Some words on my mate Dave - creator of Brumpic and a very funny man

This is a tough one.

It’s been a difficult last few days watching tributes to Dave Oram flood in on Facebook and Twitter; I had to come off socials for a few days to try and process.

Writing this is so very strange. Dave was one of those people I thought would always be around.

I found out Dave had passed away from our mate Caroline on Friday morning. My first thought was of Louise, Dave’s wife, and Dave’s son Tom.

Dave and Louise had been together before I met them both, after starting work for Dave at the University of Birmingham’s Medical School in 2004.

Dave and I ran the Centre for Professional Development there – a brand-new conference and training facility for medical professionals from across Birmingham and the UK.

What visitors to the new venue would rarely see would be the two mischievous and slightly mental blokes playing jokes and pranks, repeating Papa Lazarou quotes at each other and just on a general wind up of each other on a daily basis.

From day one, when I overordered catering and ate the whole surplus (a sandwich platter for four), to the ‘Ninja Stick’ incident, our time working together there – including antisocial hours and weekends - was marked by mad antics and driving each other up the wall like the time I shot him in the eye with a big elastic band.

He called me Junior, we’d smoke cigarettes on our lunch break together with the old boys from Estates (sorry, Lou!) and we’d go for post-work beers in Harborne or Bearwood, where Dave Oral, as I called him, would tell me stories about his days working as a live music promoter in Leeds and tales from working with the band Cud.

Occasionally, Louise would pick me up with Dave from the Medical School after work as we lived close by in Bearwood – Dave sitting in the passenger seat showing off and making jibes at cyclists and other drivers, me giggling in the back like a schoolboy.

A few years after I left that job, and as I developed my career working in music in Birmingham, Dave was beginning to see success with Brumpic. As I took up freelance and in-house jobs across the city, Dave found his voice and publishing power on Twitter through the Brumpic account.

The Phyllis Nicklin collection campaign was a masterstroke from Dave – he was the perfect person to put a voice to Phyllis’ incredible photos of the city.

Never an academic and never a marketing executive, Dave gave a 'bloke on the street' tone to Brumpic, characterised by his extraordinary capacity for that typical Brummie cynicism, scepticism and comedy.

We’d repeatedly joke about his tendency to drink wine or gin and get on Twitter on a Sunday night, winding people up, trolling and picking fights when they complained about a photo he’d posted.

He would, on occasion, use his account – with 150,000 followers – to publicly take the piss out of something I’d posted on Twitter, like the time I called a record ‘dope’ - for at least a couple of years after, in every conversation we had, he’d drop the word 'dope' somewhere in the mix.

Dave was a reality check for me, and despite his own elevation amongst a new generation of Twitter entrepreneurs in the city, somehow always held it down and avoided pretence.

As our friendship grew - probably aided by us not driving each other nuts in the same office anymore - he and I shared information and intelligence about the arts, music and tech scenes and people in Birmingham (Dave loved good gossip) constantly.

Pre-Covid, we spoke a few times a week - on Twitter, over email, by text or in person at some event, or even just over a pint or two somewhere quiet.

Dave and I would go to premieres, launches and openings, with him playing ‘nudgies’ if the show was boring, and we would occasionally get shit-faced together before heading our separate ways in a complete mess. (The last time I got sick in a taxi was thanks to a flurry of Old Fashioneds with Dave at The Victoria)

I regret not reconnecting with Dave properly sooner after the pandemic - so when he messaged me a few months back to tell me about his illness it hit me like a ton of bricks.

We swapped a few messages, but I don’t think he wanted to let on how ill he really was – or I chose to ignore the signs.

In our last conversation on WhatsApp, I asked if he was ready to talk yet, to which he replied ‘Not to you, you c*nt”, before saying “thanks kidda??”.

I'll treasure my time belly ache laughing and rowing with Dave, a funny as fuck guy with a massive heart and a permanently cheeky look. I'll miss the days looking for band names in the horse racing pages on a dead Saturday shift at the University or arguing about whose round it was at some city centre boozer somewhere, or over Blues-Villa, or indeed over anything. That was our jam.

I'm really gonna miss ya, Daaaaaave. Rest well ??

Thinking of Louise, Tom, Debbie, Rob, Jackie and the rest of Dave's family and friends who he so generously introduced me to. Sending all my love to each and every one of you.

Please show your support for Macmillan nurses, who supported Dave, and his family, as he battled his short illness, by contributing to https://tributefunds.macmillan.org.uk/In-Memory/David-Oram

Image: Ian Davies Photography