In April 2020 I started working at Onlife, which had at that time just released a mobile phone game called Aglet. The game was a map based game similar to Pokemon Go, where players would navigate to locations around them and collect in game assets such as sneakers and street wear.

Initially I was employed as a casual, just helping out a friend who was one of the co-founders of the company. We were in business together with the real estate business, and he knew I could do with a few extra dollars given that real estate was essentially shut down due to lockdowns. When I started there were just a handful of us. Things grew very quickly and the role was made full time. I was essentially handling all of the in-game support requests and engaging with the community on our Discord chat server.

The game revolved around sneakers and street wear culture. We were releasing a lot of very cool sneakers into the game, and players were loving the ability to collect their favourite sneakers, albeit digital versions of them, in a game that was fun to play. 

One of the “hype” brands was Adidas Yeezy’s. Designed by Ye, these shoes were as much a hit inside the game as they were in real life. One of the more popular Yeezy’s is the “Waverunner”, and so it wasn’t a big surprise that my colleagues gave me the nickname “Daverunner”, a play on my name and the popular Yeezy shoe. 

So in all my engagements with our players, they knew me as Daverunner. So it made sense (to me at least) that I begin agitating for us to release a Daverunner shoe inside the game. To that end, I began dropping subtle hints in team meetings, and also began stirring up our players, getting them onboard with the idea that releasing a Daverunner was a good idea.

Our Senior Illustrator, Dan, came up with an impressive design which incorporated numerous elements that were relevant to me, and in time the tide was too much for management to ignore, and the Daverunner was released into the game. 

At the time, the release of this digital shoe was the most successful of any we’d released to date, including shoes like Nike, Adidas, New Balance etc. For an “unknown” shoe, it gave us an insight into the fact that the “hype” around particular shoes wasn’t always just due to the shoe being popular in real life already, but that we could manufacture our own hype around a brand. 

Over the next few years, we successfully created and launched 16 “Daverunner” shoes, all with differing styles and colours, but all featuring the Daverunner name on the sole, and all backed by the hype we created around the brand. 

In addition, we released a further 12 shoes which featured “Dave” in one way or another. I had become a meme within a game. 

If you’re interested, you can read about how we set about manufacturing the digital version of the Daverunner into a real shoe and made it available to purchase, ultimately selling over 700 pairs worldwide.

Here is a list of all the “Dave shoes” we created and released;

AGLET ONE ‘DAVERUNNER 

AGLET ONE ‘DAVERUNNER 2.0’ 

AGLET ONE HIGH ‘DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘DAVERUNNER GA’ 

AGLET GRIND ‘DAVERUNNER 

AGLET ONE HIGH ‘DAVERUNNER GA’ 

DIME ‘DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘BANNED DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘DAVERUNNER NFT 

AGLET ONE ‘DAVERUNNER IRL’ 

AGLET ONE ‘GREEN DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘BLUE DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘YELLOW DAVERUNNER’ 

AGLET ONE ‘FLANNEL DAVERUNNER’ 

POSITIVE INDUSTRIES JMPR PRO ‘DAVERUNNER’

AGLET ONE HIGH ‘DAVERUNNER ALL WHITE’ 

AGLET GRIND ‘DAVEBOT’ 

AGLET SOCKS ’N’ SLIDES ‘HOT DAVES’ 

AGLET ONE ‘WHAT THE’ 

AGLET ONE HIGH ‘WHAT THE’ 

AGLET TELGA ‘BEACH’ 

AGLET ONE HIGH ‘HOT DAVES’ 

GRIND ‘BANOCCOLI’

AGLET FREEFLOW ‘HOT DAVE’

TELGA ‘NAFLA UNIVERSE’

SEVEN ‘WILD WEST’

SEVEN ‘HAPPY ANIMALS’

AGLET VELCRO DAVEHOPPER

The post Daverunner origin story appeared first on Dave Hooper.

I was on it. Phone buzzed, app alert came through, I jumped straight on the website and bought them. Order confirmed. Email received. All good. “Delivery may take longer due to peak periods,” the fine print said. No worries — I could wait.

Except weeks went by. No shoes. No shipping update. Just radio silence.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll prioritise your parcel”

On November 11, a month later, I hit up adidas customer service on their website chat. I gave them my order number and asked what was going on. They assured me it was fine: “We’ll follow up your parcel and coordinate with our warehouse team to prioritise your order as soon as possible.”

Beautiful. That’s the kind of corporate reassurance you want. Shoes are basically on their way, right?

Except… one week later I get an email: “David, changes to your order.”

The only “change”? They’d cancelled it. No explanation. Just cancelled.

Cancel culture, adidas style

Now, I hadn’t cancelled it. I wanted those shoes. I rang the 1300 number in the email, sat on hold for 17 minutes, and finally spoke to a customer service rep. She told me the order was cancelled because of “insufficient stock.”

Funny thing though — my mate had ordered the exact same pair hours after me and had already received his. So how is there stock for him but not for me? I asked politely. She hung up on me.

That was the moment the whole thing tipped from “mildly annoying” to “corporate villain origin story.”

The Facebook runaround

I hit them up on Facebook Messenger, laid out the whole saga, and asked them to fix it. Their reply was pure PR nonsense: sorry, stock shortage, IT issue, here’s a 40% off voucher for next time.

Next time? Mate, I don’t want to buy another pair of socks. I want the shoes I already bought.

I told them flat-out the only solution was to give me the sneakers I ordered. They wouldn’t budge.

So I gave them a deadline: fix this by November 25 or I take it to VCAT.

They sent back another bland apology. No action.

$67 vs a multinational

So I did it. Filed a claim with VCAT, paid the $67 fee, and officially lodged a consumer action against adidas.

A couple of weeks later, something miraculous happened. An email pinged into my inbox. Not from some customer service script jockey this time. From the Marketing Manager of adidas Australia.

The tone was very different. Very polite. Very keen to resolve things before they had to show up at tribunal and explain why they’d been taking money for shoes they didn’t deliver.

They offered to send me the Ultra 4D Triple Blacks free of charge to close the case.

Deal done.

Sweet, sweet victory

And that’s how a bloke with a grudge, a stubborn streak, and $67 took on adidas — and won.

The shoes arrived, looking every bit as good as I’d imagined the day I ordered them. Every time I wear them now, I get this little grin, because they’re not just sneakers. They’re trophies. A symbol of one very small consumer win against a very big company.

And the best part? adidas’ lawyers probably billed more for the five minutes they spent reading my VCAT claim than the cost of the shoes themselves.

Sometimes, you’ve just gotta fight the good fight.

Read my review of these shoes here.

The post Dave vs. adidas: The $67 Court Case That Got Me Free Kicks appeared first on Dave Hooper.

I’m not sure what first attracted me to his writing, but I recall reading “Felefel” as a young man (the book was released in 1994, when I was 26). Having spent a good few years as a younger fella either broke or close to it most of the time, being a little loose at times and having also experienced the joys of sharing a home with others, the book resonated with me.

So, with me being a JB fan and also being an avid Twitter user (I refuse to call it X, fuck you Elon), I enjoyed following John on that platform. He was funny, witty, and engaged regularly with his fan base. And he followed back! John would often share updates with this Twitter followers about things he was working on, and it was sorta cool to be a part of that creative process from outside, and every time John responded to me on Twitter I got that stupid feeling you sometimes do whenever someone of any note recognises you. Some ridiculous feeling of worth.

Anyway, in January 2011 he Tweeted that he was looking for a name for a side character in a novel he was writing, and I enthusiastically suggested that he choose my name! Imagine my delight when he said “yeah that will do”? How cool!

He said “I” would be “a corrupt cop. In post apocalypse Darwin. Meet Detective Dave Hooper”.

My name was going to be a character in a John Birmingham novel! I was beyond excited. Here’s a bloke I truly admire both as a writer and also as a person, and I’m going into one of his books!

Anyway, I carried on following and engaging for several months, and kept waiting for word that the novel had been released. In November 2011 I reached out “Hey John, remember you were going to use my name as a side character in one of your books, whatever happened with that?”. He replied “I’m just checking now. But you were totally corrupt in Draft Version 3.” and then another Tweet reply “well bugger me! You got gazzumped by some Detective Palmer. Apolz. It happens sometimes between versions.”

I can still recall exactly where I was when I read his reply, I was pretty bummed. I’d been so happy knowing I was going to have my name in a JB novel, but now some other character name had come in instead.

But just as I was contemplating my rotten bad luck he replied again.

“I do need a character name for my next series. And yours would fit perfectly. But you have to be a demon fighting fireman”

Hell yeah! I’d much rather be a fireman than a cop, so this was awesome news! Now all I had to do was wait for the book to be released. Fast forward to Christmas 2014 and the books have hit the shops. Yes, books. Not just one, but three books featuring my name as a “demon fighting fireman”. But not just any character, Dave Hooper became the hero character of the “Dave Hooper Trilogy (also known as Dave Vs. The Monsters)”. OMG!

Now look, dear reader. I know it’s a really stupid thing to be proud of having your name used as the title character on a book trilogy. But still, I rate it as one of my all time best stories, and I’m pleased You spent the time reading about it.

The Trilogy has since expanded with the addition of two ebook novellas and an anthology.

The David Hooper Trilogy (also known as Dave Vs. The Monsters)

• Emergence (2015), ISBN 978-0345539878
• Resistance (2015), ISBN 978-0345539892
• Ascendance (2015), ISBN 978-0345539915
• The Protocol for Monsters (2016), ebook only novella
• Soul Full of Guns (2016), ebook only novella
• The Demons of Butte Crack County (2017) (Anthology)

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Then my mum met a new guy, and she thought he was pretty cool, and so they dated for a while, and eventually he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. I must have been about five years old when they went to the registry office to seal the deal. The story goes that they left me in the car as they went inside to complete the formalities (a simpler time perhaps?) and to help me pass the time my mum suggested a write something about how I felt about them getting married.

She came back to find a one word response: CHIT! (spelling wasn’t my strong game back then clearly, but short punchy messages sure were).

Anyway, I never called this new guy “dad”, I just called him by his name. But over the subsequent years he proved his worth as a provider to the family (they went on and had two kids together) and also as a father.

He was the son of a business man of some note, who had started how own manufacturing business which went on to become a pretty large company. And determined to prove to his dad that he was “worthy”, he too went out and started his own manufacturing business, which also became a decent sized and profitable business through years of hard work.

All of this is a long way of saying that for more of my teenage years I had it pretty good. There was always money for stuff, and we lived in increasingly better houses as their financial status grew.

In year nine I moved to a private school, Camberwell Grammar, and we moved from South Oakleigh to Surrey Hills. As they’d done several times over my childhood, they bought a crappy house in the best suburb they could afford, and they renovated. This time it was a 100 plus year old house that would have been very impressive when it was built, probably one of the first houses in the area. But it was a long way from that now. They had renovation plans.

Ultimately the house was finished, and we settled into just living there. Two doors down the road lived Jimmy and Dave, two brothers a year apart from each other in age. We became friends, and Jimmy introduced me to a bunch of his mates from school. These guys are all still my friends today.

So aged 15 and 16 and 17 I just went to school, I went to Portsea, I played basketball, I did teenage type stuff, and I hung around mostly with people who also had financially successful parents. I wasn’t into politics. I never really thought about it. I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t exactly like me.

I developed views over that period, absorbing the “lessons” my parents and school were instilling in me. And when I turned 18 and was suddenly forced to think about politics a little more, I found myself identifying strongly as a Liberal voter. I didn’t like immigration. I looked down my nose at those less fortunate. I thought I knew everything, as people who are 18 tend to do.

I had my first child at 21, and worked my arse off to buy a house and raise a family (of 3). My wife’s parents voted Liberal, so did she, but I didn’t have the time or luxury to really think too much about politics or world affairs, I just worked a lot.

Fast forward to 2012. My marriage had ended, I was in a new relationship and had 2 more kids (yes 5 in total, don’t @ me). And then I became involved in the protest of the Tecoma McDonalds. It happened entirely by accident at the start (just go read the link for more on this), but as I became more aware of the reasons for the protest I began to question everything I ever thought about how the world worked.

I had worked at Maccas as a teen, and so I had seen the side of them that was professional, well organised, focused on customer happiness. What I witnessed in Tecoma was a side I had never seen. This Maccas was a bully. It hired private security guards to do their bully work. It hired ex police to attempt to infiltrate the protest campaign to glean intelligence. It lied to the media. Repeatedly.

I had always seen the side of police that was professional, well organised, and focused on maintaining the law. What i witnessed in Tecoma was a side I had never seen. These police were thugs. They took sides. They were very clearly focused on helping Maccas achieve their outcome, no matter what that meant to the residents of that community. They lied. They laid charges that should never have been laid. All to aid a massive American company build store number #39,873 or whatever.

The more I saw, the more disoriented I became. How had i seen the world so wrong for so long? How had I sided with corporations over people? Why was I someone who had been the sort of person to drive past a protest and yell out things like “get a job you filthy hippies”? How had I not seen the way the world really was? I don’t know how best to explain this feeling, but it was something quite profound, something quite disconcerting. And more a year or more I wrestled with these feelings as I continued working closely with the campaign.

By the time the store had been built, my entire perspective on life had changed completely. I voted Labor for the first time in my life at that State election (Labor had promised to change VCAT legislation to ensure that overwhelming community sentiment MUST be considered in any planning matter). And in the years since i have moved further and further to the left.

I am happier, more content, and less angry at other people than I used to be.

But I am angrier at the injustice of the world. And so I will continue to protest, to agitate, to do what I can to assist in making this world a better place.

Tecoma changed me. It shook me awake. It showed me that people, when they come together, can resist even the biggest forces. That lesson has carried me forward ever since. I can’t undo the years I spent blind to injustice, but I can choose what I do from here. To listen, to learn, and to fight for fairness. That’s the path I’m on now, and it’s where I’ll stay.

The post The protest that changed my life appeared first on Dave Hooper.

Steve, the owner, was new to the game. He and a bunch of his accountant mates had bought the place off a chain called Macs San Remo. I’d worked there under the old mob and stuck around as assistant manager.

The Smash-and-Grab

A few weeks before Christmas, some blokes decided they wanted in on our premium stock, the five-finger discount way. They drove a car straight through the front doors, hooked up a trailer, and loaded it with tens of thousands of dollars worth of grog.

The alarm went off, but they were quick. Still, a passing cop car heard the ruckus and gave chase. As the thieves tore across the train lines on Prospect Hill Road, all the booze went flying out of the trailer and smashed onto the bitumen. When I came in later, there was broken glass glittering across the road like some kind of drunk Christmas miracle. They never caught the blokes. Insurance paid out, but the shop was a mess.

The Lighting Saga

We decided better lighting out the front might stop the next smash-and-grab. Easy, right? Wrong. Council said, “Not our issue.” The electricity company said, “Not our issue either.” Council reckoned we could apply for a permit, might take months. The power mob said if it was approved, it’d cost thousands. Basically, two giant shrugs. Insurance was Steve’s headache. My job was dealing with council and the electricity company, which turned out to be like arguing with a brick wall.

Enter the Hero with a Truck

Most afternoons, a young bloke in his early twenties came in for a six-pack. Friendly chap, always up for a laugh. This day he rolled in driving a massive truck with an extension boom on it. I suddenly realised, he worked for the electricity company.

I told him our sob story: thieves, smashed doors, council run-around, ridiculous costs. He grinned and said, “Mate, I can sort it now… for a slab.”

Best bargain I’ve ever made. Fifteen minutes later, he’s up in the air fitting a floodlight that lit up the whole bloody street. No permits, no invoices, no bureaucratic nonsense. Just a slab of beer and a bloke with a truck.

The Punchline

The light cost me a slab, took fifteen minutes, and lit up the whole street like the MCG. We never had another break-in while I was there, all thanks to a cheeky sparkie and the true currency of Australia: beer.

The post Dave and the Christmas Light appeared first on Dave Hooper.

In late 1987, my good friend Johnny and his girlfriend at the time, Meg, saw an ad in the newspaper: Casual hospitality attendants wanted for the new Tennis Centre, opening with the Australian Open in January. It was the very first year Melbourne Park would host the tournament, and they needed an army of casuals. Johnny and Meg applied, both got in, and were due to work a two-week stint.

The day before the Open, there was an orientation session. They were shown around, given uniforms, and sorted out with passes. It was supposed to be smooth and professional. It wasn’t.

That afternoon, they came back from orientation, and I dropped into Meg’s place in Malvern to see how it went. At that stage of life, I was between jobs. Which is the polite way of saying unemployed, broke, and spending the summer on a steady diet of bourbon, bongs, and avoiding responsibility.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Oh, it was a shit show, Dave. Their computer system crashed. They had no idea who they’d hired or where they were supposed to be working. It took forever to get it sorted. Luckily Meg and I had our letters of appointment, so we got processed quickly. But heaps of others didn’t.”

And then it hit me.

“So hang on… they have no idea who they’ve actually hired?” I said, leaning forward, the cogs in my brain already grinding into action.

Johnny gave me the side-eye. “What are you thinking?”

“Do you have your letter there? Meg, can I use your phone real quick?”

Within minutes, I was on the line to the catering company. “Hi, yeah, I was supposed to attend orientation today, but I was holidaying down the coast and my car broke down on the way back. Just got home and realised I’ve missed it. Sorry about that.”

“What’s your name, love?” came the reply.

“I’m David Hooper. Got the letter here you sent me back in October.”

Tap tap tap. Silence. Then: “Hmm, we don’t seem to have you in the system… but that’s fine. The system was down earlier. Let’s just get your details again.”

And just like that, I was hired.

I hung up the phone, smug. Johnny shook his head. “So you just bullshitted your way into a job?”

“You’re unbelievable, Hooper.”

Next morning, I rocked up to Melbourne Park bright and early. As instructed, I waited at one of the gates to the underground carpark, where a staffer eventually came down and escorted me to the catering company’s caravan, a faded old thing that looked like it had already done three tours of duty at country footy clubs.

Inside, they handed me a pass, a bundle of shirts, and instructions to bring in my bank details the following day. Then I was taken upstairs to the concourse to meet my supervisor.

My assigned role? Corporate catering. We were a team of about ten whose job was to prep hampers and drinks for the corporate boxes near the net on Centre Court. Good seats. Classy customers. Not bad for a bloke who’d just lied his way in.

The morning was chaos. We ran sandwiches and drinks from the kitchens (where Meg was stationed, so I even stopped for a quick chat) up to our concourse station. Then once the corporates arrived, we assembled their pre-paid hampers and carted them up to their seats.

By noon, it was done. Our shift turned into a waiting game. The boss told us we’d basically have nothing to do until the end of the session’s play, when we’d collect Eskies and boxes. So he started letting us take breaks.

Which is how I ended up wandering outside to visit Johnny.

It was a scorching day, and the bars were heaving. Johnny was working the bar near Court One, red-faced, drenched in sweat, pulling beers as fast as humanly possible. I leaned casually on the counter, watching him drown under the pressure.

“Geez, you guys are flat out,” I said. “It’s dead where I am.”

Johnny shot me a look that could strip paint. “You shouldn’t even have a job here, and I’m sweating my arse off while you’re just wandering around. If you’re so quiet, they should send some of you here.”

I grinned. “Why don’t you ask your boss? Then we could work together.”

He did. She thought it was a great idea, but told me to check with my own supervisor. So I went back inside, found him, and explained. “Hey, the bar outside Court One is slammed, their boss wants me to help out.”

He shrugged. “Fine. But make sure you still sign in here each morning and sign out at night, since they won’t have you on their paperwork. Finish today here, and start with them tomorrow.”

“Done,” I said.

Except on the walk back to Johnny’s bar, my brain lit up like a dodgy poker machine. By the time I arrived, I’d decided on my true plan.

“Hey,” I told Johnny’s boss, “unfortunately my supervisor reckons we’ll be much busier later in the week, so he wants me to stay where I am.”

Boom. Corporate thought I was working bar. Bar thought I was corporate. In reality? I was working nowhere.

Johnny was furious when he found out. “You’re a f#cking #unt, Hooper! Not only are you not meant to be here, but now you’re not even working and you’re still getting paid. And I’m sweating my arse off. F#CK YOU!”

I smiled, wandered off, and spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing.

At the end of the session, our team collected Eskies and boxes. Problem: loads of booze left over. Bottles with scuffed labels, drinks that had sat in ice too long. Couldn’t resell them. Supervisor shrugged. “Split it amongst yourselves.”

I walked out with 50 mini spirit bottles, half a dozen wines, and some Crownies for good measure.

Day Two, I returned, signed in, and dropped into the admin caravan with my bank details. Nobody was there, but on the table was a stack of Access All Areas passes. So I pocketed one.

That morning, I sat in Centre Court watching Ivan Lendl train with Tony Roche. One of maybe six people in the whole arena. I felt like a VIP. Afterwards I headed back to the caravan and gave them my banking details.

For the rest of the fortnight, I lived like a ghost employee. I’d sign in, then disappear. I watched matches from the tunnels, wandered around the grounds, taunted Johnny whenever I felt like it, and even spent two whole days at the MCG watching one-day cricket while still “on shift.” During the first week Australia played Sri Lanka and Australia won the match by 38 runs. Late in the second week Australia played New Zealand, and Australian won that one by 8 wickets.

Meanwhile Johnny was still furious, still sweating, still stuck in that bloody bar. By the end of the fortnight, he wasn’t even speaking to me.

When payday hit, my jaw dropped. Around three grand for two weeks of skiving off, drinking, and watching sport. In 1988 money. I strutted into the city and blew some of it on new clothes, looking like a man who had scammed the system and won.

And the best part?

I’d swindled my way into a job I never applied for, dodged every ounce of real work, pocketed free booze, scored three grand, and spent a fortnight watching tennis and cricket like a VIP. I was convinced I’d cracked the code of life.

But when I strutted into Johnny’s place in my brand-new clothes, waiting for him to admit defeat, he just looked me up and down, shook his head, and said:

“You still look like a dickhead, Hooper.”

And that’s when I realised, I hadn’t cracked the code at all. I’d just cracked Johnny.

The post Dave and The Tennis Centre appeared first on Dave Hooper.

Tom also had an old Datsun 1600 that had once been a rally car. Full roll cage, stripped interior, the works. When he bought it, the deal came with a shed-load of spares and random parts, so naturally he shoved them all into the little corrugated-iron shed down the backyard.

Most Saturdays, we’d spark up a few cones, then take the Datsun out on the dirt roads through the forest. Tom could drive like a demon, and I’d sit there stoned, clinging on as we hurtled along goat tracks at ridiculous speeds. I don’t know how we didn’t die. Honestly, if there’s a patron saint of reckless young blokes, he was working overtime. But at the time, it felt like the best fun in the world.

One cold, rainy afternoon we came skidding back into the driveway when Tom slammed the brakes. There, lying flat on his back in the mud, was a bloke. Just stretched out like he was sunbathing, except it was pissing down rain and about four degrees.

Tom tooted the horn a few times, and eventually the guy sat up, gave us the vaguest of nods, and wandered off into the drizzle. We shrugged, went inside, and thought nothing more of it.

But over the next few weeks, we kept seeing him. Same guy, always doing something weird: lying on the road, lying in our driveway, lying in the rain. He was like a really shit magician whose only trick was collapsing in public.

Meanwhile, next door had come to life. Our shack was one half of a fibro duplex, two identical houses stuck together, mirrored copies, like the builder had only drawn one plan and couldn’t be stuffed drawing another. For ages it had been empty, but suddenly people moved in. A lot of people. Cars everywhere, constant comings and goings.

One Saturday morning, I got a knock on the door. Expecting one of my mates, I answered to find some rando. He introduced himself as the new neighbour. Polite enough bloke. He said, “Hope my drumming isn’t bothering you too much.”

Drumming? What drumming?

Turns out he practiced during the day, and since Tom and I were both at work, we’d never heard it. “Knock yourself out, mate,” I said. “You could have a marching band in there for all we’d know.”

But curiosity got me. “How many of you are living there? Looks like a lot of people for a two-bedder.”

He grinned. “Six of us. Seven if you include Thommo.”

“Who the hell’s Thommo?” I asked.

“Oh, you’d have seen him. He’s always hanging around. Wanted to move in with us, but there wasn’t room. Had a bad batch of magic mushies a while back, never been the same since. Anyway… he lives in your shed.”

I stared. “No fucking way.”

But he was deadly serious.

Now, this shed was not what you’d call liveable. It was basically four bits of rusty tin nailed together, with a roof flatter than a pancake. The walls didn’t even touch the ground. When the wind blew, the whole thing rattled like a shopping trolley. Inside was dirt, spiders, and Tom’s precious car parts. The idea that someone could live in there was ridiculous.

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Nah, come have a look,” he replied.

So we trudged down the side of the house, pushed open the creaky door, and sure enough, there it was. Thommo’s “flat.”

He’d turned Tom’s rally spares into furniture. Tyres stacked into a table. Car mats laid out as a bed. A busted headlight as a lantern (not really but you get the idea). It was less “shed” and more “post-apocalyptic studio apartment.” And right in the middle of it all, looking proud as punch, was Thommo.

I just stood there, gobsmacked. A bloke was actually living in our backyard, in the shed we barely used except to dump greasy car parts.

As we walked back up the hill, the neighbour smirked and said, “See? Told you.”

And I guess the moral of the story is this: be careful with your magic mushrooms. Because one day you might come down, and never come back up. Next thing you know, you’re flat-sharing with a pile of tyres in a freezing shed in Olinda.

And the weirdest part? We interacted with everyone. Our place was a circus, mates dropping by at all hours, parties most weekends, randoms drifting in and out, even a sheep grazing out the back for a while. But Thommo? Only once.

We saw him that first time in the shed, perched among the tyres and car mats like some kind of backyard cryptid… and then never again. No g’day, no bong, no game of pool. Just silence.

So while the house roared with life, Thommo stayed in the shed. The quietest housemate we ever had, and probably the strangest too.

The post Dave and the Magic Mushie Guy appeared first on Dave Hooper.

Tom and I both worked in bottle shops. Not the same one, mercifully. Each morning he’d head down one side of the mountain to his shop, and I’d trundle down the other side to mine. It was almost poetic, two young blokes starting at the same summit every day, descending in opposite directions to spread equal amounts of chaos to the unsuspecting drinkers of the flat lands below the Dandenongs.

The shack was part of a pair of identical houses, mirror images of each other, like the builder had only paid for one set of plans and just flipped it. Out the back was an enormous yard with no fence between the two properties. Just grass. Endless bloody grass.

Now, we weren’t much for gardening. In fact, we weren’t much for anything that didn’t involve smoking, drinking, or listening to music. Our idea of landscaping was sitting in the lounge, ripping bongs, playing pool, blasting tunes, and staring out the big back window at our ever-growing lawn like it was some kind of personal rainforest. Maintenance? Not our department.

One Saturday, I woke up late. “Mid-morning” if we’re being generous, “early afternoon” if you’re my mum. I sparked up a heart starter and was feeling mellow when there was a knock at the door. Expecting one of the boys, I answered it in nothing but jocks. First mistake.

Standing there wasn’t a mate, but a young woman. She was in a suit, clipboard in hand, and the first thing out of her mouth was, “And who are you?”

“I’m Dave,” I said, trying to sound confident despite being half-stoned and half-naked.

“And your surname, Dave?”

Now, given I’d just woken up, was standing in my jocks, and looked about as professional as a wet ashtray, I was already at a disadvantage. Still, I gave her my surname. She glanced down at the clipboard, nodded to herself, and confirmed what I already suspected. I wasn’t on the lease.

“And who do you live with here, Dave?” she pressed.

“Just my mate Tom,” I said.

That earned me a disapproving little tutt-tutt. “Neither of you are listed as tenants. You’ll need to come into the office TODAY and get this sorted.”

By now, the novelty of standing half-baked at the door in my underwear while being scolded by Clipboard Lady was wearing thin. “Yep, sure, no worries,” I said, and started to close the door.

“I’m not here about that,” she said.

Great. What now? Rent was paid, and the house was such a mouldy dump that we thought we were doing them a favour living there.

“I’m here about the grass.”

I froze. The grass? How does she know? And who calls it grass anymore?

Turns out she was talking about the lawn. “It’s too long. The neighbours have complained.”

Relief hit me like a freight train. “Oh! Right, yeah. I’ll talk to Tom.” She gave me one last lecture about the lease and marched off. I went back inside, put on pants, and lit another billy. Problem solved.

Later, Tom came home. We dragged an ancient lawn mower out from under the house. It was covered in spider webs, smelled faintly of petrol and regret, and looked like it hadn’t started since Whitlam was Prime Minister. We pulled the cord a few times, fiddled with the spark plug, swore at it, pulled the cord again, and then shoved it back under the house where it belonged. Job done.

Or so we thought.

The next Saturday: KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Clipboard Lady, round two.

“Do you remember me from last week?” she asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Sorry, we didn’t make it to the office. We’ll try today.”

“What about the grass? You’ve still done nothing.”

I protested. “We tried! The mower wouldn’t start!”

She gave me a look that could kill weeds on sight. “Not good enough. Hire one. Or pay someone to cut it.”

Bloody hell. The grass again. Who cared? Not us. Not our mates. Certainly not the carpet in the lounge room that had given up the will to live. But apparently, it was the scandal of the street.

That night, Tom’s mate Mal came around. Mal was the pub’s “yardy”, he did the grunt work, lugged kegs, mopped floors. He wasn’t the brightest, but he was cheerful, easy company, and, most importantly, always keen for a bong.

After a few cones and a couple of bourbons, we started moaning about the grass and Clipboard Lady. Mal thought for a moment, then came out with:

“Why don’t yuz just get a sheep?”

I nearly spat my drink. “Where the hell are we gonna get a sheep, Mal?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll nick one for yuz.”

We laughed, had another billy, and moved on. I assumed he was joking.

Until midweek.

It was one of those classic Hills nights: wet, dark, and miserable. Mal rocked up, and we did what we always did, lit up, had a few drinks, blasted music. After a couple of hours, he casually remembered:

“Oh yeah. I got yuz a sheep.”

I blinked. “Wait. What?”

“It’s out the back of the ute.”

So we stumble outside into the rain, and there she was: a soggy, depressed-looking sheep tied to the ute, radiating pure regret.

We unhitched her, led her into the backyard, and tied her to a long bit of wire that ran the length of the block. Perfect grazing range.

“How the hell did you even get it?” I asked.

“Well,” Mal said proudly, “I was out near Lilydale. Jumped a fence, chased ‘em till I caught one, chucked it in the ute.”

I had no idea how he’d managed it, but I wasn’t about to question the man.

We named her Spit, short for spit roast. The plan was simple: she eats the lawn, we eat her.

And Spit did her job with military efficiency. Within days, the backyard was immaculate, like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Grass no more than an inch high. Spit, meanwhile, had doubled in size and looked like she was eyeing us suspiciously.

Our place was always full of visitors. It was a bit of a party hub. One of life’s great joys was watching someone stumble past the big lounge-room window at night, squint into the gloom, and blurt out: “Wait… is that a sheep?”

Yep. That’s Spit. Welcome to Olinda.

She lived with us for a while, munching away like a four-legged lawnmower, until one day we came home and she was gone. Rope and all.

She hadn’t escaped. She’d been stolen.

We stood there like detectives at a crime scene, staring at the empty patch of grass. “What kind of monster steals a man’s sheep?”

Not just any sheep, either. Our sheep. The one we didn’t legally own, didn’t pay for, and technically were hiding as evidence of another crime. The only real claim we had to her was squatters’ rights.

But still, she was ours. And someone pinched her. It wasn’t just theft. It was grand larceny with a side of audacity.

And worst of all? Within a week, the grass was knee-high again.

The post Dave and the Sheep appeared first on Dave Hooper.

February 8th, 1983 I was a year 9 student at Camberwell Grammar School. That afternoon I was in the library, which had an elevated view back towards the city. It was a good place to be, because it was air conditioned. It reached 43 degrees that day, it was stinking hot.

Suddenly the calm and orderly business of the library was interrupted by shouts. As I rushed to the window to see what the fuss was about, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

A HUGE dust cloud was making it’s way across the city headed east. I had never seen anything like it, it felt positively apocalyptic. This probably added to the feeling of impending doom I had when I attended the Stop the Drop concert just five days later.

This isn’t my pic, but it gives you a sense of what it was like;

It was estimated that about 50,000 tonnes of topsoil were stripped from the Mallee. The combined effect of drought and dust storm inflicted damage on the land that, according to the then President of the Victorian Farmers and Graziers’ Association, would take up to 10 years and tens of millions of dollars to repair.

The post The Dust Storm appeared first on Dave Hooper.