Peter Roebuck: Is this the final, damning truth? Can it be any clearer?

Sadly, the one of my New Year's resolutions is falling down around my years as I write. I promised last night to leave the Peter Roebuck situation alone, not to harp on about the sad suicide of a fine cricket writer with a dark side.
But my twitter mate Arthur Matebula (www.twitter.com/@bossarthur) changed all that when he sent me a link to Adam Shand's piece on Roebuck, printed in the New Year's Day edition of the Melbourne Age in Australia.
On the day of his death, and given the circumstances surrounding his plunge from a sixth floor hotel window, I watched all the glowing eulogies drop. What a great man Roebuck was, they said, waxing lyrical about how he was never scared to tell the truth. Bollocks. So I wrote http://neal-collins.blogspot.com/2011/11/peter-roebuck-eulogy-nobody-will-have.html, tagged "The Eulogy Nobody Will Have the Courage to Publish".
I also took the time to warn the Johannesburg Star's chief sports writer Kevin McCallum not to eulogise too glowingly about a man convicted of abusing three South African teenagers. He chose to ignore my advice and told readers of his once-respectable tome to wear black armbands at The Wanderers for Roebuck when the second Test between South Africa took place a few days later.
The response to my blog and subsequent warnings was immediate and overwhelming.
McCallum blocked me on Twitter, the rest of the cricket writers, Australian and South African, accused me of homophobia and bitterness. Go to the blog now. Read the 200 comments that came in. Many of them were disgusting but delivered from behind the coward's shield of anonymity.
Most were from cricket lovers, some were from transparently sent by cricket writers I have frequently shared a press box - and a drink - with.
The truth is contained, emphatically, in Shand's lengthy, carefully researched piece http://www.theage.com.au/sport/cricket/the-roebuck-tragedy-a-tale-of-love-beatings-and-blackmail-20111231-1pgmk.html
You hope for apologies in these situations. When you get it right and everybody else gets it so badly wrong. You hope people will appreciate the courage it took to write that blog that day. And you hope that they will finally recognise the logic behind it.
How can we eulogise about a cricket writer who preyed on young men, using his status as an international globe-trotter to attract young men? I'd always suspected it, but the manner of his death was final confirmation. And I couldn't have been the only person who realised that.
A man who set up charities and a home near Pietermaritzburg to further his warped, perverted habits, so clearly revealed by Shand's piece had to be exposed.
But no. Apologies are scarce. Instead, the great and the good of cricket held a major commemoration of Roebuck's death at Sydney last month before the Test match against New Zealand.
His estranged family in England have used the alarming silence on Roebuck's true nature to launch an anti-South African tirade, suggesting the police were in some way responsible for his death. I must question their motives.
And just today, Luke Alfred writes a piece in the South African Sunday Times, completely missing the point and lauding Roebuck for his attack on Zimbabwe and their president Robert Mugabe.
Of course, those attacks were motivated by Roebuck's need to impress his young, penniless Zimbabwean students at Straw Hat farm in Pietermaritzburg, an attempt to further his perverted empire.
Roebuck got away with masquerading as a kindly old buffer for years, as the Age proves today. His mates in the cricket-writing clique chose to ignore his procilivities, choosing to see them as mere eccentricities.
A former public school boy with a penchant for handing out hidings? No. More than that. The bloke was a predator, a manipulator of helpless youngsters who depended on him.
That's the truth. I'm glad I wrote it. Ashamed of those who chose to ignore the evidence, preferring to eulogise about his undeniable cricket writing skills.
So to Howard Donaldson, Malcolm Conn, Kevin McCallum and the rest, read http://neal-collins.blogspot.com/2011/11/peter-roebuck-eulogy-nobody-will-have.html and http://www.theage.com.au/sport/cricket/the-roebuck-tragedy-a-tale-of-love-beatings-and-blackmail-20111231-1pgmk.html.
Then tell me if I was right. And apologise. You can find a link to do just that immediately below this blog. And don't hide behind the anonymous tag to have another blast. Nobody should stoop so low.

Hold the black arm bands: The sad closing chapter in Peter Roebuck's life exposed by his final victim

And so, finally, the truth is out. Broken not by the South African Police, who witnessed the suicide of cricket writer Peter Roebuck, and not by the cricket writers, who continue to eulogise about their dodgy colleague.

Ultimately, the awful truth comes from the man last abused by Roebuck, the former Somerset captain convicted of common assault against three 19-year-old South Africans in 2001.

When Roebuck threw himself 70 feet to his death out of his Newlands Sun hotel window on Saturday night at around 9pm, he did so after being confronted by two policemen and a 26-year-old called Itai Gondo.

When I dared to question the nature of Roebuck's death and his proclivities in life, I was widely condemned for homophobia and scandalous innuendo - though many appreciated a more honest obituary than the ones being written by his fellow cricket writers on Monday morning.

Gondo puts that shameful minority in their place. He explains how he was lured into a meeting via Facebook by the articulate former Millfield and Cambridge graduate, a man granted a position of status as a cricket writer and commentator by unquestioning ABC and Fairfax executives despite his 2001 convictions.

Gondo describes himself as a "penniless refugee" from Zimbabwe who knew one of the "adopted sons" who live at Roebuck's "cricket coaching" home in Pietermaritzburg.

Roebuck, 55, soon started signing his messages to Gondo "dad" as he lured the vulnerable 26-year-old in to his clutches with tales of how he looked after his "17 adopted children" and how he would help Gondo through university.

Gondo, with no knowledge of Roebuck's previous convictions for caning young men in his care, wasn't too worried when Roebuck apparently agreed to the meeting by saying "Okay my boy, bring stick in case I need to beat you!"
A two-hour meeting at a Cape Town hotel followed before the inevitable. Gondo claims Roebuck "pinned him to the bed and launched a sickening sex assault" according to the Sun newspaper in London.
Gondo, who was not paid for his revelations, said the attack finally came to a halt when his telephone rang. He claims: "I was in shock and told myself that it couldn't be happening."

Gondo then tells how Roebuck apologised on Facebook the next day. He sent this message: "Worried bout u, hope u ok". Gondo responded: "One day the long arm of the law will catch up with your evil misdeeds."
Gondo, traumatised by Roebuck's attack, then reported the incident to the police, bringing a charge of sexual assault. When the police arrived to question him, Roebuck called a friend for legal help - and when his colleague returned, Roebuck had departed through the window.

A source close to the investigation in Cape Town, quoted by The Sun, said: "Gondo needed money to go to university. He is not gay and is not a sex worker. He contacted Roebuck after a friend said he might sponsor him. But he said Roebuck pounced on him.

"It has left him traumatised. He got away but was so shocked it took days for his girlfriend to talk him into going to the police. Roebuck was about to be arrested when he jumped from the window."

This morning, Gondo reveals he is having counselling after the horror of his past week. The police say they are examining Roebuck's lap top computer to confirm the facts.

Clearly Gondo's statement to the Sun will rile Roebuck's vociferous defenders. They will say Gondo is a rent-boy, out to make money. They will claim he is an agent of Robert Mugabe, send to finish Roebuck, a critic of the Zimbabwean regime. They will insist Roebuck was thrown out of the window by the notorious South African police - but it truth that sort of thing ended with Apartheid.

Others will claim Roebuck did nothing wrong before he leapt to his death, that attempting to have a relationship with a 26-year-old man is no crime.

And of course, they'd be right. Caning is not strictly against the law. Neither is propositioning friends on Facebook. Assaulting them, attempting to control them, using you status as a famous cricket commentator to force them into a compromising situation is what I'm on about. Especially when you have convictions for similar offences against vulnerable young men in your care.

So those - like Kevin McCallum of the Johannesburg Star earlier this week - who suggested Roebuck's parting is a time for a wailing and gnashing of teeth are, to my mind, utterly wrong.

McCallum suggested both South Africa and Australia should wear black armbands for the man who captained England just once - to an embarrassing one-day defeat against The Netherlands - even after I'd send him a heads-up over Roebuck's dodgy past.

Last year, Rodney Hartman, the doyen of South African cricket writers and a leading light behind the hosting of the 2003 Cricket World Cup, was not even granted that privilege following his - natural - death. Today in the press box at The Wanderers as the second Test gets underway, many of those who commented anonymously on this blog, calling me all the names under the sun, will squirm uncomfortably at their key boards.

I suspect some even knew about Roebuck's past, his modus operandi when it came to social contacts. But they chose to stay silent and rave about his "brave, fearless, scathing" cricket writing.

For balance, you should now read http://www.crikey.com.au/?p=259676 - but note the author himself back-tracks on the murder allegation in his own comments section. I do not judge Peter Roebuck. I am simply attempting to present the alternate version - the grubby side - of a grim suicide.

And Roebuck, let's face it, is not fit to fire up my old Rand Daily Mail colleague Hartman's lap top. End of.