A respected father. A successful business. Everything to lose. I know Tony Hammond wasn't a cocaine kingpin. This is the uncomfortable truth about Australia's middle-class 'coke dads' turning a weekend habit into serious crime: AMANDA GOFF

Published: 16:14, 5 August 2026 | Updated: 16:18, 5 August 2026 Anthony 'Tony' Hammond was no Pablo Escobar. This Melbourne father wasn't a tattooed bikie boss running a multi-million-dollar drug empire. By all accounts, the 57-year-old was a successful businessman from a good family - a solid bloke with a legitimate career and every reason not to risk it all. Hammond ran the waterfront Hide & Seek Retreat in Nagambie, in Victoria's Goulburn Valley, and came from one of Victoria's oldest farming families. And yet last week, he was at Melbourne County Court, pleading guilty to trafficking a commercial quantity of cocaine and negligently dealing with the proceeds of crime. Police accused Hammond of filling two backpacks, one carrying 2kg of cocaine, and driving to Glenferrie Road in Malvern, where he made a drop-off before returning nine minutes later with an empty bag. He was under surveillance from start to finish. It was hardly a scene from Breaking Bad and Hammond is no Walter White, but it was a clear-cut drug deal nonetheless. He was caught red-handed with $12,796, allegedly from cocaine sales. The case has been the talk of Melbourne over the last week. In some corners of the city, it's arguably more intriguing than the Ralph Carr verdict.  Tony Hammond (pictured with his partner Nedra Kriekenbeek) ran a high-end retreat in Goulburn Valley and came from one of Victoria's oldest farming families. Last week, he faced Melbourne County Court, pleading guilty to trafficking a commercial quantity of cocaine Hammond ran the waterfront Hide & Seek Retreat in Nagambie (pictured), but risked it all when he trafficked a commercial quantity of cocaine  But here's the thing: Tony Hammond isn't the story. He's just the face of a bigger epidemic sweeping Australia: the rise of the middle-class 'coke dad'. The 'regular bloke' whose Friday habit spirals into supply, shame and a jail cell.  According to defence barrister Dermot Dann KC, Hammond was himself a regular cocaine and cannabis user whose habit worsened over time, eventually leading to 'the terrible decision which has exposed his family to, well, potential devastation'. Hammond's 'drop-off' didn't happen in some shadowy back alley, but in a slick Malvern apartment - hardly a seedy postcode. This is not a suburb associated with urban decay. This is a world of Range Rovers, Teslas and private schools, where Lululemon-clad mothers push designer prams that cost upwards of $5,000. I don't know exactly how Hammond's cocaine use began, but I do know this: addiction creeps in slowly, and criminality doesn't happen overnight. It starts with one line. Then another. Then a bag for a weekend with the boys. Then a couple of bags. Then you're not even waiting for the weekend anymore. Soon, you're spending more, lying to your partner, hiding cash, wiping credit cards for traces of white powder, always keeping a stash on hand 'just in case'. Before long, you're selling bags to friends - but in your mind, you're not a dealer. The dealer is the person you bought it from. The cycle repeats. Escalates. Before you know it, people are texting about you, passing on your number and referring to you as their 'hook-up' - often long before you've recognised what you've become. 'It starts with one line. Then another. Then a bag for a weekend with the boys. Then a couple of bags. Then you're not even waiting for the weekend anymore. Soon, you're spending more, lying to your partner, hiding cash, wiping credit cards for traces of white powder, always keeping a stash on hand "just in case",' writes Amanda Goff. (Stock image posed by model) Then, like Hammond, you're in court. Busted. Caught in the act. The shame, the humiliation, the shock. Devastation for his parents, his partner, his children. The police don't care if you 'identify' as a dealer. The charges are what they are. How did it come to this for such a 'good' man? Someone with no prior criminal record? A father? Someone with everything to lose?   Let me explain. I know addiction because I've lived it - though I'm one of the lucky ones. I got desperate enough to realise I had to stop. Fortunately, my close friends intervened. They made it clear: get better or die. I remember vividly standing in a high-rise hotel room, staring at a window that wouldn't open. If it had, I might have jumped. That terrified me. For years, I'd believed I was functioning fine. I thought I was in control. I wonder if Hammond felt the same before the handcuffs were slapped on his wrists. I don't know what awaits Hammond. He is on remand and has called on friends to help his business survive the 'period of time he's going to be in custody', which suggests he'll spend a stretch behind bars. I expect that, while inside, he will begin a treatment program. There will be nothing glamorous about it. But then again, recovery never is.  Recovery means sitting on plastic chairs in a church hall, clutching a mug of awful tea, listening to stories from ordinary Australians like Hammond - mums and dads whose lives unravelled after a few lines turned into addiction in less than a year. I saw no stereotypes. Only teachers, tradies, parents, business owners. People often ask why addicts don't just stop, why they seem so selfish, why they escalate. 'Why don't they think of their kids, partners and careers? Their reputations?' The truth is, addiction doesn't make you stop loving your family. It puts the drug first. Addiction rewires your brain and warps your priorities. It creeps in quietly, then tightens its grip. You promise yourself you'll stop tomorrow, next week, after the next payday, or once you get past the next big weekend. There's always a reason to drink or use - to celebrate, to commiserate, or simply because it's Friday.  Before long, you're living a double life, taking risks you once would have considered unthinkable and rationalising behaviour that would previously have appalled you. Like walking into an apartment building with a backpack full of coke.  You tell yourself everyone else is doing it, though most aren't. You dress it up as a harmless attempt to reclaim your youth or relive the 'good old days'. And, like so many hardworking people, you convince yourself you deserve to let off steam after another long week. Daily Mail columnist Amanda Goff says Tony Hammond is simply the face of a far bigger problem in Australia: the rise of the 'coke dad' who slips from casual use to criminality Cocaine has become the drug of affluent Australia - a reward for putting in the hours from Monday to Friday. It's not just confined to nightclub bathrooms anymore; it turns up at golf days, corporate lunches and 50th birthday parties. As former NRL star Luke Bateman told a Senate inquiry this week, gambling VIP managers even offered him cocaine as a sweetener at official events. It is part of the fabric of the corporate world. While I commend Bateman's honesty in speaking out about his addiction, I want to make one thing abundantly clear: we are all responsible for our choices - and those choices have consequences. And I'm absolutely not making excuses for Hammond, who is an admitted criminal. Drugs are illegal, and dealing them is a serious offence. But I understand addiction. I know how quickly good men and women can be taken hostage by that powerful white powder. It doesn't discriminate - whether you're dealing in the ghetto or on the streets of Malvern. Hammond's story is not merely the tale of another crim caught in a drug bust. It's a reminder that addiction doesn't simply happen to 'other people' and that drug dealing isn't confined to the 'underworld'. Across Melbourne, there are middle-class fathers and mothers whose weekend party favours spiral into serious crime and are now filling up the court system.  That is why Hammond's downfall has struck such a nerve.  There are countless men just like him, living double lives in plain sight. They hold down jobs, raise families and blend seamlessly into suburbia, convinced they're in control and nobody is watching. By the time they realise otherwise, the consequences are likely to be far more painful than any Tuesday comedown.