This month’s tale comes from the “those were the days… or were they?” files – a fond, faintly horrified look back at a time when property development ran on enthusiasm, hardwood frames and a relaxed attitude to workplace safety.
Our storyteller was a full-time banker and part-time developer who, back in the wild and woolly 1970s, dabbled in the odd small project on the side. No heritage overlays to fret over, no pre-war protections to navigate. Back then it was build, baby, build.
He and his co-developer mate had sniffed out a tidy little earner: a classic split-and-sell in an inner-city suburb of one of our major east-coast capitals. The block was beautifully positioned, close to everything that mattered and an easy run to the CBD. On paper, the numbers sang.
The only hitch was the small cottage planted squarely in the middle of the site. Despite its years it was solid hardwood, and it had no intention of going quietly. Every demolition quote the pair gathered took a worrying bite out of their projected profit. Surely, they reasoned, there had to be a cheaper way.
Then inspiration struck, the kind that feels brilliant at the time and mortifying in hindsight. The nearby university was brimming with cheap, able-bodied labour. Why pay a demolition crew when a mob of students might cheerfully flatten the place for the price of a keg?
So the offer was made: roll up, swing a sledgehammer, and the beer’s on us. A few student ringleaders rustled up a crew, and on the appointed morning the willing horde arrived, ready to earn their refreshments.
Here our hero made his first and most fatal error. The keg was tapped at the start of the day. Not the end.
An hour in, the only thing getting smashed was the workforce. The coordinated demolition dissolved into a cheerful shambles, and by early afternoon the crew had drained the lot and wandered off into the weekend, full of booze and bravado, and barely a brick disturbed. Mercifully, perhaps, no one was hurt.
Undeterred, the dynamic duo resolved to finish the job themselves, lashing the cottage’s supports to their trusty ute and flooring it in the hope of dragging the house down. The house stayed put. The ute did not fare so well.
Beaten, broke and a vehicle down, they finally did what they should have done at the outset and called in the professionals.
The moral applies just as neatly to buying homes as to demolishing them: the “cheapest path” is rarely the least expensive. Sound advice, proper due diligence and a qualified professional in your corner will save you far more than a keg of beer ever will.
Do you have an interesting, funny, educational, scary, or all-around rollicking tale from your day-to-day work life that you’d like to share with other members? Contact our eMag editor, Kieran, on kieran@bricksandmortarmedia.com.au and help us share your Door Knock Diaries story with others.
