Jonny “Two Guns” Walker Hits Back at CFMEU Leadership and the Betrayal Within
Let me tell you, this latest chapter in the CFMEU saga feels like something out of a gritty Australian crime drama. Jonny “Two Guns” Walker — an ex-Bandidos enforcer, convicted criminal, and former union health and safety delegate — has come out swinging. And not just in the ring. He’s taking direct aim at the former CFMEU leadership, especially John Setka, and calling out what he sees as betrayal, hypocrisy, and political scapegoating.
Walker once stood shoulder to shoulder with these union bosses. He was brought in — alongside other former bikies — to add muscle and authority on major Big Build construction projects in Victoria. These weren’t minor roles either; they were positions of real influence, often on government-funded works. For a while, it all seemed to work. Walker claims he was hired on merit, as a qualified fitter and turner with years of industry experience, not just as a tough guy. But that story didn’t last.
As the heat turned up and media investigations shone a spotlight on the CFMEU’s underworld ties, things fell apart fast. Setka — once the loudest voice in the union — suddenly resigned just before the “Building Bad” exposé aired. Then, bizarrely, he posted a photo of himself getting a bikie-style tattoo as he exited. To Walker, that was pure theatre. “Try-hard,” he called him, and honestly, it’s hard to disagree. Why get the ink when you're walking away?
Now, Walker says he and others like him were used — weaponised by the union’s top brass for power and control, only to be discarded when the blowtorch came out. He doesn’t pull punches, calling them “plastic gangsters” who might act tough behind closed doors, but fold when real pressure arrives.
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In the interview, Walker’s tone mixes rage and disappointment. He believes the union was infiltrated not by bikies, but by fear and self-interest. And while he acknowledges his violent past — including an eight-year jail stint for a fatal bashing — he also insists he’s turned a corner. He says he’s a father now, a working man, someone who genuinely believed in workplace safety and union values.
Of course, the broader question is whether someone with a violent criminal history should be trusted in such a role, particularly on publicly funded projects. Critics say no. But Walker fires back with a brutal kind of logic: if someone like him tells you not to cut corners on safety, you're going to listen. And in his view, that’s the kind of leadership many worksites actually needed.
Still, even among those who’ve supported him, there’s regret. Several insiders say Walker was set up to fail — promoted too quickly by bosses more interested in power than reform. Rather than easing back into the workforce, he was thrown into a political and media firestorm, without a plan B.
And now, as investigations into CFMEU corruption and bikie infiltration continue, Walker stands virtually alone defending the decisions that put him where he was. He might be out of the union, off government sites, and out of favour, but he’s not done talking. In his eyes, the real villains aren’t the ex-bikies — they’re the men in suits who used them, then ran.
“I think they betrayed themself,” Walker says. “They were definitely more worried about themselves than us.”
And that right there might be the saddest truth in this whole mess.
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