The Osborne Odyssey

I remember walking into Osborne for the first time clear as day.

Ironic, because it was very much night time.

I met Gav at a Halloween party in Berwick. I instantly recognised him as the kid who could kick himself in the head from his MySpace page of all things.

He had no fucking clue who I was.

Clearly though, I made an impression that night.

"Yo Pow, come party soon"

Those 5 words, posted by Gav onto my own MySpace page, are burnt into my brain 20-odd years later.

I genuinely feel that was the start of an avalanche of moments that would help me figure out who I was, leading to the absolute fuckwit (public consensus) writing this today.

- - -

I got fucking hoodwinked the first night arriving there.

He sent me the address and said come on in, don't bother knocking. I did just that, and as I entered, I belted out the line I'd been rehearsing to make an impression the whole way down his driveway.

Now, bearing in mind this was nearly 2 decades ago, I can’t remember the exact line, so I’m not sure if it was something highbrow and clean of expletives, or more likely something like

“Any of you mother fuckers need a refill of Fruity Lexia?!” 

The heads of Gav's brother and dad, neither of whom I had met or had any idea I was coming round, turned on a swivel, and they each stared with one of the biggest "what the fuck?" expressions I can ever remember seeing.

I dialled the exuberance right down.

“Is Gav home?”

“Nah…”

I hot stepped outside and messaged that fucking jerk straight away. He replied with a laugh and said hang out, we'll be home soon.

And so started the Osborne Odyssey.

- - -

I was late to the Osborne party. By the time I arrived, the main characters had been friends for years at the public high school. I was the private school kid coming in, and no part of me was prepared for what I had been missing out on.

The soft launch into the crew was night-time roaming, which became a staple, and it didn’t really matter if it was a school night or what.

I used to live beside a golf course, and at random intervals my phone would simply light up and read something like:

“We’re at the fence with darts. Come out”

And I would always oblige.

It wasn’t what I was used to. I’d sneak out, sprint to the back fence and probably high jump over it for a laugh. Then we would just go and meander about.

Nothing in particular. No illegal shit. Just wander…although there were a few nights in the tunnels with deodorant cans, a makeshift fuse, a lighter and a hell of a sprint once everything met.

We would talk shit, smoke darts, and come up with the sport that we thought would take over the universe – hedge diving.

The feat of athleticism for this sport?

Well, we would literally just launch ourselves into people’s hedges.

But that’s the thing, when you’re doing that shit at 17 and 18 years old, you feel like it’s the most important thing in your world. I wasn’t concerning myself with what I’d be doing post high school and mapping out a pathway to ultimate success; I was trying to impress a new group of friends by doing the dumbest shit imaginable.  

The night walks not spent at Osborne were almost like my initiation. One last chance for them to scout me out to see if I was fit for the crew.

I knew I was in when I picked up my phone one day and the message from Shan simply read:

“Come to Gav’s it’s an emergency. We have a jumping castle”.

From that point, I was minted, and the weeks were almost routine.

Every Saturday was spent doing dumb shit while the sun was shining, all whilst planning what we were going to do that night.

To this day, I have no idea how we actually coordinated anything. Collectively, we had the planning prowess of a toddler running late for a nap.

Despite all this, there we were, 4 to 7 knuckleheads deep planning logistics of travel, beverage and smokes to bank heist precision.

Just a small bank with not much security, leaving the key under the mat and the PIN codes on a Post-it note behind the counter.

I tried to remember some more specific details about the house parties we would attend weekly, but every file I pulled out of the limited archive I have in the memory bank all seemed to check off pretty much all of the following points – in order:

-          Avoid getting bashed due to our long hair and tight pants.

-          Walking around with a sack of goon taking swigs every 3 steps.

-          Smoking more ciggies than our lungs could realistically handle in that short period of time.

-          Throwing the dumbest shit imaginable into the no doubt out of control bonfire.

-          Legging it when the cops arrived to shut the party down OR legging it when the fights started.

-          Piling into literally anyone’s car that would take us to at least the same postcode as Osborne and walk from there.

-          Going back to Osborne to keep the party rolling.

-          Picking up chicks.

If we were lucky, we’d get lucky.

If we weren’t lucky, we’d be getting thrown into the back of a car that was leaving because someone was on the prowl looking for us (me) to throwdown.

True story.

To this day I’m thankful to the people that didn’t listen to my confident proclamations of “pffft bring it on” and instead realised I would get my head kicked in by a light breeze, so actually fists might be more troublesome.

- - -

The freedom to discover ourselves at Osborne was mainly instigated by single dad Kev, and his ability to essentially disregard all the dumb shit we did, and put it down to kids being kids. There wasn’t a lot of off limit stuff at Osborne.

It was the place I first witnessed a weed mix get prepped and smoked. On that occasion I didn’t partake, and those nachos Gav made himself looked fucking horrendous.

It was sitting on those outside couches until late o’clock spouting absolute fucking nonsense about a life that had so far revolved around, for lack of a better term, fucking about.

It was the background scene for all the stupid music arguments you felt like you would die on a hill for, because you had to make your stance known that Room on Fire is actually low key better than Is This It.

It was the evolution of how you would spend your time. Going out on a school night before Osborne was absolutely foreign to me. Then, there I was, having a few beers the night before my Year 12 final math exam.

Still got a 69.15 ENTER. Make jokes as you will…sickos.

It was dirt bikes, jumping castles, blow up pools, makeshift pool tables.

Amateur DIY projects with incredibly dangerous tools, especially considering the complete lack of workmanship skills a few of us possessed.

It was all on the table.

Reflection at this stage of life hits a bit different though.

When I was younger, I just knew him as Kev. The guy whose outside chair you did not dare occupy in fear of copping a walking stick to the shins.

The guy who would fall asleep in said chair while holding a coffee mug.

It was like the antithesis of an alarm clock.

When you heard the mug smash, you knew Kev was out cold.

We would bum darts, and ask for lifts to and from parties, which he would generally oblige. He would sit there and listen to us and our inane chatter of absolute dribble.

But reflecting back, it is strange to realise now what a complicated character Kev was.

Looking back now, I recall the pill packets on the kitchen bench that I would have taken no notice of back then.

I can see the glazed look overcoming him just before he’d fall into a slumber, that I always naively just put down as Kev being Kev.

It’s a bizarre feeling now to know his behaviour was the reason for the freedom, while also knowing he was facing battles in his own life that created the environment for us to thrive.

Despite this, I’ll always appreciate the home base that Kev provided.

- - -

When you’re at that age, everyone has their crew.

The OGs from those teenage nights that you ride or die with.

We ran 7 deep, with ancillary levers to pull as required, and had enough fun between the lot of us to keep us busy for an eternity.

But then something began to arise.

We started crossing paths with another crew that we got along with, and dipped the toe in ever so slightly.

I remember visiting a sector of the Berwick crew with Shan one night.

They were in the Coles carpark with a trolley, and we felt like we were home. The only issue was, they were gently spinning each other round.

I told Shan to get into the trolley, and immediately rammed him as hard as I could into a curb so he flew into the bushes...

There were some teething pains when the crews met.

As we slowly began to intertwine more and more, the biggest thing we noticed was they had exactly what we had in Osborne – a home base.

Beau’s band room.

Every Friday arvo, the band room was descended upon. It was where we would begin, as everyone put their two bob in to figure out what we were doing that night. Then, it was inevitably where we would wind back up when that selected venue would kick us out.

What we didn’t realise in the moment is that all the time we spent at Osborne had steeled us for a change of scenery. There was nothing that went on in that band room that we hadn’t experienced already, and that is what a home base should be during the formative years.

We were young, and fuelled on a cocktail of confidence, goon and Benson & Hedges, and there wasn’t a room in the world we could walk into together and not expect to take over.

I could share endless stories about the band room – right up to the moment I witnessed Beau’s dad level that mother fucker without a second thought, and watched on in awe as the ghosts of beers drunk and bongs ripped escape into the ether.

But that’s not what this one’s about.

This one isn’t so much about the dumb shit you do; it’s about the place that you felt safe enough to do it.

Whenever a vivid memory enters your head from nowhere and you have to piece it backwards to figure out how you landed in that situation, it almost always seems to start at the home base.

The thing you can’t figure out is where the time actually goes.

It genuinely feels like yesterday that I walked down that driveway for the first time.

The feeling is tattooed on my soul.

And yet, that was 20 fucking years ago.

The years go on. The crew thins out. The hairlines do as well. Looking at you Shan.

All of a sudden Friday nights are couples’ restaurant reservations and movie nights with the kids.

The weekends are weddings and kids’ parties.

All of a sudden “We’re at the fence with darts. Come out” becomes “On the third Sunday 3 months from now I have a 45-minute slot available, but get in quick.”

Everyone has to live their own life, and it can never stay as it was. If it does… well I’d be questioning what the fuck you’re actually doing.

But the whole point of having that home base is to do what’s in the name – give you a base.

A foundation.

- - -

Now that I’m a grown arse adult complete with my dream gal, kids and a mortgage, I actually hope my kids never read this piece.

Everyone who has lived through it knows their own Osborne.

It might be their own house if the parents are unfortunate enough, but odds are it was someone else's, and it was fucking awesome.

I hope they never read this, so that I can live that journey again vicariously through them.

I'll know the beats when I listen to them talk.

I'll recognise it when I notice the pattern of where they all meet up.

I can watch the next generations Osborne unfolding before my eyes, and 2 decades before they realise just how fucking important that base was.

They'll all think they're just killing time.

I'll know they're living through some of the most foundational moments of their lives.