Diamond Dave got his nickname not because he was a "diamond geezer," as is the norm, but due to someone once describing him as; "as dense as diamond"

Diamond Dave liked nothing more than a good smoke. Ganga, weed, THC, pot, dope, draw, hemp, cannabis, call it what you like, Dave loved smoking it. In fact it would not be far from the truth to say that most of his adult life had gone up in smoke. He’d started young, and never quite got the hang of not smoking it.

Dave lived on benefits. For someone so stupid it came as a surprise to most people to find he had turned his benefit claiming into a high art form, one that was unrivalled in the town. Dave had managed to avoid all but a couple of brief periods of work since leaving school, and supplemented his income by buying and selling weed, and doing the occasional "cash in hand" jobs.

On the day in question we find Dave lolloping along the road just on the outskirts of the town, up to the top of the hill over looking long meadow, where he sometimes goes to contemplate life, and smoke dope.

At the top of the hill he spots a paragliding school, the trainees taking to the air, several paraglider sacks lay around.

"Wow, that looks ever so cool man, flying like that, way cool. Be great to do after some of that Burras black resin I got from Skinny Blake."

"It probably costs a bomb to do though."

"Where’s me papers? Skin up a fatty to watch this then."

"Cool man, watch the way they run off and go up, wow, like riding the wind up the ridge, easy as pie."

"I could do that, no worries, even if I ain’t got the fitness I once had, it wouldn’t take me long to get back into shape."

"Hey look man, the instructors not watching his kit at all. Boy it would be dead easy to just pick one of those things up, and hide it behind the tree until they’ve pissed off, bet they wouldn’t even miss it."

"I’ll just pick it up, and stash it until they’ve gone. Even if I don’t use it myself I can flog it on for some weed money."

So Diamond Dave hid the glider, in it’s pack, behind the tree, and strolled away, in case someone noticed. He came back in an hour, and there it was. Unable to believe his good luck he pulled it all out, "may as well give it a go before selling it," he thought.

So trying to remember the way the students had taken off, he placed himself at the front of the hill, strapped himself in, and ran off.

He soared up into the air, hollering as loudly as he could with the sheer joy of flying, he swooped and sped back and fore across the hill. It took him seconds to find out how to make it dance to his tune, he was a natural.

Dave decided to go down, and light up a joint to celebrate.

He flew it in, landing with a lightest of touches on the crown of the hill.

Unfortunately as he was landing he saw an approaching Land Rover. "Sod it, it’s the guy from the flying school, I bet he beats me up for pinching the glider."

The instructor leaped down from the cab; "Was that you flying? I’ve never seen anything like it!" "I pulled my students out, and didn’t even bother with flying myself as the conditions are too rough, but you flew like a genius, where did you learn?"

"Boy, I wish we had a pilot like you in the squad for Saturday."

Dave considered this, the guy hadn’t even noticed that Dave was flying one of his gliders. Maybe it wasn’t one of his, maybe it was one of his students, or someone else who flew here had lost it, could be anyone’s.

"It’s mine now!" thought Dave.

"What’s happening on Saturday?" Dave asked. "It’s the regional finals, all-comers, open, big money prizes, you’d do well."

So the next Saturday Dave bummed a lift to the site, and got instructions on how the comp was run, the instructor who was now acting like Dave and him went way back and were big flying buddies, registered him as a team member. By the end of the day’s flying, Dave was so far out in front that no one could touch him. He won the men’s comp, and enabled the instructor’s team to win the championship. He was the sensation of the competition, and won a brand new sports glider, as well as $5000.00 in cash.

So Dave got into competition flying, he earned for the first time in his life a decent wedge of cash, most of which he spent on dope. But flying got into his blood. He saved, miraculously enough, to buy a ute. He drove all over the country in this, winning comps and earning money.

The national flying magazine did an article on him, calling him the "Mr Natural" of paragliding, Dave laughed at that.

The comps got bigger and harder, and the prizes got bigger and better. He was rolling in money. But it seemed to Dave, that the harder things got, the better he got. He put this down to two things, natural talent, (enough people had told him he had this for it to sink in,) and a good blast of strong weed before each flight. This he found relaxed him, it brought out the natural flyer in him, it attuned him to nature, it enabled him to be part of the breeze.

Dave kept a stash of weed in a secret compartment in the ute. He topped it up from time to time with whatever he could get. Travelling all over the country gave him the opportunity to try strange new blends and strains of cannabis; he became something of a connoisseur.

Then the country sponsored him to go compete in the states, in the world championships. A life long dream of travelling to America, and trying the superb weed they have over there, was his.

He flew, first class of course, to LA. He picked up his glider and a small stash of dope from a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and headed off to Monterey. He spent the first night there watching Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young at one of the gigs on their "greatest hits’ tour.

The next day was the comp. Dave took an extra long blast of the high quality weed he’d been given, and it set him up for the day. The comp was close fought, it was all between Dave and an American Called Ricky-Jay. Both of them used cunning, nerve, and, when needed, a little toot of something.

Then at the final race in, Dave took the lead.

Ricky-Jay snorted something up his nose, some white powder, and surged ahead. But Dave was ready, sparking up a huge, well filled, doobie he’d made the night before, he sucked deep. The blast hit him hard, square between the eyes, and he overtook the Yank with only metres to spare.

The prize giving was all Champaign, cakes, free booze and stuff, Dave wasn’t interested, he wanted to get back to his room, and celebrate in his own way.

He was back in the room, smoking some of the original "Acapulco Gold" he’d dreamed of trying since he was first old enough to roll a joint, when there was a knock on the door. Dave opened the door to find Ricky-Jay there. "Hey man you’ve beat me fair and square, so I’ve brought you a small gift to celebrate your win in the good old U S of A!"

Dave thought Ricky-Jay was going to proffer some coke, but to his surprise two young women of the Penthouse Pet variety, moved into his room. Ricky-Jay shut the door, first giving Dave a big wink, and departed.

"Well now big fellah, why don’t you share some of that joint with us before we get down to the business?"

Dave handed the joint over, only for the girl to drop it on his bare chest.

Dave felt it burn his chest, and smelled the burning cloth and hair, he swept it off him with his hand, he dropped some of the ice from the ice bucket into his lap where the embers burnt, and felt his shoulder shook roughly.

"Look mate, it’s bad enough you smoking that stuff here while I’m trying to teach these guys to fly, without you trying to set yourself on fire, can you not go somewhere else, eh?

Be a pal and piss off.

Oh I see you’ve already peed."

So Diamond Dave roused himself from his place or rest, and staggered off back down to the town. He’s been champion of the world for a short while, but in the end had still ended up a slightly signed, and urine stained, hippy bum, as he’d always been, and always would be.

"Good grass this," thought Dave, "I must bring some more of it out here, good vibes, good dreams, man."