing me under arrest for "assault and property damage". They refused to divulge any further details, despite my request for them to clarify whether the matter was in relation to patently false allegations made by one Harley Johnstone.
To say I was shocked at what was transpiring is an understatement. I told Pollard and Osborne in no uncertain terms the allegations were rubbish.
Not only did Osborne and Pollard refuse to furnish details of the allegations, but as he was handcuffing me Osborne told me he didn't like my attitude.
Well e-x-c-u-s-e me!
There I was, having just been issued a harsh fine on false grounds, and now being arrested on false grounds! But instead of being upset, I was apparently supposed to smile like a toothpaste model and start singing "Hey hey hey, it's a beautiful day!"
I must stress that at no time did I threaten, abuse or assault Pollard and Osborne, or attempt to resist arrest (again, if these officers claim otherwise, I have footage of the entire ordeal up until the point where I was handcuffed). I was, however, quite understandably shocked, frustrated and upset.
As I was being handcuffed, I looked at the roadway. North Terrace was now choked with cars, and I was greeted by a sea of faces watching me being arrested.
Not happy, Jan.
It is what happened after I was handcuffed that pissed me off most of all. Osborne removed my mobile phone from my back pocket, and began 'patting' me down. As part of his body search, Osborne patted my buttocks. While not at all happy to have another male manhandling my culo, I assumed at that point the purpose of his carry on was to establish whether I had any weapons, contraband, etc. in my rear pockets. Osborned then proceeded to pat other areas of my body, and I assumed he was done feeling up my buttocks.
But for reasons unknown, Osborne then returned his hand to my right buttock and began groping at it. Unlike Osborne’s previous ass-feeling efforts, his hand was now engaging in more of a direct groping/squeezing action.
For f*ck's sake...
For a second, I thought a time machine had transported me back to the 1980s ... and dumped me in a gay nightclub.
Call me homophobic, but I don't want another man grabbing at my ass. Ever.
Quite frankly, I don't want anyone touching my ass without my consent. Okay, so if you're a cute Asian, Spanish or Latina female, I might just let it go with a warning. And dinner.
But a South Australian cop? A male South Australian cop?!
Do I really need to go on?
Why Osborne felt compelled to have another feel of my ass remains a mystery. He had already established there was nothing in my back pocket - he himself had removed the phone from the same pocket and already searched this area of my body. I was wearing regular fitting jeans (i.e. no bulky pockets or otherwise unusual design), so there was absolutely no excuse for him to again be feeling my buttock, let alone groping at it.
I'm not sure whether Osborne is gay/bisexual/bi-curious and was exploiting my handcuffed state to avail himself of a 'free feel' of my ass, or whether this was his attempt to try and demean me and assert his authority.
Maybe Osborne, who works in the fattest state in the 25th fattest country in the world, was surprised to be feeling such a round, firm set of buttocks. Maybe he couldn’t help but double-check if they were real.
I don’t have butt implants, Sunshine. They’re real, and they’re spectacular lol
Terri Hatcher’s famous line from Seinfeld.
Whatever his motives, Osborne's behaviour was totally unacceptable. After you’ve established there is nothing in a person’s back pockets, you leave their buttocks the hell alone.
And so after I was acquitted, I lodged a complaint with the South Australian Ombudsman. The subjects of the complaint were Bowey and his highly inventive approach to traffic law enforcement, and Osborne and his culo-centric approach to bodily searches.
In a subsequent phone call to the Ombudman’s office, I was told “the legislation” required them to hand the matter over to SAPOL’s shambolic Internal Investigation Service (IIS).
That’s right folks, in South Australia it is actually enshrined in law that when a complaint is made about SAPOL, they get to investigate themselves!
What a sick joke.
If only the rest of us were afforded the same luxury:
“We, the undersigned, have thoroughly investigated these allegations and find Anthony to be innocent of all charges. Furthermore, we find the allegations to be frivolous, vexatious, and totally without merit.”
Anthony’s friends and workmates.”
As soon as I heard SAPOL would be investigating the matter, I knew the outcome would be a whitewash. Sure enough, I received a reply back from the acting concealer in charge of the Internal Cover-Up Service telling me he did “not consider there to be any reasonable prospect that an investigation into the matters you raise would establish that an officer has breached SAPOL’s code of conduct.”
As we learned in Part 1, there is pretty much nothing a SAPOL officer can do that would breach SAPOL’s code of conduct – except becoming a whistle-blower. Now that pisses SAPOL off. Otherwise, SAPOL officers are pretty much free to run amok. Racism, hoon driving, assaulting innocent motorists – nothing is off-limits when you’re strutting around in the SAPOL colours. Heck, even when they get caught unlawfully bashing innocent homeless people in full view of a nearby television camera, SAPOL still staunchly stands behind its lying officers!
In addition to confirming that giving a motorist patently false information does not breach SAPOL’s code of conduct, Old Mate from the Cover-Up Unit couldn’t help but add a smarmy finisher. He claimed he had watched video footage from one of the officers’ body-worn camera and it revealed “you were not ‘groped’ as you have alleged.”
Well that’s interesting, because I was there and I know full well what really happened. Unlike SAPOL, my ass doesn’t lie. Unlike SAPOL, my butt does not have a long and sordid history of engaging in unethical, illegal behaviour and subsequent cover-ups. When I “cover my ass”, it’s with clothing, not whitewash.
And so I immediately submitted a Freedom of Information request for the footage Old Mate was referring to.
Being South Australia: The Secrecy State™, guess who I had to submit the request to?
That’s right: SAPOL. This time, to their FOI Unit.
Just like the farcical IIS, SAPOL’s FOI Unit is staunchly devoted to covering up as much of SAPOL’s unlawful behaviour as possible. A favoured tactic in this end is to claim the requested information can’t be released because it would identify those “involved in an investigation” – even when there was no investigation or when you already know the identities of those involved!
Eventually I got a reply – and you can probably guess the answer.
SAPOL refused to supply the footage.
True to form, the FOI Unit was trying to feed me a bunch of hogwash about how they couldn’t release the footage because it could identify those “involved in an investigation.”
Methinks the real reason is because the footage could identify someone who groped my ass.
The identify-those-involved-in-an-investigation ruse is complete garbage, because the only individuals that footage could possibly identify are already known to me and everyone else familiar with the matter, and their identities are hardly a state secret: Bowey, Pollard, Osborne and yours truly. Not to mention that Old Mate from the Internal Cover-Up Service had already declared he wasn’t going to bother with an investigation because Bowey and Osborne’s antics did not breach SAPOL’s spectacularly flexible code of conduct.
Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Off To A Shitty Lock-Up We Go!
Anyways, back to my arrest, where Osborne did most of the talking and all the feeling up.
I was then placed in the divvy van, which apparently moonlights as a refrigerated transport vehicle. Sitting in that shit box was like being trapped in a mobile freezer. After a shivering journey that took way too long, we finally arrived at this shitpit of a lock-up in Nelson Street in the Adelaide CBD.
Once again, I was searched, and once again I was asked if I had any weapons, sharp objects, contraband, blah, blah, blah. That’s a rather strange question, I thought to myself. Because to have those items at that stage of the game, I would’ve had to have pulled them from my ass in the divvy van. Something tells me that would’ve been a tough call with my hands tightly handcuffed together.
After a bunch of other intelligence-insulting carry on, I was fingerprinted, had my DNA swabbed, and had my possessions confiscated and bagged.
And I was placed in a cell.
For those a bit slow on the uptake, I was being treated like a criminal.
Sometime after being placed in the cell, Osborne entered and finally told me why I’d been arrested. On the evening of 29 February 2016, SAPOL were claiming, I “jumped from the bushes” and punched a Harley David Johnstone in the face while he rode his bicycle on Kensington Road.
SAPOL were further alleging that this caused Johnstone to fall to the road, causing $8,000-9,000 damage to his bike.
“Is this the same bike,” I asked Osborne, “that he boasted on YouTube about having remounted and ridden for another 5 hours?”
I don’t recall Osborne’s exact words, but they effectively equated to, “I have no idea and no interest, I’m just doing my job.”
Ah, the old “I’m just doing my job” routine. Didn’t the Nuremberg Trials establish decades ago that was not sufficient reason to screw people over?
Why Osborne gave me this version of events remains a mystery. As subsequent documentation would reveal, SAPOL and Johnstone had long since contrived a different story. Instead of having jumped from the bushes, they were claiming I had walked down the road towards Johnstone with my dog. Instead of causing $8,000-9,000 damage to his bike, they were now claiming – using a bogus receipt created by one Ashleigh (Ash) McDougall, then of Giant Store Adelaide – that I had caused $6,651.95 damage.
Osborne then attempted to interview me. I told him I wouldn’t be saying diddly squat without a lawyer present, so he then left the cell.
If you thought Adelaide was bland and boring from outside a police cell, you should try the view from inside. Four walls, a concrete bed, and a reinforced crapper. Not even a book or magazine with which to pass the time. I wasn’t expecting the Waldorf Astoria’s Presidential Suite, but this was the pits.
Realizing Netflix and a long macchiato were out of the question, I started stretching to pass the time.
First my quads, then my hammies.
Then my quads, then my hammies.
Then my f**king quads, then my f**king hammies.
While attempting to stave off boredom by loosening up the ol’ fast twitch fibres, I would occasionally look up - only to see Osborne and Pollard blankly staring right back at me.
“For chrissakes,” I thought to myself, “haven’t these jokers ever seen someone stretch before?”
It all felt rather creepy, especially considering what had transpired earlier between Osborne and my hapless glutes.
Finally I was removed from the cell – only to be taken to another cell.
At least this cell had a padded cushion on the concrete bed. Another bonus was that Osborne and Pollard were no longer standing outside staring at me.
The whole time this was going on, I was worried sick about my car. You see, it was still sitting on North Terrace, on a Saturday night and only a block away from the notoriously sleazy Hindley Street precinct, with a bike inside. Not just any old bike, but a super-light piece of carbon fibre awesomeness worth more than many people’s cars. The bike was visible to anyone walking past my car, and I was worried shitless some opportunistic thieving bastard might give himself an early Christmas present.
That bike was the end result of years of dedicated bargain-hunting on eBay. I squirreled away rare and exotic parts purchased from sellers in the US, UK and here in Australia. Not only did this mean the bike owed me far less than the true replacement cost, but it contained unique components that would be exceedingly difficult to locate again. If that bike were to be stolen, I was in for a major bout of heartbreak.
After what was probably the most painfully boring and worrisome four hours of my life, I was finally informed my Mum and little sis had come to bail me out. I was taken to an area where I was to be reunited with my belongings and … Osborne and Pollard.
Osborne then informed me he would be searching me again.
Again? Two searches on the way in, and now another on the way out? This was getting beyond ridiculous.
Osborne launched into the same brain-numbing spiel I’d already heard twice that evening: “Do you have on your person any weapons, sharp objects…”
“Nothing you didn’t find the first two times,” I replied.
After satisfying himself I hadn’t fashioned a shank from thin air or stolen a chunk of concrete to keep as a momento, Osborne and his cohorts gave me my stuff back. Everything was there, except the Palladium shoes I was wearing at the time of my arrest. The female officer behind the counter wanted me to sign a form stating I had received all my items back. “Sure,” I said, “after I get my shoes.”
I mean, after all the bullshit I’d been through that evening, I wasn’t about to walk out of there in my socks.
After a bit of to-and-fro and a bit of a wait, I finally got my shoes back. How they came to be separated from the rest of my gear remains a mystery, but SAPOL seems to specialize in strange, inexplicable behaviour.
And finally I was reunited with my Mum and sis, who took me back to North Terrace. As I leapt from my sister’s car and sprinted towards mine, I’m pretty confident I would’ve left Usain Bolt in the dust. I looked inside my car and a wave of relief swept over my body – my new bike was still there.
The South Australian Legal System, a.k.a. Repeatedly Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall
If you ever get arrested and charged with an offence, I strongly suggest you keep your mouth shut until you’ve spoken with a lawyer. A good lawyer. I’m not advising you to do this because you may have something to hide; I recommend this because the ‘Common Law’ system that prevails in countries like Australia, the UK and US is more akin to a game than an earnest search for the truth. As with any high-stakes game, the players will often bend the rules and even blatantly cheat – and the police are certainly no exception. In fact, I’d bet good money they’re by far the worst offenders.
The police may have one or more hidden agendas behind your arrest, and you can be sure none of them will revolve around doing the right thing by you. Whether it’s payback for some real or perceived slight (a SAPOL specialty), an attempt to boost their arrest tally and score a much-needed prosecution win, or such factors as bigotry, confirmation bias and stereotyping, you should regard the police with as much suspicion as you would award to anyone else who barged into your life without your consent and dragged you away in handcuffs. Because the last thing you want is to have your post-arrest comments coaxed and twisted by opportunistic and often bent cops.
Furthermore, if you’ve just been arrested, there’s a good chance your mind is going to be in a confused, perplexed, agitated and highly-stressed state. Not a good state of mind in which to be making comments that could later be used to completely screw your life up.
So having declined to give a statement and now out on bail, it was time for me to find a lawyer. I knew a kick-ass lawyer back in Melbourne, but that wasn’t much use to me now that I was trapped in South Australia. And I literally was trapped; thanks to the absurd bail conditions placed on me, I was unable to travel interstate and back to Melbourne for ten friggin’ months, until the trial was over!
So I did what a lot of people would do, and went online to see what I could find.
I ended up settling on a law firm located in Adelaide that had scored some high-profile wins.
It was a decision I would come to regret - deeply.
The lawyer assigned to me was, quite frankly, f**king terrible.
I met with him to discuss the assault and property damage charge, and the two traffic fines I had received. At that initial meeting, I supplied him with a substantial volume of material about Johnstone. This included hostile emails I had received from Johnstone, defamatory videos he'd posted on YouTube about me and others, and a plethora of Internet articles and posts.
In other words, this lawyer was supplied with abundant background material. However, at the first of my many court appearances, I was dismayed when he stood up before the magistrate and began rambling some nonsense that Johnstone and I "share the same space in the fitness industry" and that this had led to feelings of ill will.
I had no idea what he was talking about - he was making it sound as if the Doucherider and I worked together in a gym or something. The Magistrate also seem confused and actually asked him, "Do they work together?", to which the lawyer should have replied, "No, they have never worked together. They have only met in person once."
Instead, he clinged to his bizarre "same space in the fitness industry" theme, making repeated and incomprehensible attempts to clarify whatever it was he was trying to say.
Meanwhile, I was standing there thinking “F**k a duck, this sh*t goes from bad to worse.”
For the record, Johnstone and I have never worked together and we don't share shit. I have almost no social media presence. My DNA was fully imported from Italy, women willingly have sex with me, I've never even smoked a cigarette let alone used illicit recreational drugs, and I eat, dress and groom myself in Mediterranean fashion.
Johnstone, in contrast, is a drug-f**ked Anglo-Bogan social media whore who forces himself upon young girls, has a long history of promoting bizarre and dangerous diets, and wears fluorescent green socks in public.
As if the lawyer’s initial ramblings weren’t bad enough, he then proceeded to tell the magistrate the allegations against me "were fabricated in part."
"What the f**k is he saying?!?", I thought to myself.
I was aghast when I heard this, because it constituted an admission the allegations were at least partially true. The reality was that the Johnstone/SAPOL allegations were fabricated in full - they were 100% bullsh*t.
A Sleazy Gatecrasher Shows Up to Court
Another revealing episode occurred on the day of my first ‘Pre-Trial Hearing’. The only people invited to this hearing were the prosecution hacks, my lawyer and of course, yours truly. But as I was waiting outside the courtroom with Mum, I heard this awful and unmistakable nasally boganoid voice nearby. I looked over, and who do I see but one Harley David Johnstone?
Bespoke in poorly matched lycra, cleated cycling shoes, f**ked-up clown glasses and his trademark flouro green socks, Johnstone had showed up unannounced wielding his phone, hoping to aggravate me and in the process get some choice YouTube footage.
As if that weren’t bad enough, after I was called into the courtroom, the cowardly bogan approached Mum outside and started mouthing off. “Anthony owes me a lot of money,” proclaimed SAPOL’s money-grubbing star witness. He then opened his mouth and pointed to a missing tooth.
Utterly repulsed by the sight of Johnstone and his filthy decaying oral cavity, Mum loudly replied “YOU are the criminal in all of this. Now get away from me or I’ll call security!”
Heads turned and all eyes focused on Johnstone. Realizing he was now the centre of unwanted attention, he got up and slithered back to his original seat.
As soon as the ‘Pre-Trial Conference’ nonsense was over, I told the lawyer and court security that Johnstone was outside. The lawyer then told the chumps from SAPOL, who promptly went out to have a chat with their star witness.
This incident revealed much about both my lawyer and SAPOL, and none of it was good.
Let’s start with SAPOL. Any law enforcement agency worth a damn would know full well that genuine assault victims are typically traumatized and fearful of their attackers. But there was Johnstone, showing up to a hearing he was not supposed to attend, doing his best to get a rise out of me and harassing my elderly mother. SAPOL, in other words, had just observed first hand their so-called ‘victim’ behaving like a belligerent jerk.
But did this snap them to their senses and make them drop the whole farcical sham, right there and then?
Of course not.
SAPOL were on a mission to screw me, and they weren’t going to let a public display of antagonism by their star witness stop them.
And the lawyer? After witnessing Johnstone’s bizarre antics, he commented that it put the matter in a whole new light. You see, he didn't realize what an unhinged individual Johnstone was.
Well f**k me.
I'd already explained ad nauseum to him what a deranged nutter the Doucherider was. If the lawyer had spent even a modicum of time perusing the abundant material I gave him, he would have been in no doubt as to Johnstone's highly questionable mental health right from the outset.
For crying out loud, that material even included the footage of Johnstone taunting and screaming at an Adelaide motorist to "kill me man, kill me!" that headlined a current affairs show in early 2017.
It's rather daunting to realize your lawyer isn't paying attention to what you're telling him.
Johnstone in all his feral glory, unleashing a an expletive-laden tirade against a motorist who was trying to calm him down.
My experiences with this lawyer alone could fill a book. In short, he seemed disinterested and disengaged, and consistently did a monumentally bad job. On one telling occasion, I arrived ten minutes early for my appointment, only to be kept waiting over 20 minutes after the scheduled appointment time.
Why the wait?
Because, despite a month having passed since my last court appearance, he waited until after I arrived to give SAPOL a call and get an update on my case!
Another time I was contacted shortly before an appointment by his receptionist, telling me that he was still stuck at Christies Beach court. By this point, I was already in the CBD looking for a park. On that occasion, I had to wait almost an hour past the scheduled time to see him.
Neither my case nor my time seemed to be of much concern to this guy.
I was being subject to hearing after hearing, adjournment after adjournment, and every step of the way I was being treated like I was guilty until proven guilty.
I was clearly getting nowhere.
When the matter was eventually set for trial, I felt like I’d been clocked in the head with a baseball bat. This nonsense should never have even resulted in charges, let alone a criminal trial!
SAPOL were having it all their way, and my lawyer seemed to be offering no resistance whatsoever.
I have since become privy to rather alarming allegations about the nature of a certain law firm’s relationship with SAPOL. I won’t elaborate on those allegations here, because this matter is far from over.
Clearing the Deadwood
When the matter was set for trial, my family and friends – already shocked by the initial ridiculous charges – were left reeling. And so was I.
It was time to get a new lawyer.
“Anth,” said a friend from Melbourne during a phone call, “your lawyer’s a muppet. You’d be better off taking Ramone into court with you, for f**k’s sake.”
My Adelaide doctor, an outstanding practitioner who was doing all he could to keep me sane, was becoming increasingly concerned by what was transpiring. He too emphatically agreed it was time to get new legal help. He reached for a piece of paper and wrote down the name of a lawyer he had previously consulted with.
I called and then met with this lawyer. Unlike the previous lawyer, he immediately began perusing the material I gave him. Unlike the previous lawyer, he immediately began pointing out discrepancies in Johnstone and SAPOL’s dubious version of events. After agreeing to take on my case, the new lawyer assigned a barrister to attend to help with the case.
Unfortunately, thanks to my previous lawyer’s unhelpful approach and SAPOL’s dogged determination to shaft me, the matter had already been set for a two-day trial.
The big dates were Monday 25 and Tuesday 26 June, 2018.
On Sunday 24 June 2018, the day before the trial kicked off, I happened upon the most recent of Norvegan’s THE UNMASKING videos. For those of you not yet aware, this is a series of riveting and well-produced videos that completely strip away the self-aggrandizing façade Johnstone has built for himself over the years. The videos leave no doubt whatsoever that Johnstone harbours a gigantic case of Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
I was already aware a number of young girls had posted videos explaining how they fought off the unwanted sexual advances of Johnstone, but I was not yet aware of anyone who had publicly accused him of rape.
That was all about to change.
In the video, titled "THE UNMASKING, Part 5: The Sexual Assaults", a young lady named Hannah recounts how on 28 October 2015, Harley Johnstone lured her to his apartment in Thailand on false pretences. Hannah had recently created a book cover for an eBook Johnstone had concocted, and as far as she was concerned, her role in the project was now finished. Hannah had agreed to create the cover because Johnstone promised in return he would help promote her own writings on his various social media channels.
On the evening in question, Johnstone had showed up uninvited to a restaurant where he knew Hannah and a friend would be dining. After they left the restaurant, Johnstone began badgering Hannah to come up to his apartment. The first angle he employed was to tell Hannah she hadn’t yet finished the book cover, and that now would be a good time to do so. After Hannah pointed out she’d already emailed the finished cover to him, Johnstone modified his narrative, now claiming the cover needed changes. Seeing Hannah was reluctant to come up to his apartment, Johnstone then claimed he had a bike pump and a bike lock he wanted to give her. Johnstone, ever the conniving deviant, had observed that Hannah had been borrowing a friend’s bike pump. Using his finely-honed predatory instincts, Johnstone could also see Hannah was a courteous and considerate individual who would find it difficult to refuse an opportunity to no longer impose on her friend.
Hannah then made a decision she would come to deeply regret. She figured she’d placate Johnstone by quickly going to his apartment, accepting the bike pump, checking out what amendments he wanted for his book cover, then getting on her way.
The rape allegation begins at 26:00.
As soon as I watched this section of the video, which begins around 26:00, I knew what was about to follow. And I knew it was going to be pretty dark.
Because this is how conmen and sexual predators often operate, folks. Not all of them lurk in dimly lit doorways waiting to drag lone women into dark alleys, or slither round nightclubs slipping Rohypnol in women’s drinks. Predators are highly adept at exploiting what are otherwise admirable traits, such as trust, courtesy and the desire not to cause offence to others. When someone makes a seemingly generous offer or a request for help, it often creates a sense of obligation and triggers a desire not to offend. And this will often happen subconsciously, without our even realizing it.
Predators intuitively know this, and will exploit these phenomena to create an opening, an opportunity from which to launch their attack.
Sadly, our generally appalling educational systems do little to teach people about evolutionary psychology and situational awareness. Instead, they are designed to instil qualities that serve the best interests of the reigning oligarchies, such as obedience and conformity. Sadly, this makes it even easier for predatory scum to have their way.
To help counter the damage caused by our substandard education systems, I strongly recommend a book I’ve given to all the important women in my life. It’s a book that also comes highly recommended by self-defence expert Richard Dimitri, truly one of the most remarkable individuals I’ve ever met. The book is called The Gift of Fear and Other Survival Signals that Protect Us From Violence by Gavin DeBecker, and will help you identify when you’re about to be preyed upon – and how to avert the danger. Those of you who’ve already read the book, or have studied the psychology of predatory violence, would no doubt have promptly spotted several red flags when reading the above description of Johnstone’s behaviour as recounted by Hannah.
The key is not to become completely distrusting and perennially cynical, but to develop polite but firm assertiveness and diplomacy. Some lucky people seem to have this skill naturally, others need to become aware of what it is and then develop it. It’s a skill that could literally save your life.
At 30:00 of the video, Hannah describes the actual attack.
I won’t recount the details here, because the whole thing makes me sick – it feels me with a wrenching, gut-twisting blend of sorrow and regret for Hannah, and intense hate, disgust and repulsion of Johnstone.
I didn’t think it was possible, but I now despised Harley Johnstone even more than before.
Adding to my overwhelming sense of disgust was the fact that the very next day, I would be facing trial for false assault allegations being made by some evil troll who had been accused of sexual predation and now outright rape.
Yep, the very next day, I would be facing down two truly evil entities with solid form for misogyny and sexual predation – SAPOL and Harley Johnstone – as they attempted to send me to jail and scam me out of almost $7,000.
It felt like I was trapped in the plot of some dark, twisted novel.
SAPOL’s star witness, Harley Johnstone, sporting the latest summer look for men who like to frequent playgrounds. He’s also sporting a pretty serious case of premature male pattern baldness - a tell-tale sign of heavy anabolic/androgenic steroid usage.
The Trial: Day 1
Before I continue, I should point out that I am not accusing Harley Johnstone of being a rapist. Heck, I would never accuse such an upstanding and saintly individual of doing such a thing.
[Excuse me while I puke].
Let’s be clear: Someone else has accused him of being a rapist - and I believe them.
I personally believe Harley Johnstone is a rapist, and nothing the maggot says will convince me otherwise.
No, he has not been charged with rape. That’s because, when Hannah and her partner reported the rape to the Thai police, they carried on in a manner that would make the Keystone Cops look flat out professional. An illuminating example was when Hannah told them about a file in Johnstone’s possession that would tend to corroborate her story. Instead of getting a warrant to search Johnstone’s computer and apartment, the Thai police asked her to get it from him.
You read that right: The Thai cops expected a victim to contact her alleged attacker and ask him for a file that might help implicate him as a rapist!
Michael recounting the couple's unsuccessful attempts to get justice through the Thai and Australian legal systems.
So no, Johnstone has not been charged or convicted of rape, but I believe this is largely due to luck and not innocence.
There are other reasons why I believe Hannah. I’ve personally corresponded with her partner, and have little doubt he is a truly decent and eminently honest individual.
Harley Johnstone, in contrast, is a nast, defamatory, pathological liar.
Harley Johnstone has proved time and time again he pretty much lies about everything. Therefore, if he denies he did something, I can only assume he did it. Johnstone, of course, has denied he raped Hannah.
If Johnstone accuses someone else of something, I can only assume it was Johnstone who actually did it. That’s because Johnstone has a long and well-established history of hypocritical projection. Let’s take Johnstone’s infamous tactic of accusing every other male in the fitness arena of using steroids, without any proof whatsoever. As it turns out, he is an avid steroid user himself! Johnstone has also accused others of sexual predation and rape, without any proof whatsoever - so I can only assume he was talking about himself when he made those allegations.
And as you’re about to learn, there’s another reason why I personally have no doubt Johnstone is guilty of rape.
It pertains to an event that occurred shortly after I entered the court building the first morning of the trial. I was accompanied by Mum and Kev, the close friend who was with me and Ramone on the evening of the assault-that-never-was. Kev, who has a teenage daughter, had also watched the UNMASKING 5 video the day before, and was similarly disgusted by what he saw.
We had just cleared security at the entrance to the Magistrates Court building, and were walking into the foyer area. As we entered, I noticed a skinny male with leathery, wrinkled skin sitting down on a nearby bench, his head down as he sorted through a pile of documents. I was like, "is that ... ?"
Yep - it was none other than Captain Maggot himself, Harley David Johnstone.
And so as we walked past, I said out loud and clear, in front of all and sundry, "Morning rapist!"
I will never forget what happened next.
As soon as I issued my greeting, Johnstone immediately looked up and said, “G’day mate!”
What the ... ?!?
When greeted as a rapist, Johnstone immediately looked up and answered reflexively, without skipping a beat.
I think it’s fair to say most non-rapist people in that same situation would have assumed the greeting was being issued to someone else. And if it did become apparent this unflattering greeting was being issued to them, they would quickly go into De Niro mode and respond with a highly indignant, “You talkin' to me? ... You talkin' to me?"
"Who the f**k do you think you're talkin' to?"
But Johnstone instead answered like an obedient pet.
I continued past, doing my best to supress a mix of shock and disgust. Kev, who was walking behind me, watched Johnstone’s facial expression quickly change to shock when he realized who had just greeted him – and what he had just unwittingly admitted to.
We then headed up to the Fourth floor of the building and waited. A short time later, the Doucherider emerged from the lifts and sat some 10 or so metres away.
A Mummy’s Boy – and Damn Proud of It
Some time had passed when Johnstone - clearly wounded from the rapist greeting – got up and moved over to an adjacent row of seats. He then picked up his phone and said:
"Mummy's boy. Yeah, definitely. Mummy's boy. See you soon."
Johnstone then bagged his phone and walked back to where he was originally sitting.
I looked at Kev, and was like, "what was that all about?" Kev replied, “He wasn't really on the phone, he's just trying to have a go at you.” You see, Mum has accompanied me to all my court appearances, including the pre-trial conference where the Doucherider showed up unannounced. This, apparently, made me a mummy’s boy.
Well, I'd much rather be a mummy's boy than a filthy sex predator.
Interestingly, right after Johnstone posted his first defamatory YouTube “sucker punch” video about me, another diet author of Anglo descent, who also has a long history of promoting absurd dietary claims, similarly called me a “mummy’s boy”. I won’t mention the guy’s name, because he at least mustered up enough character to later apologize and admit he shouldn’t have been so quick to accept the claims of a sleazeball like Johnstone.
Nonetheless, it seems more than a few people of Anglo descent need to be schooled on the nature of Mediterranean family life. So for the edification of those who were raised in emotionally distant non-Mediterranean households, and in the interests of cultural enlightenment, I’d like to point out something here.
Namely, calling an Italian guy a mummy's boy isn't an insult - it's a statement of fact. Any Italian guy worth a strand of spaghetti loves his mum to death. Heck, bring me the most ruthless Sicilian mobster or the staunchest New York wiseguy, and I'll show you a fellow mummy's boy.
Joe Pistone, the undercover agent who infiltrated the New York mob under the guise of Donnie Brasco, even wrote about this in his book The Way of the Wiseguy: True Stories from the FBI's Most Famous Undercover Agent:
“Even the most brutal wiseguy will be a teddy bear in the presence of the woman who raised him. Remember the scene in Goodfellas where, right after whacking someone, DeNiro and Pesci go get a knife at Pesci’s mother’s house and end up having dinner with her? These two ruthless, remorseless killers are absolute pussycats around this tiny, saintly woman. Hang around wiseguys, and you will find that scene is very true to life.”
If you ever meet a guy who grew up in an Italian household but doesn’t speak with reverence about his Ma (and Nonna), then something went seriously awry during his upbringing. It’s the same in most Mediterranean households, and who knows – maybe this deference for the family’s matriarchs helps explain why in countries like Italy, Spain, Greece and Argentina (which has a large Italian-descended population), the men are much less likely to rape women than in Anglo countries like Australia, the US and UK.
My commiserations if your mother would rather go to UBET than accompany you to court, but don’t try and make me feel guilty for having a close relationship to my Mum. Like most Southern European guys, I think my Mum’s absolutely awesome and I’m proud as heck of her.
Nonetheless, Johnstone's snipe was clearly issued with ill intent, and his antagonism could not go unanswered. So some time later, when he was again within earshot, I picked up my phone, pretended to be on a call, and said out loud:
"Rapist maggot. Yeah, definitely. Rapist maggot. See you soon!"
Poor Doucherider didn't have an answer for that one.
Johnstone Gets Ready to Take the Stand
That first morning was marked by a continual succession of entries and exits to the courtroom, while my legal team and prosecution went back and forth with each other. My lawyer and barrister again gave SAPOL the opportunity to drop the matter, but they refused. In fact, I would later find out that the Magistrate, after reviewing the case, even told SAPOL that morning they should drop the matter because it was so flimsy!
After much toing and froing, it was finally time for Johnstone to give his testimony. Sadly, Mum and Kev were only allowed in for the opening proceedings. Mum could not re-enter until the verdict and Reasons for Decision, and Kev would not be allowed in until his testimony was required.
And so here we were: Magistrate Kossiavelos, who was presiding over the case, along with my lawyer, the prosecutor, Johnstone, the court staff and yours truly. As I waited for things to kick off, my mind briefly wandered … it seemed like only yesterday I was in Spain, flirting with gorgeous women, sipping Anis del Mono, and riding my bike in the most breathtaking mountains I’d ever seen. And now here I was, in a drab country that even one of its own former Prime Ministers described as “the ass end of the earth”, facing utterly absurd allegations of assault and property damage made by an unholy alliance of misogynstic bogans.
When Johnstone took the stand, SAPOL expected him to confirm the version of events he’d given to a Senior Constable Petraccaro on the evening of 29 February 2016. Petraccaro is the same SAPOL hack who pestered my elderly mother and myself with a string of phone calls and messages – only to ignore me when I rang Norwood Police Station a week later and left a message for him to call me.
Before I describe the disaster zone that was Johnstone’s testimony, it’s worth taking a look at the absurdities recorded by Petraccaro and his sidekick, a Senior Constable Thomas, after they interviewed Johnstone and his then-friend Gruffud Pugh-Jones on 29 February, 1 March and 5 March, 2016.
The Allegations: Johnstone’s Version of Events
In the version of events given to Petraccaro by Johnstone, the latter claimed he was riding with his friend “Griff” (Pugh-Jones). Pugh-Jones, said Johnstone, was riding to his right and they were chatting.
In reality, Johnstone was in fact accompanied by Pugh-Jones and another cyclist, riding three abreast in a V formation, with Johnstone lagging a metre or two behind the others.
Riding three abreast is illegal in South Australia.
According to Johnstone, a male who he “didn’t really recognize” appeared in front of him, walking down the road with his dog. He claimed that male then “sucker punched” him “to the mouth with a right clanged fist.” You’ll need to ask Johnstone and Petraccaro what a “clanged fist” is, as it was the first time I’d ever heard of such a thing; I can only assume “clanged” is how bogans pronounce “clenched.”
Johnstone also told Petraccaro yours truly had “sought me out and punched me tonight.” At the trial, SAPOL also intimated I had been following Johnstone’s movements on social media, and that when I discovered he was doing his “Everesting” caper, I deliberately endeavoured to intercept him and give him a flogging.
What utter bullshit.
I hate social media, and do not “follow” Johnstone or any other of these dipshitted diet, fitness and health ‘gurus’. I long ago concluded that 95% of people giving diet, fitness and health advice on the Internet are clueless twats who don’t know shit about shit. When I want information on fitness or health-related topics, what I invariably do is pull up the relevant published research and read it for myself. What I do not do is search the Internet to read the terribly misguided ramblings of some vegan/low-carb/intermittent fasting oddball.
So not only do Johnstone and SAPOL have zero evidence that I followed him on social media, I also find the allegation quite insulting.
I also find the allegation that I was using the Internet to stalk Johnstone – himself a textbook classic Internet stalker – to be nothing short of insane.
I mean, let’s stop and think further just what Johnstone and SAPOL are claiming here. For the last several years, I’ve been well aware of at least two addresses where Johnstone was/is living. For some time, Johnstone lived at a house on Heather Avenue at Rostrevor. In 2015, he purchased a unit on Magill Road at Beulah Park, where he still lives.
If I was the vicious thug Johnstone and SCAMPOL would have you believe, then it would’ve been pretty easy for me to round up a few friends, kick Johnstone’s door down in the middle of the night, and give the little loudmouth a good touch up.
But n-o-o-o-o, the evil duo are instead claiming I chose to sort him out in broad daylight at an event Johnstone had widely publicized on his social media channels. This bogan brains trust were claiming that, instead of storming Johnstone’s predator pad under the cover of night, I instead chose to confront him at a location not only well-trafficked by locals and tourists, but that would also be littered with Johnstone groupies, many no doubt wielding mobile phones with a camera function.
This, ladies and gentlemen, has to be one of the most absurd things I’ve ever heard.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you populate a law enforcement agency with people who are too dumb for TAFE. Seriously: The only requirements to become a SAPOL officer are that you finish secondary school, complete a couple of interviews and a questionnaire designed to eliminate independent thinkers, pass a physical, and have no criminal record as yet (there’ll be plenty of time to establish your criminal palmares after you’ve been accepted into the SAPOL gang).
The simple truth is that the scenic route Kev, Ramone and yours truly took that night is one we had taken many nights before. When in town, I’d often catch up with Kev and another friend (he was unavailable that night) and walk the big loop around Skye/Penfolds Estate, before cutting through the Skye lookout and back down Kensington Road. A number of business vendors in the area could easily have verified this, had SAPOL bothered to do a little something known as “investigating.”
The ridiculous claims hardly stopped there. Johnstone also told Petraccaro that, about an hour before the fantasy sucker punch was thrown, he saw “the other guy” (Kev) “driving along Kensington Road … in a late model black Holden utility with sort of 12 spoke rims.”
“I didn’t get the registration,” added Johnstone.
And why would he need to? Unless Johnstone had psychic abilities and had a premonition he would be sucker-punched in an hour’s time, why would he need to get the registration of this otherwise nondescript Holden ute?
One other wee problem:
Neither Kev nor yours truly has ever owned a ute, of any colour, make or model!
Again, this is something I would have been happy to share with Petraccaro, if only he’d had the courtesy to return my calls. But it seems at some point soon after the bullshit allegations were made, my status on the SAPOL database was changed from “Wanted for questioning” to “Just arrest the cunt.”
Johnstone also claimed to Petraccaro that the Giant bicycle he was riding at the time sustained “about $8,000 to 9,000 damage.”
This figure was altered a week later. On March 8, 2016, Johnstone visited his buddies at Giant Store Adelaide, where a dubious individual by the name of Ash McDougall wrote up a bogus quote for numerous parts that totalled $6,651.95. McDougall was even claiming the bike needed, among numerous other things, an entirely new frameset!
As you can see from the above quote, McDougall provided absolutely nothing in the way of justification for his quote. No photographic evidence or even a written description of the damage that allegedly necessitated so many new components.
This further underscores just how disinterested SAPOL was in in honestly investigating the matter. Petraccaro and Thomas had attended the scene and viewed Johnstone’s bike, and they would have seen for themselves the bike was fully intact and not exhibiting the damage Johnstone claimed. I also viewed Johnstone’s bike after the incident, on the defamatory YouTube video he promptly posted afterwards – and it looked just fine.
The bike Johnstone was riding that evening was a 2015 model Giant Defy Advanced SL 0, which had a retail value of AU $9,999. How Giant get away with charging ten grand for such a mediocre bike is beyond me, but that’s beside the point. The point is that if you cause almost $7,000 damage to a $9,999 bicycle, then that bicycle has clearly been written off. Yet Johnstone boasted on his YouTube video how he wouldn’t let “shit khunts” stop him. Nope, he heroically remounted this same bicycle and continued riding it for several more hours until midnight!
Pretty amazing feat, considering earlier that evening his bike had allegedly reached Destination F**ked and acquired almost $7,000 damage!
As noted, Petraccaro and Thomas viewed Johnstone’s bicycle firsthand and would have clearly seen for themselves it was in good working order. Instead of a twisted, mangled wreck, they were greeted with a healthy looking bicycle. Yet they and their SAPOL cohorts willingly accepted the clearly false quote created by Ash McDougall.
Petraccaro and Thomas would also have noted the steep gradient Johnstone was traversing that evening. Johnstone would’ve been travelling at no more than 6-7km/h at the time he rode into me. To claim a fall at this very low speed would result in a written off bicycle is beyond ludicrous. We’ve all seen footage from events like the Tour de France where cyclists go ass up at speeds of 40 km/h or more, only to untangle their handlebars, jump back on their bikes, and keep racing.
Yet here was Johnstone claiming that a fall at 6km/h had caused almost $7,000 damage to his bike!
Clearly, SAPOL had already made up their mind on the matter. It was yours truly who SAPOL were intending to send to Destination F**ked.
Further evidence of this comes from the two receipts Johnstone presented in support of his “two cracked teeth” story. One receipt was for an examination, the other for an examination and x-ray. There was no mention of cracked teeth or of any repair work. The receipts totalled $136.70, so even if we were supposed to believe that a professional practitioner somehow forgot to mention a wee little thing like two cracked teeth, no dentist in this country is going to repair two damaged teeth for such a paltry amount!
Johnstone, whose poor oral hygiene is the stuff of legend among his former social circle, was simply trying to get me to foot the cost of his dental check-ups.
None of these glaring discrepancies seemed to bother SAPOL. Why would they? It seems SAPOL were so butt-hurt by my staunch resistance to their speeding fine, and the unflattering commentary I’d since posted about them and their extortionist traffic fine racket, that no evidence was too shabby in their quest to screw me.
The Allegations: Pugh-Jones’ Version of Events
The statement given by Pugh-Jones to Senior Constable Thomas was also a real cracker. As an indication of the intelligence level you’re forced to endure when dealing with SAPOL, Thomas recorded Johnstone’s name as “Harley Davidson” – in both his written notes and the typed affadavit. So in the version of events given by Pugh-Jones and signed off by SAPOL, I had punched – not Harley Johnstone – but an American motorcycle.
You’ll remember how in Johnstone’s version, the Doucherider claimed he was riding near Pugh-Jones and chatting away as they were riding. The Doucherider claims he saw me walking towards him, and that I clocked him with my right “clanged” fist.
Pugh-Jones, however, stated that "Harley Davidson" was riding a metre or two behind him, with his head down (if he was in fact referring to Johnstone, and not a motorcycle from Milwaukee, then that much was true). Pugh-Jones then claimed I struck "Harley Davidson" with my “left arm.” This would have been impossible, because my left hand was firmly encircled by Ramone’s leash.
Again, SAPOL did not appear at all fussed by the fact the stories of their two key witnesses differed in a number of important details.
Eat Your Meat and Cannoli, Kiddies!
I know this is a wee bit off-topic, but there’s something else in the Doucherider/Pugh-Jones accounts I’d like to quickly highlight. In court, Johnstone estimated my age as 40. In his statement to SC Thomas, Pugh-Jones estimated me to be in my 30s, and Kev to be in his forties. On 29 February 2016, I was in fact 48 years of age, and Kev was in his 50s.
The forty-something Johnstone, meanwhile, looked to be in his late 50s/early 60s when he rolled up to court. The guy looks awful; how the hell he successfully positioned himself as a health and fitness ‘expert’ is something I will never understand.
The bottom line is that two avid proponents of veganism had unwittingly acknowledged that two avid consumers of meat (not to mention cannoli) looked 10-15 years younger than their actual ages.
I think there is a lesson to be learned in that folks. Namely, that bullshit diet fads are the not the key to staying healthy and looking young.
Johnstone Takes the Stand … and Proves He is a Lunatic
Pugh-Jones was now no longer friends with Johnstone. While his misguided sense of loyalty had led him to lie to SAPOL for Johnstone’s benefit back in early 2016, he now felt no such obligation. And even if SAPOL figured they could put the screws on him and force him to testify, they were faced with another problem: He was no longer in the country.
That left SAPOL with just one witness: A pathological liar and well-known deviant by the name of Harley David Johnstone. It was upon this complete idiot that SAPOL were now resting their hopes of sending me to Yatala.
And so here we were. Johnstone’s big moment had arrived. He sat in the witness box, and started answering questions from the prosecutor, who began by asking Johnstone who he was and what he did for a living. Johnstone described his occupation as “IT” (Internet Troll?) and bizarrely listed his employer as “YouTube” of San Bruno, California.
The prosecutor then asked Johnstone to describe the events that transpired on 29 February 2016.
As soon as Johnstone did this, the case he and SAPOL worked so hard to fabricate against me began to crumble.
False Allegations 2.0
Johnstone had well over two years to memorize his original fake version of events. Instead, he somehow thought it would be a great idea to concoct a “new, improved” fake version of what happened on 29 February 2016!
I knew Johnstone was an idiot, but this was something else.
Remember how Johnstone originally told Petraccaro he’d seen Kev driving along Kensington Road in a black Holden ute?
This had now changed to seeing Kev and yours truly in a black Holden station wagon, parked by the side of Kensington Road!
As any Australian resident can tell you, there’s a big difference between a ute and station wagon. For the edification of my many wonderful overseas readers, who may not be familiar with the term “ute” (short for “utility”), here’s a quick visual explanation:
Not only did Johnstone’s version of events differ to that signed off by him and SAPOL, it also wildly conflicted with what he’d said in the two defamatory YouTube videos he posted shortly after the alleged assault. The absurd claims made in one of those videos would shortly come back to bite him hard in his bony, malnourished butt.
The more Johnstone talked, the more he made himself look like an incoherent screwball. He meandered off on tangents, and repeatedly spoke about things he was not asked about. Johnstone, ever the self-aggrandizing braggart, even boasted about having 23 bicycles, and about having raced as a professional cyclist in Europe.
I doubt Johnstone has ever been to Europe, let alone raced there as a UCI pro. Exactly when did you race in Europe, Johnstone? Which teams did you ride for? What races did you compete in? What placings did you attain?
I’m guessing the answers to those questions are: Never; none; none; none.
At any rate, it was a moot point, because the Magistrate didn’t give two hoots about how many bicycles Johnstone owned or whether he once raced in Europe. This was an assault and property damage trial, not an interview for Bicycling Australia.
At one point, Johnstone even whined that the “stuff” I’d written about him on the Internet had prevented him from getting a job and securing a rental lease. I find it hard to believe Johnstone has ever applied for a real job, because the guy is a bum. As for his rental lease, I’m told he owns the flat he lives in on Magill Road at Beulah Park.
Perhaps Johnstone’s sagging Internet income has necessitated him to actually go and look for real work. I guess constantly buying automated bots to artificially boost your YouTube “likes” and view counts gets kind of expensive after a while, huh Johnstone? And while the Doucherider may own his Magill Road shitpit, he no doubt needs a place to stay when he customarily disappears overseas for the Australian winter.
If that’s the case, and it turns out that my Internet writings have hampered his rental and job-seeking efforts, than I have one thing to say:
Because no unsuspecting employer or landlord deserves to be lumped with the likes of Johnstone.
I’d also like to point out that Johnstone has no-one to blame but himself. You see, for almost two years, when you Googled the keywords “harley johnstone” or “durianrider”, the first result that would often appear was the following article I wrote on 3 March 2016, just days after Johnstone started spreading his libellous sucker punch allegations all over the Internet:
The article has since slipped from the top ranking – now surpassed by rape allegations – but (as of 8 October 2018) it still appears on the first page when searching for “durianrider.” Meanwhile, the first page of search results for “harley johnstone” returns another article of mine:
If you read the first of the abovementioned articles carefully, you’ll notice that all the incriminating information it contains was already posted on the Internet by Johnstone, of his own volition. I didn’t make any of that stuff up – that article is replete with links to his own insanity, and screenshots of unflattering material that he himself posted.
All I did was compile that information, and present it to an audience outside of Johnstone’s usual circle of gullible fanboys and girls.
As the old saying goes, “give an idiot enough rope…”
Johnstone: Deranged, Rambling and Dishonest
While an interesting aside, none of this had anything to do with what occurred on 29 February 2016. Magistrate Kossiovelos had to repeatedly remind Johnstone to answer the questions he was being asked, and nothing more. When Johnstone again proceeded to ramble more disjointed, irrelevant drivel, the Magistrate asked him to leave the courtroom. She then told the prosecutor he needed to reign in Johnstone. Johnstone was then allowed back in the courtroom, where he continued his very unconvincing story, which had magically transformed into a whole new narrative over the last 2 1/2 years.
As my lawyer said to me during the break after Johnstone’s testimony, “that was a train wreck!”
My lawyer again gave SAPOL the opportunity to drop the matter. Again, SAPOL refused.
During the break, Mum, Kev and yours truly were sitting just outside the courtroom. Johnstone was sitting some 10 or so metres away. After witnessing Johnstone’s appalling performance, I was now in a far more relaxed frame of mind. The same, however, could not be said for Kev. Like yours truly, Kev has an extremely low regard for the Doucherider. And as the very protective father of a delightful teenage daughter, who had watched the rape allegations against Johnstone only the day before, there were probably no adjectives too strong to describe Kev’s disdain for the sleazy Johnstone.
And so when Johnstone started taunting Kev outside the courtroom, smirking and winking in his trademark sleazy fashion, I could just about see the steam coming out of Kev’s ears. “Kev,” I said, “let it go. He just royally f**ked himself in the courtroom, and he knows it. He’s just acting like a smug p**ck to cover his embarrassment and humiliation.”
But then another mind-boggling possibility occurred to me: Johnstone, thoroughly deluded nutter that he is, may not have felt embarrassed or humiliated at all. As a pathological liar who thought he could bulls**t his way through anything, Johnstone may in fact have earnestly believed he just gave an Oscar-winning performance!
Whether Johnstone’s smug cockiness was real or feigned, it would soon be wiped from his face for good. Because, after lunch, Johnstone would be cross-examined, not by a representative of his mates at SAPOL, but by my lawyer.
Johnstone Gets Smashed in Court: “He Got Moidered, I Tell Ya!”
After lunch, we all assembled back at the Magistrates Court building. It was now my lawyer's turn to grill Johnstone. Sadly, Mum and Kev weren't allowed in the courtroom, something we will all forever lament, because they missed out on seeing one of the most memorable smackdowns in history.
It’s also terribly unfortunate that I was unable to film what transpired in that courtroom, because the resultant footage would have been guaranteed viral material.
Forget Khabib vs McGregor; the loudmouthed McGregor was at least able to put up a bit of a fight before getting choked out. The same could hardly be said for Johnstone.
Johnstone, in short, got destroyed. Watching an idiot like Johnstone try his nonsense on in a court of law was like watching some drunken yobbo taunting a highly-trained MMA champ outside a pub.
Cockiness and arrogance followed by very painful humiliation and defeat.
As my lawyer started firing Johnstone’s numerous inconsistencies right back at him, Johnstone fell into the classic liar’s trap: He had to concoct new lies to cover for the inconsistencies in his old ones.
This, of course, allowed my lawyer to further ensnare Johnstone in the latter’s ever-growing and increasingly complex web of lies.
A classic example: Before lunch, Johnstone had told the magistrate he jumped back on his damaged bike and continued riding it until the conclusion of “Everest” caper. This is what he had also claimed in his YouTube cinematography. After lunch, however, the story had magically changed! In response to my lawyer’s question as to how one could possibly remount an extensively damaged bike and keep riding it for hours, Johnstone magically pulled a new bike out of his butt … uh, I mean, rental van.
That’s right: Johnstone was now saying he in fact had a spare identical bike (with an RRP of $9,999, remember) sitting in the van, and that was the one he used to continue his "Everest" attempt!
My lawyer, of course, had a field day with this and the endless other glaring contradictions in Johnstone's story.
But the real pièce de résistance came when my lawyer started grilling the Doucherider about the second of the two defamatory videos he’d posted on YouTube. In the first video, Johnstone had claimed I was accompanied by a vicious “Pitbull”, and that this Pitbull was “off its lead.”
But as numerous viewers promptly pointed out, my dog was not a Pitbull (Ramone is in fact an American Staffy/Boxer cross), he had a leash attached, and was showing absolutely no signs of aggression (the footage in fact showed Ramone playfully wagging his tail and trying to work out who in the bunch might be good for some doggy treats).
So Johnstone then created another video. In this video, he again repeated the Pitbull claims, but this time spliced in footage of two Pitbull attacks/fights taken from American videos. Viewers were apparently supposed to believe these dogs were Ramone, even though the two clips showed different dogs and contained clearly audible American accents!
This may have fooled Johnstone’s idiotic followers, but it didn’t even begin to wash with my lawyer. He wanted to know why Johnstone had spliced in the footage from the American videos. He wanted to know why Johnstone had gone to such lengths to portray my dog as a vicious beast instead of the lovable, tail-wagging pooch he really is.
Johnstone stammered, hesitated and tried to avoid the questions my lawyer was asking of him. He was dying in the witness box, and he knew it.
My lawyer then asked Johnstone why he claimed in the same video he had the alleged assault captured on video, when he in fact had no such footage. After all, this ‘smoking gun’ footage was nowhere to be seen in SAPOL’s dossier of evidence against me.
By the way, back in 2016 I publicly offered $10,000 to Johnstone if he came forward with this footage. I knew the footage didn’t exist, because I didn’t punch Johnstone. Not surprisingly, Johnstone never came forward to collect his $10,000.
Kind of hard to produce footage of something that never happened.
But then Johnstone dropped a bombshell.
He did have the footage.
Which begged the obvious question: “Why didn’t you show it to the police?”
“Oh, I was worried that it would identify the person who took the footage, and that Anthony Colpo would write nasty things about that person on the Internet.”
I found out later the identity of the person Johnstone claimed took this incriminating footage. That person now hates Johnstone with a passion. The disdain is mutual: Johnstone bitterly resents this person, who terminated their friendship and then made an impassioned video alerting the world to just what kind of a person Johnstone really was. Johnstone even tried to provoke this person in 2017 at a vegan festival, camera at the ready (similar to what Johnstone tried to do at my first pre-trial conference).
But now Johnstone was claiming he was so concerned for this person’s public image that he could not bear to hand over footage that would conclusively incriminate me.
What a crock.
Things then became even more bizarre. Johnstone said he’d show this never-before-seen footage to the Magistrate, but to no-one else.
As Magistrate Kossiavelos explained, it doesn’t work that way. All evidence against the accused has to be declared by the prosecution to the defence well before the trial, so that the accused has the opportunity to consider and respond to this evidence. You can’t just roll up to trial, bringing with you a swag of fantastic new claims, and expect to have them allowed as evidence against the defendant.
Magistrate Kossiavelos then adjourned court for the day, and left it to Johnstone, the prosecutor and my lawyer to discuss this new bombshell evidence that Johnstone claimed to have. My lawyer told me to wait outside.
A little while later, he came out and informed us that Johnstone still refused to share the footage.
Hardly surprising, considering it didn’t exist.
“Go home, get some rest, and we’ll see you back here tomorrow,” admonished my lawyer. As he spoke, I caught sight of Johnstone talking to the prosecutor and then making his way to the lift. I couldn’t help but notice that Johnstone’s earlier cockiness had totally evaporated. He now looked decidedly stressed, and had evidently developed a newfound love of staring at the ground.
Johnstone was starting to realize he was no longer dealing with easily-led idiots on YouTube and Instagram. He was now in a bonafide court of law, dealing with a lawyer and a learned Magistrate - and neither were buying his bollockery.
Johnstone was swimming in unfamiliar waters - and he was drowning.
Day 2 of the Trial
Day 1 was eventful enough, but Tuesday was when the real action happened.
The day began with Johnstone once again claiming he had the incriminating footage on video. Once again I had to leave the courtroom.
Once again, my lawyer eventually came back out and told me that Johnstone was refusing to share the footage, even with the prosecutor in private.
It’s not hard to see what was going on here. I can confidently bet all the money in the world that neither Johnstone nor anyone else on the planet will ever produce undoctored footage of me clocking him on 29 February 2016 – because no such thing ever happened. Johnstone was simply trying to have his cake and eat it. He was throwing out the claim he had footage of me punching him, but that he couldn’t share it because of his newfound concern for the person who took the footage.
Again, this kind of idiocy might fool the morons who follow Johnstone on YouTube and Instagram, but it doesn’t go down well in a court of law.
After it became apparent the world would never be seeing this mystery footage, it was time for the trial to resume. Johnstone was again called to the witness box, where he was again mercilessly grilled by my lawyer.
As with the first day, Johnstone was evasive, kept changing his story, wouldn't give straight answers, played dumb and often answered questions put to him with another question. Magistrate Kossiavelos had to remind Johnstone that as a witness, it was not his role to ask questions, but to answer them.
At one point, Johnstone even tried being a smart-aleck with my lawyer, attempting a few wisecracks in a desperate attempt to save face. My lawyer’s unforgiving responses quickly impressed upon Johnstone that this was no laughing matter, and Johnstone promptly abandoned the strategy.
It was a truly appalling display by Johnstone. As I listened to his responses, it became clear to me that Johnstone had long since adopted blatant dishonesty as his default communication method. He had gained so much mileage from his raucous hogwash, both in real life and on his social media channels, that lying now felt as natural to him as breathing.
The real fun – and the beginning of the end for Johnstone – was when my lawyer again began questioning Johnstone about the second of his libelous "sucker punch" videos. The video had been played the day before, but the evasive Johnstone had not given coherent answers when questioned about it.
So my lawyer asked for the video to be played again.
We all know Johnstone is an obnoxious blowhard who acts like he’s the Ronnie Kray of the diet and fitness arena. Whilst in the courtroom, however, Johnstone was doing his best to act like a meek and mild victim. But when that video started rolling, there was Johnstone in all his feral glory, proudly boasting about getting into “heaps of fights”, about being "hyper", about having gone to jail, and about having “been stabbed”. Every second word Johnstone muttered in the video was either a F-, C-, or MF-bomb.
Such a darling angel, that Johnstone.
Again, my lawyer demanded to know why Johnstone tried to portray me as a thug accompanied by a vicious Pitbull, when Ramone was in fact a lovable Amstaff/Boxer X.
“I’m not a dog expert,” proffered Johnstone.
“You claim you are not a dog expert and therefore could not correctly identify a Pitbull,” noted my lawyer, “yet in the video, you include footage of dogs that are indeed Pitbulls!”
He’s got a point there, Harley boy.
Johnstone then proceeded to remove all doubt that he was certifiably insane. My lawyer asked him about something he had said in the video – and Johnstone denied saying it.
Everyone in the courtroom, including Johnstone, had just watched the video and seen Johnstone make this comment – and he was now denying he said it!
“Is that you in the video, Mr Johnstone?”
Johnstone hesitated before answering, “yes.”
When my lawyer pointed out this could only mean Johnstone had indeed made the comment in question, Johnstone meekly said:
"It was a crazy video.''
"What do you mean by that, Mr Johnstone?"
"It was a crazy video, I had crazy hair."
I sat there thinking, "Oh, this is going to be interesting."
There was more mention of “crazy hair” by Johnstone, who then added he was "being creative" in the video.
Well, that's an understatement for the ages - he falsely, maliciously and very publicly accused me of sucker punching him while accompanied by a "Pitbull off the leash".
"You weren't being truthful in that video, were you Mr Johnstone?"
More mutterings about craziness and creativity, at which point my lawyer, exasperated by Johnstone's lunacy, asked, "Mr Johnstone, were you inebriated when you made this video?"
“No”, said Johnstone.
"Were you under the influence of illicit substances when you made this video?"
“No”, giggled Johnstone.
"Mr Johnstone, do you have brain damage?"
When my lawyer asked this, there was silence.
During the trial, I had studiously avoided looking at Johnstone, because I didn’t want to give the Magistrate the impression I was staring him down. Keeping my eyes off Johnstone actually wasn’t that difficult, because he is one truly ugly, repulsive character. It was far easier on my eyes to just stare at the carpet.
But when the motor on Johnstone’s mouth suddenly stalled, I couldn’t help but look over to see what his problem was. As I glanced over, I could see his face grimacing and his eyes welling up with tears.
"Holy sh*t,” I thought to myself, “here come the waterworks!"
And sure enough, the plastic YouTube gangster that is Harley Johnstone started crying in court.
The blubbering troll muttered something about a brain injury he’d sustained during an accident.
The details of this accident were not divulged in court, because Johnstone was too busy bawling his eyes out. However, years ago Johnstone collided with a bus whilst riding his bicycle. The accident was his fault, and I have it from a very reliable source that Johnstone attempted to intimidate and threaten one of the witnesses into changing their story, so that it would instead implicate the bus driver as guilty. However, Johnstone - perennial screw-up that he is - had actually contacted someone else with a similar name and was therefore threatening someone who had nothing to do with the matter!
Yep, that’s the kind of personality SAPOL will happily side with in order to get at someone like me, whose only crime is standing up to unlawful fines and pointing out on the Internet what a bunch of revenue-raising law-breakers SAPOL really are.
Johnstone, the self-proclaimed hardman turned sooky lala, kept on sobbing.
It was truly pathetic.
On top of all the other sheer lunacy that had transpired, the court was now learning that SAPOL's star witness had brain damage!
“Well that sure explains a lot,” I thought to my rather bemused self.
Johnstone, who had earnestly thought he would send me to jail and scam me out of thousands, was instead sitting before me in a tear-drenched, snotty-nosed mess. Instead of prevailing over me, he had just revealed to me and everyone else in the court that he had brain damage.
I must say, if it was anyone else, I would've felt sorry for them, because he had just been thoroughly destroyed and humiliated in front of all present. But needless to say, my sympathy doesn't extend to predatory assholes who try to wreck my life.
The gig was clearly up for Johnstone. Magistrate Kossiavelos told him he was excused and that he could leave the courtroom. Johnstone, still sobbing, picked up his backpack, and headed straight for the door. Mum and Kev, who were sitting just outside the courtroom door, later recounted that upon emerging from the courtroom, Johnstone made a rapid beeline for the lift, his head down as he fought back tears.
All Over, Turd-Green Rover
As a measure of just how truly appalling Johnstone’s performance was, and how utterly shambolic SAPOL’s case against me was, Magistrate Kossiavelos agreed to enact the Prasad Principle.
The precedent for the Prasad Principle, or a Prasad Ruling, arose during a 1979 South Australian Supreme Court case (R v Prasad (1979) 2 A Crim R 45). If upon the close of the prosecution case, a jury, judge or magistrate is convinced the evidence is insufficient to justify a conviction, they can call an early end to the proceedings and issue a “not guilty” ruling.
Needless to say, Prasad Rulings are issued sparingly. They are reserved only for cases in which the prosecution’s case is so monumentally pathetic that the judge/magistrate has decided they don’t need to hear any more.
As a result, Kev and I didn’t even need to take the stand. The trial proceedings were essentially over.
I had effectively been acquitted, although official confirmation would not come until later that afternoon. The court adjourned, and Magistrate Kossiavelos left to write up her Reasons for Decision.
At 4pm, we returned to the courtroom for the official verdict and Reasons for Decision. Not surprisingly, Johnstone was nowhere to be seen.
Still crying his eyes out, no doubt.
Everyone stood as Magistrate Kossiavelos entered the courtroom. After we sat down, she began reading out her Reasons for Decision.
Considering the restrained language magistrates are compelled to use, her commentary was highly damning of Johnstone.
Johnstone, she said, was an “unreliable witness” and “not a witness of truth.” His evidence “lacked weight and reliability throughout.”
In layperson’s language, this meant Johnstone was a complete liar and you couldn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth.
There was no video evidence of the incident, despite Johnstone’s unfounded claims to the contrary, the Magistrate noted.
There was no report from the treating dentist to substantiate Johnstone’s claimed dental injuries.
There was no proof of damage to Johnstone’s bike.
The injuries he described in court were not consistent with those described to Petraccaro.
His claim of a replacement bike ready and waiting in his rental van was “a recent invention not previously raised in his examination-in-chief or his statement to police.”
He suggested he didn’t know what a pit bull terrier looked like, yet in his YouTube video had included footage of pit bull terriers.
He gave conflicting information about the gradient of Kensington Road (despite 15% signs clearly posted on the road).
Johnstone “selected whatever evidence he gave. He avoided direct answers during cross-examination and even during examination in chief.”
He “provided answers that were not even asked of him.”
Johnstone “made insinuations about the defendant without proof. It appeared he had an axe to grind with the defendant over alleged remarks made by the defendant about him on the internet some time ago … I detected a hostility toward the defendant by Mr Johnstone as a result of alleged previous grievances.”
As a result of these numerous issues and discrepancies, Magistrate Kossiavelos considered Johnstone’s evidence to be “patently unsatisfactory.”
And then came the magic words I’d been waiting ten months to hear:
“I acquit the defendant of the charges without hearing the defence case. In the circumstances, the defendant is acquitted of both charges.”
The trial was over and justice had finally prevailed, no thanks to SAPOL and the vile creature that is Harley David Johnstone
“That was quite scathing,” said my lawyer as we left the courtroom. “You’ve been completely vindicated.”
The full Magistrate's Reasons for Decision document can be viewed at the following link, and it sure makes for interesting reading:
Immediately, I began firing off text messages and emails to friends and family in SA, interstate and overseas. A wave of congratulatory messages started flowing back in. One close friend in Sydney was so delighted he promptly booked a flight and came over to celebrate with me and a bunch of Adelaide friends. That’s what I call a friend.
To all my friends and family, locally and overseas, who offered kind words of support and congratulations – you guys and girls know who you are – thank you, and I love you all to death.
A Little Message to Harley Boy
Several months months after my arrest, a friend and I met up with someone who used to hang with Johnstone, but now couldn’t stand him. This individual confided to us that, prior to my arrest, he’d told Johnstone to give up on his idiotic mission to have me charged:
“You mouthed off about Colpo, he confronted you about it, you did nothing, so just let it go already.”
“No, I want Colpo to respect me, and I want him to pay for a new bike.”
Johnstone, let’s get one thing straight, right now:
I WILL NEVER RESPECT YOU, EVER.
You sir, are a truly disgusting, disgraceful human being.
You are grotesque, a repugnant caricature of everything that is wrong with the human species.
You are vile, evil and repulsive. Just looking at you makes me sick.
You are a serial liar.
You are a narcissist.
You are a nasty malevolent who has caused a mountain of grief and hardship to people all around the world - good people who didn’t do jack to you.
You are a serial perpetrator of domestic violence, a sexual predator and you were recently the subject of rape allegations. Your behaviour to date has given me absolutely no reason to doubt the veracity of those allegations.
So Johnstone … was it worth it? In 2011, you singled me out and figured you’d have a little fun with me, like you’d done with so many others. But I wasn’t like the others, was I? I refused to back down and, being infinitely more intelligent than you, I was able to factually rebut every single piece of defamatory hogwash you posted about me.
The rabid narcissist inside of you simply couldn’t accept that. And so for years, you cyber-stalked and harassed me.
You taunted me, you lied about me and you even tried your hand at threatening me. Over the Internet of course.
Then one night, we accidentally bumped into each other. Or more accurately, you rode your bike into me. In the ensuing argument, you were made to look like the pathetic little coward you are. Your then-girlfriend looked on, as the guy who had no qualms about hitting her shat his pants when confronted by another male.
Your cycling buddies, who once looked up to you as some kind of expert, got a live demonstration of what a pathetic little coward you really were.
Not happy at being b*tch-made in front of your partner and friends, you ran to your corrupt mates at SAPOL and made false assault allegations against me, resulting in me getting arrested and having to stand trial.
Well, Harley boy, was it worth it? After seven years of stalking and harassment, did you finally get what you wanted?
I think we both know the answer to that.
Your seven-year hate campaign against me achieved little other than to again confirm to me that you are all mouth and no balls. You proved that on the evening of 29 February 2016, and you confirmed it again on 26 June 2018, when you started crying like a little sook in court.
Your rabid, hateful quest to garner my “respect”, send me to jail, and screw me out of $7,000 instead ended in tears.
Instead of seizing my respect, you were forced to admit to my lawyer that you had brain damage - a revelation which goes a long way to explaining your insane behaviour.
Instead of awarding you my respect, I sat there watching you cry, tears streaming down your face in one of the most memorable displays of karma I’ve ever witnessed.
Yeah, you really showed me.
I predict a sad, sorry end for you, Johnstone. You don’t look healthy at all - your skin is leathery, your complexion is shit, and despite years of anabolic steroid use you are built like an emaciated broomstick. And there is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that you are mentally ill. I fully expect your self-destructive diet and lifestyle practices will send you to an early grave – assuming some girl’s enraged father doesn't shank you first.
Go f**k yourself, Johnstone.