David Shearer: I hope no one sees us here.

JK: What are you worried about? No-one’s going to vote for you, anyway. Come on! Everyone already knows you like to have your cake and eat it too. Remember that time you forgot to declare your UN bank account with $50,000 in it?

DS: Good to meet you Pot. I’m Kettle. Remember when you forgot phoning Ian Fletcher? Remember whether, or rather when, he briefed you on Kim Dotcom?

JK: My mum brought me up in a state house—

DS: You can’t keep using growing up in a state house as an excuse for being an arsehole, John. You’re just talking out of your mouth.

JK: Well, yes. Where else should I talk out of? Look, I’m just saying that no-one’s going to go for a far-left Labour-Green Government. Everyone knows when you mix red and green you get brown.

DS: Russel said he thought it would look good…

JK: Ahaha! Or a happy little place where fruit meets loop.

DS: This is politics, John. Not primary school. Banoffee pie? No? The other day I was down at Robertson Road School, making porridge for the kids’ breakfast…

JK: So why should I provide food in schools, if you’re doing it already? I bet they didn’t even eat it. Porridge? Yuck. The National government isn’t into dramatic change, as you can probably tell from the Budget. We’re about starving this week to save $1 to spend next week. I don’t expect you to understand that, David. It’s economics.

DS: Yes, but what happens in the meantime? If you starve yourself for a week, you’ll die.

JK: What are you talking about? I’m not starving; I’m eating cake. So anyway, I was thinking: forget porridge. We’ll give all the kids Weetbix, right? Feed them up ‘til they’re big and strong, and then sell them off to other countries as All Blacks. Bingo. Exports. Ka-Ching!

DS: I suppose it was only a matter of time before you tried to sell our people. Let me guess. You want to refrigerate them too, in case they have to sit awhile in the ports of China?

JK: Not all of them! Just the poor ones.

DS: More tea? Do you take sugar? How much is a pot of tea these days, anyway? I need to know how much the people are forking out.

JK: Four dollars.

DS: FOUR DOLLARS?! That’s it. When I am Prime Minister, the Labour Government is going to buy all the tea, and sell it back to the people for a reasonable price.

JK: You can’t just nationalise everything, David. That’s too easy to understand. You need online registrations of interest. A website that doesn’t work. You need to talk about stock markets. Trade. Confuse them a little. You sound too sensible. I guess it doesn’t really matter. No wonder no-one’s voting for you. You can say what you like when you’re never going to have to follow through. Heck, come to think of it, you can say what you like all the time when you own the media, as well. Textses. Aushtraya. Troty!

DS: I wonder if I can get some more milk. Do you think the waitress knows who I am? Actually, better not risk it. I’ll get it myself.

JK: Look at you, standing up! You’re a real stand-up guy. What’s that? Me? A stand-up comedian! Oh David, stop it!

DS: I didn’t say anything.

JK: Pardon? Hey, what do you think of my next sensational joke? Here’s how it goes. You pretend to give me a hard time about Aaron Gilmore, you know, shouting like you do – great stuff after the Budget announcement by the way. Anyway, so you bring Aaron up again, and I’ll say, “If Aaron were a type of cake, he’d be a scone! Because he’s gone!”

DS: Do you think they’ll get the cake reference?

JK: Well, yeah. See, look over there – what’s that on the table? Is that … is that a tape recorder?

- Get drunk.

- Start next trimester’s readings early.

- Unprotected sex.

- Change your drinking habits—meths and turps are cheaper per standard than vodka, for example.

- Put off expensive things until the end of the holidays and then just don’t do them—just like you do with assignments.

- Switch up your sexuality for a few weeks.

- Hibernate.

- Fall in love (requited).

- Fall in love (unrequited) (cheaper).

- Move home and sublet your flat. Literally tens of people want to live in Wellington at its most rainy.

- Take a holiday in Waikanae. You can train/bus there for like $10.

- Using a child Snapper during school hours is both thrilling and cost-effective.

- Have an existential crisis/devote time to figuring out who you really are.

- Watch every single episode of Seinfeld.

- Start a blog.

- Work on your personal manifesto.

- Go home and revert back to being an angsty teenager/completely ostracise the one high-school friend you have left.

- Sleep with someone during the first weekend. Spend the rest of your holidays regretting it.

- Knit something/learn to knit.

- Explore the Deep Web or enter a YouTube/Wikipedia K-hole. Do extensive internet exploring (aren’t we all internet explorers?) Beware of anything deeply disturbing.

- Work on your personal brand.

- Get vajazzled.

- Now is the season for magic mushrooms (I think). Take some and have an experience.

- Join a Buddhist monastery – free food and accommodation.

- Go skipping gaily through rolling meadows – more fun than walking and less strenuous than running.

- Create a series of pseudonyms and write strongly worded letters to the editor in the Dom Post on some pressing issue. A nice way of having a very public argument with yourself.

- Doubt yourself.

- Finally admit to your socialist friends that you have a beach house, and go there with them.

- Bitch about Tobey Maguire being cast in Gatsby.

- Think to yourself, “why wasn’t ‘Toby’ phonetic enough for his parents?”

- Find a kid that you know and take them to the zoo and make them sandwiches and love them for a day, then give them back to their parents and convince yourself your ‘career’ will be ‘satisfying’.

- Sleep with your friends—it will probably be fine.

- Fringe Bar.

- Come Dine With Me omnibuses.

- Pasta.

- Switch internet browsers for three days, then realise that whatever you were using before was better.

- Reread The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; feel miffed at your inability to curate sister-like female friends.

- Work the whole time so that you don’t have much of a holiday but are able to pay rent (REAL TALK).

- Listen to R. Kelly’s ‘Real Talk’.

- Take up PUA.

- Spend a few days on the lawn pretending you’re at Splendour in the Grass.

- Make jewellery out of macaroni.

- Start a cult.

- Learn the words to the Barenaked Ladies’ ‘One Week’.

- Buy Raro juice sachets, rate them all by taste, colour and thirst-quenching ability. Post results on your specialised juice blog and/or Facebook.

- Spend a week telling everyone they HAVE TO WATCH GAME OF THRONES “BECAUSE ITS LIKE THE BEST SHOW EVERRRR”.

- Visit your nan. She would love a visit. It’s the least you could do.

- On the first night of the holidays, aim to stay up all night. Only go to sleep as the Sun rises. You’ll be so exhausted that you’ll sleep through the day. Repeat this pattern; listen solely to The National; go for runs in the dark in strange suburbs; have a complete mental breakdown.

- Spend your time at home trying to get to the bottom of your grandparents’ sordid secrets/horrific war stories. Teach them how to use Facebook. Add them on Facebook. Post outrageous drunken pictures. Go to their house high in the middle of the night, pretending to be their ghosts. Tell your parents that this is all for a reason.

- Perform a slam-poetry rendition of ‘Alice’s Restaurant Massacree’ at every open-mic night in town.

Seafaring aboard the Interislander ferry offers within its decks a treasure trove of viewing platforms, reclining lounges, and cafés. In order to make the most of being at sea, I spent the majority of the time outside and I was rewarded about halfway through the journey with a school of dolphins merrily diving just metres from the ship. “Avast,” I cried, “tharr be the most majestic sea-beasts I e’er did gaze upon! Man the harpoons and ready the first mate; we have bounty to catch!” My pride in picking up the sailor vernacular so quickly was tempered by a bored-looking worker informing me that I was disturbing other passangers. Alas and alack!

I did, though, spend an inordinate amount of time admiring the exquisite New Zealand scenery (something of a recurring theme during this trip), and leaning over the side of the balcony to take in the salty breeze (not a euphemism). I actually find the lulling rocking of ships more relaxing than nauseating, but this might be down to a fortunate sailing time—apparently, the day before, there had been six-metre swells in Cook Strait, and a classroom of schoolchildren were left “holding a pot of chips in one hand and a sickbag in the other”. That, I discovered, is the nature of Cook Strait; renowned for being mercurial at best and treacherous at worst, swells in the two-digit range can “come from nowhere” according to a crewman. Fortunately there are a number of herbal remedies available from the in-boat shop.

In any case, by the time the ferry stuttered and lurched its way into the Picton port I was quite sorry to depart so soon. There was no time to sight-see in Picton. I was ushered straight from the ferry to my Nakedbus (Legal disclaimer: do not attempt to enter one of these vehicles in any state of undress. Trust me.) run by a driver whose adherence to the rules of the road can only be termed ‘liberal’ (by my count, we careened through three red lights during the trip, while the poor French woman behind me grew a particularly bright shade of green). His bedside manner hardly redeemed him. When I arrived in Nelson, I asked him politely how to get to my backpackers. “Falkjlsl-isle dflkfdl” he mumbled, gesticulating me away as he would a pesky fly. Not even this brush-off could dampen my spirits though. I was in Nelson!

What a place it was. The township is surprisingly small, more Feilding than Palmerston North, but it contains both chain stores (Whitcoulls, Brumby’s, etc.) and charming little locals. I was particularly besotted with a very cheap second-hand bookshop on Hardy St, where I talked with the skinny-jeans-wearing elderly owner about Thomas Pynchon and William Faulkner at length (hipster cred: maximised) and gushed over his first-edition Steinbecks. And the food, oh the food! Hardy Buggers offered me the best steak burger I’ve had the pleasure of eating (a bold claim, but one I’ll happily back up) along with enough fires to feed a family of four. Staying in a backpackers also gave me the opportunity to meet a host of quirky characters, from a professional blues guitarist to the thickly accented Scottish couple I shared a room with (and who were less than taken with New Zealanders’ standards of decorum: “there was a lass in [another hostel] who got ‘erself really stoned, sat down on a chair and jus’ star’ed fartin’! O’er and o’er, aye!” one of them said, appalled).

Don’t even get me started on the scenery. I must admit that I tend to take New Zealand’s unique landscape for granted, but the South Island displays it in such abundance and in such a diverse palette that it’s breathtaking, even for cynical bastards like myself. Put it this way: if I lived elsewhere, I can see myself spending hours on Google Maps trawling through New Zealand scenery, transfixed. During my stay, I traipsed up to the ‘centre of New Zealand’, and seeing the vista that spread for miles before me would require Nabokovian powers of prose to do it justice. It may have been a steep hike for my less-than-athletic bod, but mother of God did I get recompense.

The downsides of such a place are the toll taken on the nightlife. Admittedly, I didn’t quite make it out on Saturday (see the ‘Handy Tips’ section for more), but I ventured out on Sunday evening to an eerily quiet, profoundly empty ghost-town. Only one bar remained open by 9.10 pm. I conducted interviews, which confirmed that this was the status quo. Though one resident, Jay, said of some Saturday nights:

The streets are packed, like fucking Mardi Gras… I see girls pulling the crotches of their panties over to piss in the street and blokes getting into fist fights, fucking each other up.” His girlfriend retorted: “Don’t listen to anything he says—he’s from Blenheim.” A popular hypothesis puts this down to the weather—the sunshine and heat of the day means that few want to face the chill of the night. Whatever the case, though there are a lot of things to love about Nelson, “there’s just not that much to do” (quote: barmaid). The upshot of this is “a problem with minors getting pissed off their faces” in lieu of other entertainment. Idle hands, as the adage goes, are the Devil’s playthings.

Speaking of: thanks to the barrenness of the town and the kindness of the aforementioned couple, I was privy to a truly marvellous experience that I will recount here. In a back-alley that runs off the main street, there lies a strategically placed crate next to a steel hand-hold that those with agility and upper-body strength can use to reach the roof of a first-storey kitchen. From there, one can climb up to the top of all the buildings on this main street, and take advantage of being rebellious and see astonishing views. My two guides were seasoned experts (both had been arrested for performing the task, being accused of unlawfully entering public property. “What the hell right?” said a very indignant Jay) and gave me a helping hand up to the first rooftop—and though my chronic fear of heights prevented me from going any further, looking down at the uncollected rubbish bins of the alley, illuminated in the dim artificial light of a faraway street light, being staggered past by someone who looked very, very drunk—in that moment, I was infinite.

On the ferry-ride home, I did an Ethnohydrology survey for an American exchange student in exchange for a couple of beers, which I took to one of the decks while I mulled over the weekend I had just spent. I felt bereft, almost—the foray was all too short—but as I got half-drunk in the winter sun the moment passed, and soon I saw Wellington on the horizon—in her retracing search for new arrivals, she only found another child.

P.S OH and thank u Nakedbus u r the beez kneez <3

Handy Tips:

- If you decide to stay at a backpackers, I recommend you bring your own towel/shampoo/other amenities. The owners generally charge a fee per item; that’s where they getcha.

- Travel by Nakedbus; it’s the cheapest and fastest service available.

- NEVER TRY TO MATCH ANYONE FROM SCOTLAND DRINK-FOR-DRINK.

- Shop around if you’re going out for dinner, even if it is late and you’re absolutely ravenous. Your bank balance will thank you and you’ll get to discover some out-of-the-way gems.

- A French place in Nelson does a breakfast deal that involves a fuck-tonne of crêpes smothered in maple syrup and adorned with bacon for $7.50. You’ll be full for hours.

- Take the Interislander when and where possible. Its aesthetic merits and student discount more than make up for the slightly long voyage.

They were still mid-meeting when Carl walked in, but nobody looked up. Good. It was always better that way. No need for his face to freeze into something unnaturally impassive if they weren’t looking. When they were looking he always thought he might look resentful, even when he wasn’t. Okay, maybe a bit. But only because he was almost done with the day and Jono had assigned him to HPPI. The POLS and IR guys were certifiably the worst.

But they weren’t looking at him today, so he just grabbed the rubbish bag, put a new liner in and left. Almost free – Jono had said something about the desks in Kirk, but if it was too late he’d probably let it slide. That was really more of a job for the holidays. He finished the department without seeing anyone else, thank god, then grabbed the cart and went downstairs to find Jono.

“Hey man!”

Frank bounded up to him, clapped him on his back, beaming.

“How you doing? It’s been too long man!”

“Hey Frank. I’m good, you?”

Frank grinned, adjusting the cuffs on his coat – they’d been turned up so the red lining showed. It matched his socks, Carl noticed.

“Really well, yeah, great. Hey if you’re around tomorrow, about – six?” he said, yelling over his shoulder to the group behind him, nodding when a girl confirmed, “six, you should come to our meeting, maybe? It’s on José Carlos Mariátegui – great name, yeah?”

Frank was big on names. He’d taken Carl’s to be a sign, despite the spelling, that he would be a good Marxist.

“We need guys like you, man,” he’d told Carl once, “guys on the front lines, y’know? It’s all very well and good trying to change the world from our ivory towers, but, to tell the truth we’re all a bit bourgeois, like, kinda quite upper middle class. I’ll tell you a secret,” he had said, leaning into Carl, “my real name’s actually Franklin. Franklin! How upper middle class is that? We’re a bit sheltered, really.”

Then he’d laughed, and Carl had decided, once and for all, that he liked him.

But today he was tired and didn’t want to get into a long discussion about worker rights in Bangladesh, so he made a show of checking the time then looking harried, interrupting–

“Sorry Frank, I’ve got to go check in with the boss. You know how it is,” he said, knowing that, no, Frank really didn’t. He left with promises to try, if nothing else, to make it to the meeting. Those kids and their meetings.

Jono pointed at him as soon as he came in.

“Carl, my man! Need you scrubbing the desks in Kirk. That cool?”

What could he say? “Sure thing.”

“Cool cool. Do that, then you can go.”

He kept his sigh to himself, and headed back the way he’d come.

Cleaning graffiti off desks wasn’t an easy job, but it was nicely repetitive. He’d probably have enjoyed it if he hadn’t been made to stay late: alone, in an empty lecture theatre at night, he had some time to himself. Really, it wasn’t too bad, even though dinner would be over by the time he caught the train home, and his mum never remembered to put glad wrap over his leftovers, so the meat always dried out. There weren’t many jobs where the space he was in was big enough to get rid of the smell from his cleaning products. It made him feel almost healthy, for once.

The lights buzzed on. Cheap vinyl and bad carpet: the big, drafty space came to life. Being there, he realised, was the same feeling he’d had, in classrooms at night, after Parent-Teacher meetings, waiting for his mum to pick him up. Even in the early evening it felt too late, and he was struck by the sense that he was trespassing. Yes, he must be. Even though he wasn’t; even though he got to be there when they couldn’t, hours after the last class of the day when the place still held some rustle of seats being folded down, bags packed and unpacked. Even when he got to have this stillness. No, it wasn’t trespassing. Not at all.

These students weren’t too messy, and he appreciated it, even if thinking that did make him feel uncomfortably like their dad, coming in after they’d all left to survey the damage. What they were was bored. Well, that was understandable. He would be too. Most days he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting in those seats, listening to a string of old dudes drone on and on. So the graffiti was annoying, but it was also kind of okay. Sometimes he liked it.

Jono didn’t get this, neither did Jack or Te or the other guys. Yeah, but they were all ancient. These kids were around his age. Actually his age. If he hadn’t left school he’d be here now, anyway, but in a different way. Which was a thought he didn’t like touching much. Not that he was at all cut up about it, just, huh, that happened. And now this was happening. He wasn’t so much a part of the university as his mum had thought he might have been, but he still sort of was, which was weird position to be in. But an okay one. He’d never even been much for school and the place was kind of nice, in a scummy way.

On the first desk he cleaned off the inevitable penises, a (pretty solid, he thought) feminist analysis on men’s need to draw phalluses everywhere, a couple of bored-looking trees and an expertly copied meme. On the second there was a tally of the number of times a lecturer had said “um” in one class, the word “hello” in – he counted them – seventeen different languages, and a sketch of a pokéball bong. He spent some time on the third: a more than life-sized caricature of John Key’s face, “COCKSUCKER” written above it. Alongside this, someone had scrawled “HE’S” – and here Carl actually stopped spraying clear so he could work out the word: it looked like “fucking” had been written over “raping” – “YOUR EDUCATION.” Across the top of another desk someone – Carl guessed a Philosophy student – had written, in block caps, “WHO EVEN ARE YOU?? WHO EVEN AM I??”

People had chimed in with their suggestions:

“I’m Chuck Bass.”

“I’m Perd Hapley?”

“You must be Ned Stark’s bastard.”

That one, man. He almost didn’t want to clean it off, but if Jono did an inspection after he’d left he’d be in deep shit, so he sprayed and wiped, then sprayed and wiped again. It wouldn’t remove the indentations in the wood, and in two days’ time all the lines would have been redrawn. There really wasn’t much point, except that it would make Jono and the University happy. And whatever made Jono happy made him happy, as Jono was fond of insisting.

He was done, he thought. One last inspection, a few smudges to remove, then, yes, done. He took the cart back, he signed out, got rid of his horrible bib, then left. It was cold outside and he breathed into his collar for warmth as he half-jogged down the hill. On The Terrace he almost ran into a group of students coming up from the Church St steps, their hands growing a dangerous purple with the weight of their shopping. He jumped onto the road and ran around them, back onto the pavement when the traffic lights started again and a stream of cars went past. He was on Woodward Street in no time, then Lambton. At least, he thought as he passed the Law School, he didn’t have to deal with Pipitea.

At the train station, he turned. Kelburn was still there, slightly hidden behind the buildings and hills. The library was side-on from him, so he didn’t get the full impact of the view he would have from town: a solid block of lights, an ugly building made for looking out rather than looking in. But the best view of the city was from there. Anyone who’d been there could look up and be safe in this knowledge. And in looking at it, they were looking out of it, remembering looking out of it, tracing the curve of the hills as they grew into the evening, the sky sinking into the land, the city slowly lit up, block by block, until it was night. The leafless trees would be standing out against the rest
of the bush as if a pattern had been burnt into the Green Belt. Soon, the windows would stop showing the ferry’s movement across the harbour. Reflections would take over. Looking out, the faces would become beautiful for a moment; quiet and haunted, so much like their parents’, before they all turned away from the windows and back to their work. He would move between the aisles, emptying the bins, pens scratching all across the building.

Yes, he had something too.

Two weeks later I was stepping out of a shiny company car in last night’s dress, the embossed business card of my first conquest clenched firmly in my hand. He was on his way to golf with a client; I was on my way to two years of one-night stands. It had begun.

DISCLAIMER: The one-night stand is not for everyone, and should in no way be viewed as a mark of one’s sexual prowess. Just like the act of sex itself, one-night stands are never going to be as glamorous nor as frequent as your favourite TV shows—nor my first experience—paint them out to be. Indeed, on my path to enlightenment, I had both a seven-month dry-spell and foreplay involving a live axolotl. That being said, the experience of a one-night stand can be empowering, fulfilling, and just a sweet way to bone someone you don’t like enough to go out with.

Getting there:

Hey! I just met you…

While it’s not recommended to follow up “Hi my name is…” with “Wanna bang?”, carnal body language is not that hard to read. If you have a fair idea that the two of you might both want the same thing out of your night, then the best way to make it happen is to just be upfront about it. Tried and true: “You should probably just kiss me!”; “I’m not sure if they do this in your country, but I want to spend the night with you.”, or “Mama me”.*

Your Place or Mine?

The jury’s still out on whether it’s better to take your new friend back to yours, or head over to theirs for your play-date. Informative internet message boards I have perused have told me that you should always rendezvous in your own room: then you can stay in bed all day if you’re hungover, and there’s no walk of shame to endure.

Personally, I have always preferred to play the away game: that way the experience feels more like a holiday or open home—you can check out their flat, admire their bed linen, comment on their wall decorations. I also have a chronically messy bedroom—suitors need not know about my bad habits until we’ve been dating for at least a month. Besides, if they get really attached, at least they don’t know where you live.

It’s Business Time:

That’s a Wrap!

Use. A. Condom. I cannot stress this enough. Whether you carry them with you, have a supply in your bedside table, get a flatmate to hook you up with the goods, or simply request their presence when the time comes, ensuring that your night of passion doesn’t leave you a-rashin’ is absolutely essential.

Other forms of contraception are not enough. Sure, there may be no risk of pregnancy, but remember, you’ve just met this person—for all you know they rub their genitalia on public toilet seats for fun. Nothing is going to kill your no-strings-attached-banging buzz more than phoning to tell them that they gave you the clap.

And finally, if you think “But my penis doesn’t like condoms” sounds legit, then here’s some news for you: “Goodnight, and goodbye.”

OMG, sooooo awkward!

As a nation, New Zealanders are an extremely awkward people. We find a huge number of social interactions uncomfortable, and this doesn’t stop when we get to the bedroom. There’s a reason why most of us rely on alcohol to fuel our fondling.

If you’re planning to get freaky with an (almost) complete stranger, you’re going to have to do your best to set aside these national tendencies. Far from being overwhelming, the unfamiliarity of a one-night stand can be completely liberating. Remember, if this person has never met you before, or at least never encountered you in this setting, they have no expectations, no preconceptions. This is your time to shine, call the shots, and tell them exactly what, how, and where you want it. If you’re never going to see them again, why not turn the bedroom into your stage?

The Morning After:

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

You’ve just woken up, and following a night in the throes of passion, you are now in the throes of tangled bedsheets, a throbbing headache, and a stranger’s limbs. It’s understandable that your natural instinct is to run, run, and never look back. But hold on just a minute there! You’ve shared body fluids with this person; the least you can do is say goodbye in person. That being said, it’s important not to overstay your welcome. Read the mood: Spoon a little if you must, but when the time is right, get up, and get out of there. The

Stride o’ Pride:

The walk of shame is only as shameful as you allow it to be. Chances are nobody will notice; if they do they’re probably just jealous that you’re getting some and they ain’t. In preparation for your Stride of Pride, there are a few things you can do to make yourself look a little more presentable in the harsh light of day: slip on a hoodie,** slop on some make-up remover, slap down your bed hair, and wrap on some sunnies.***

And if you can’t bear the thought of venturing out in your current state, call in back-up. Flatmates in long-term relationships are often extremely intrigued by the night-time antics of their single friends; allow them to have a one-night stand vicariously through you, and you can be assured deliveries of appropriate daywear/lifts home from wherever you’re stranded in Aro Valley.

The follow-up:

How you should act in the hours, days, and weeks following your one-night stand all depends on what your relationship with this person was prior to getting in the sack, and what you want it to be afterwards. At the end of the day, whether you’re sleeping with your next door neighbour or a brand new friend, the most important thing to remember is that you are dealing with a human. Although you might have only ever been after a sweet piece of ass, dat ass has emotions that can be set into turmoil if you’re not up front about your intentions.

In an ideal world, I would prefer that either I or the person I have just had casual sex with be about to leave the country. However, aside from spending all your time lurking in Base Bar, this isn’t really practical. The key, just as it was when it came to business time, is to not be awkward about it.

These seas are certainly easier to navigate with a stranger, where it was probably a lot clearer from the outset that this connection was primarily a sexual one. If you’re not intending to reignite the fire in your respective loins, then it is sufficient to say/write/send a “I had a good time, thanks x” equivalent, to a style of your choosing.

Where your one-time lover is a long-time friend or acquaintance, you’re going to have to tread a little more cautiously. Think carefully about where you want to go from here before you fire off a series of texts ending in ‘xoxoxoox’, or tell all your mutual friends about the experience. If you’re not interested, keep the tone light but respectful, and try not to be weird about it the first time you see them in person (after that it’ll be smooth-sailing). If you would like to see more of your pal in a romantic setting, you can keep that door open by maintaining open but casual post-coital contact: a text or two referencing a joke shared between the sheets; the hypothetical suggestion of the possibility of getting a coffee in future, maybe. But remember, unless they’re reciprocating in kind, it’s best not to bombard the new light of your life—they’re probably trying to work out what the hell just happened, too.

Slut-shaming:

Consensual, respectful, and safe sex between adults should never be frowned upon simply because it occurs outside of a committed relationship or with multiple partners in the same number of days.

If you’re made to feel guilty and ashamed following your one-night stand, just remember: if you’re DTF, then you gotta be down to fuck the haters too.

——

*Spanish for “Suck me”.

**This presumes that you are going to see the person again, and can return their old hoodie at a future date of mutual convenience. If you’ve just slept with a complete stranger who you never wish to see again, it’s best not to steal their possessions. Theft is not sexy.

***On the treacherous route that is the walk of shame, no object is more welcome than a pair of sunglasses. Those tinted lenses can hide a multitude of sins, and you will not regret packing them in your bag. Just don’t be the douche who decides to whip them out at 3 am on the d-floor of Hope Bros.

Dan: Lots of people think they’re exactly the same. If I meet extended family, or people at parties, it’s always like, “what do you do?” And I say, “I study the philosophy of happiness.” And they say, “Okay, so, how can I be happy?” And… of course I do know, but that’s not the point of what I’m researching. For philosophy, this question is mainly what is happiness?

I guess we’ll save your secret answer until the end then.

Yes, give me some time.

Is the role of the philosopher of happiness to provide an understanding of how people naturally understand happiness, or is it to provide new ideas of what we should consider happiness to be?

It’s an interesting question. One answer that philosophers might give for what wellbeing is might be: the good life is the one which the hypothetical version of you, who knows everything about you and knows everything about what is good and what is valuable, would want for you. You might say that’s a bulletproof theory—there’s no way that’s wrong. That’s fine, but it doesn’t tell us anything about how we should live our lives and how we should organise our societies. I think philosophers need to pursue more practical definitions of happiness.

I might be different from a lot of philosophers in that I do care about people being happy. I’m especially interested in public policy and how we can organise our society to make people happier.

Do philosophers agree on what happiness is?

Philosophers tend to say happiness is basically feeling good, and that happiness is not all that’s important. Most philosophers say positive emotions can be bad too. Are you having this positive emotion because you’ve done a bad thing? Philosophers often say that doesn’t count. Are you happy because someone told you that you’re going to get this scholarship, then it turns out you don’t get it? Then your happiness is based on a falsity.

Nearly all say that there’s more to life than happiness. They’ll say other things are important, like truth or friendship—not just because they might bring happiness, but because they’re valuable in and of themselves. So some philosophers build a list of incommensurable things that make your life go well.

I personally think that, if you were going to have a list theory like that, there’s three main candidates: happiness, meaning, and autonomy. You want to be feeling good. You want to also think that your life is worthwhile in some sense. And you want to be actually free and in control of your life, rather than it just randomly happening.

But if those things like autonomy and truth don’t actually affect your experiences, do they matter?

I’m kind-of torn between those ideas. I philosophically totally back the idea that if you don’t experience it, it doesn’t affect how good your life is. So you can imagine a situation where you experience that you have autonomy, but you don’t actually have it. But I think that in terms of the real world, we need those things on the list to prevent someone saying, I know what’s in your best interests by giving you this good experience, which could all backfire in the real world.

Do we live in a happy society?

In New Zealand we are pretty happy. There are different ways to measure it. The most common question is, all things considered, how
satisfied with your life are you these days? And New Zealand does very well in those surveys, particularly compared to its average income. This ties in with a big question: does money bring happiness? Economists who study happiness are especially interested in that. But money is relevant for happiness. But it becomes less and less relevant the richer you get, both individually and as a society. But New Zealand is very happy, and we’re very good at turning our relatively meagre incomes into a lot of satisfaction with life. It’s hard to say whether that’s a reflection of the Kiwi ‘she’ll be right’ attitude, or if we do actually lead happy lives.

Do you think any particular policies follow from the idea that money contributes less to happiness the wealthier you become?

I do, but it’s very complicated in policy terms. If you look at the correlation between income equality and happiness across countries, the relationship is complex. In the US they have high income inequality but it is not strongly related to them being less happy. That’s because they have the idea of perceived income mobility. The poor people believe that they can make it—it’s the American Dream. So income inequality doesn’t seem to affect them that negatively. Whereas in other countries, like France for example, it does affect them more. I’m actually doing some research on this with a social psychologist. It seems that very highly religious nations and very non-religious countries—like New Zealand—are less satisfied if they have high income inequality. We’re trying to argue that, at least with the very non-religious countries, that’s because of the culture of rights and egalitarianism. When we see people who are very poor in our country, most of us think that they haven’t had a very good start, that they didn’t get as good an education, and that they may have lost out on the genetic lottery. And that’s not their fault, and they shouldn’t be punished. It’s the same in former Communist countries. But countries in the middle that are moderately religious, are more satisfied as income inequality in their country goes up.

So… In your opinion, Dan, what is the secret of happiness?

Okay. The secret is mainly genetic.

Oh.

But it’s not totally genetic. How old are you now?

I’m 21.

Okay. So your thoughts about yourself now—whether or not you’re a happy person now—are going to remain generally the same throughout your life. But people tend to dip. I’m 31 and I’m heading toward the really bad zone of happiness. And then it goes up again later on, pretty much when your kids move out of home, until you get very old when it dips again, as your health declines and you start worrying about death. What’s really relevant for people your age is the looming quarter-life crisis.

On that note, there’s a question I want to ask you. I’m 21 years old. I’m a student and I’m doing alright at university. I think maybe I’m spreading myself a little bit thin but I don’t necessarily want to change that because there’s lots I want to do. I know I’m still young but I can feel myself ageing. I’ve got bad knees. I can feel everything speeding up, and everyone says it speeds up even faster and I’m quite scared that next thing I know, I’ll be in a rest home or on my deathbed. And nothing in my life seems to have as much structure as it used to, and I don’t really know what to do, but I get the feeling that no matter what I decide I won’t achieve nearly as much as I want to, and so… what do I do?

Exactly. It’s a really common problem, and a lot of my peers have gone through this and still have exactly the same problem at 30. The way that our culture in Western society is at the moment is very much “get your dream and go and chase it”. But most people don’t know what their dream is! You could pursue journalism. You could be an academic. Or you could be an entrepreneur. What can you do?

I think that one of the keys to happiness is finding something, finding your dream. But there are conditions. It needs to be a dream that your particular strengths and aptitudes are well suited to, otherwise you might feel frustrated in trying to achieve your dream and never being very successful at it.

It should be something not only that you’re good at, but that you value. It adds meaning. You don’t go, it’s kind of fun to do this. You go, I feel like it’s important to do this, and other people think it’s important—particularly your society and those that are close to you. So even if you’re not genetically predisposed to be happy, you can still feel like your life is important, and get some happiness and satisfaction.

And then you might have a dream, and then you try it a bit and you’re like, nah, it’s not that great. And then you try something else. It is a real problem. We feel that we have so many options—and we do—but the world we live in knows a lot about marketing. So all these things that we work towards, they seem so great, but when we get them they’re not so good.

So what’s the problem? It’s expectations. If you’re the kind of person who expects too much out of life, then you’re never going to be satisfied. It sounds simple, but one of the things we may not realise is that there are all of these societal pressures to expect great things from ourselves and also from the things around us. Instead, we need to be learning how to be happy with what we’ve got. We just need to be aware of our expectations and our experiences. For example, I’m a dad now. I have two kids. I used to have this really free life where I could choose to do what I wanted. But now I have all these responsibilities. If my expectation was to be a dad and still be free, then I would be very frustrated right now. I would be quite unhappy.

So, are you happy, Dan?

I am happy. But I have noticed the steady decline that happens from shortly after 21.

Damn it.

Don’t worry. You could have another ten years before you start dipping.

You’ve got to be prepared for the inevitable, I guess.

21 is a classic peak year. At the end of your time at university, it is important to do the right thing, but by ‘do the right thing’, I don’t mean choose the right option. I mean have the right attitude. And then no matter what happens, it won’t be as bad.

Enrolments for the Trimester-Three paper PHIL 215/314, Happiness and Wellbeing, which is taught by Dr Weijers, are now open.

I was not close enough to hear the explosion. The panic felt at the finish line did not reach the section of the route I was near. I did not know anything had happened until my mother, who lives in California, called me 15 minutes after the initial blast to ask if I was okay. It was different than her other calls; it was urgent, serious, and almost as if she had expected something was wrong and was relieved to hear otherwise. She told me to get home as quickly as I could and turn on the news.

It was an odd feeling to be truly scared in Boston. Before the bombing, I felt safer walking back from the library to my off-campus apartment alone at three o’clock in the morning than I did when I took my dog out at night in my sleepy, suburban hometown. I’m essentially among peers all day, every day—half of the city’s population is composed of university students who attend one of the 53 colleges in the Boston area. I would maintain awareness of my surroundings, but I would not make a beeline towards home.

The fear that followed the bombing felt like it mostly stemmed from the uncertainty surrounding the event. The constant, “Who did this and why?” plagued most conversations I had for a few weeks. At Boston University, everyone was edgy and anxious. Suddenly, any mildly strange occurrence was immediately suspicious and warranted investigation. If anyone saw anything, they absolutely said something.

The day after the bombing, the Boston University Police Department sent out an emergency alert through the University’s system to warn of a suspicious package left outside the library where I had been working on a project. It was fight-or-flight to me; I felt like I had to walk home immediately. I did so without listening to music or letting my mind wander out of fear for my safety. Law enforcement officials were everywhere while the search for the suspect or suspects continued, and although their presence was necessary, it exacerbated the fear and anxiety on campus.

That Thursday night, I received a message through the university alert system about the MIT police officer, Sean Collier, who had been shot and killed. I didn’t connect the bombing with the shooting at first; both scared me, but the events seemed disconnected. I went to bed before the story had fully developed, emotionally exhausted from the constant news coverage. What I woke up to a few hours later was, for lack of a better word, insane. I had messages from BU urging me to stay inside, friends asking me if I was okay, if I was watching the news, if I knew what was going on.

When the lockdown ended and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured, it felt like all of Boston breathed a sigh of relief. However, the security measures enacted following the bombings have remained in place. Bomb-sniffing dogs were present at BU’s commencement ceremony, and large bags had to be checked at tables before entering the venue. Graduating students had to carry their caps and gowns into the venue and change into them in their lines.

Interestingly enough, some people seem bitter or angry about the increase in security at university events. When the security protocol regarding commencement was announced, many students complained about how long all of the screenings would take. Others felt that this was an overreaction, and that the bombings were an individual event enacted by two people and would not happen again.

I understand the frustration that extra security creates. I remember going to the airport after 9/11 and seeing how much tighter and more intense security was. The lines were insanely long, and the process felt like it took hours to nine-year-old me. What I do not understand, however, is how such measures don’t feel worth it. How someone can whine and moan about long lines and extra security at the ceremony without pausing to think about the possibility of a repeat attack. Without extra security, something like the Marathon bombings could easily happen again. I would much rather sacrifice an extra 30 minutes out of my day and get to the arena early and have my bag searched than live in the kind of anxiety that the tragedy caused again.

When I left Boston for the summer, the memorial for the bombing victims that had been set up in Copley was still standing, and I have a feeling that fresh flowers will still be there when I return in August. The tragedy will always be a part of my classmates’ and my experience at university. Its effects will be felt at large University events and it will be remembered at the Boston Marathon for years to come. However, while the bombings can’t and won’t ever be forgotten, the city of Boston will recover.

I was home in Sunndal, about 300 km away from Oslo. I remember sitting in a chair in the living room, watching television and surfing the internet. Suddenly, I saw tweets saying “gas explosion near the government buildings”, “big explosion in Oslo” and such. My first reaction was to text my friends in the AUF [Worker’s Youth League, the youth wing of Norway’s Labour Party] asking if they were okay, since their offices are close to the government. One texted back: “We’re at the safest place on Earth.” A couple of hours later I was crying and hoping to get in contact with the same people—then knowing that it probably was the least safe place to be.

It was my first day off in 14 days. I was supposed to be at AUF’s summer camp on Utøya, but since I had got a couple of extra days of work at the local newspaper I didn’t go. I already knew I was going to study in the capital, so I had started moving at the beginning of the month. The first couple of days after the terror attacks took place, I felt guilty for not being on the island, which is kind of absurd, but it felt natural because very many of my friends had been there.

What was your involvement with youth politics before the attacks?

I started in AUF in 2006, when I was 14. In 2010 I became a part of the National Delegates’ Board. I was also the deputy leader of Møre og Romsdal county. My last position was in July 2011 as a journalist in the member magazine Praksis.

Has student involvement in youth political groups changed (increased/decreased) following the terror attacks?

It’s hard to say without any specific numbers to look at, but for example, participation in both the student parliament election and headmaster election at the University of Oslo was at its lowest this year.

Have youth political groups become more or less active following the terror attacks?

Studies show that more youth are politically active now compared to before the terror attacks. Especially in the months after, the political youth organisations got an increased member population. The age for voting for both local and national elections is now 18 years. Many political parties, especially on the left-wing side, want it to be changed to age 16.

Has the security at the University and around the country increased since the attacks? How do you feel about the level of security at the University/in Norway?

I don’t think students in Norway feel that the security level has been raised after 22 July, but I know that the universities and colleges have been told by the state that they have to have a emergency plan. The responsibility rests on the police and Department of Justice and Public Security, and they have had many internal investigations to improve what went wrong when the terror hit.

What has Norway done to ensure student safety and welfare following the attacks?

The main consequence of the terror attacks is that the focus on students’ mental health is more important. Students that had been involved in the attacks or anybody who had troubles dealing with emotions after were allowed to go to the front of the queue for psychiatrist services in the student-welfare organisations.

In November 2011 I started to see a psychiatrist connected to the student-welfare organisation in Oslo because of my connections to the happenings at Utøya, and a fear of failing my exam in December. Students that were on Utøya also had the chance to take exams later or have more time to sit the exams because of concentration problems. I don’t know if these special arrangements still exist.

Do most students feel safe at the University, or is there an ongoing feeling of insecurity?

In November 2011 there was a report saying one out of six students felt insecure at their university. I don’t know what the numbers are now, but when thinking about how my friends and acquaintances behave, I don’t see any signs of panic. Personally, I remember thinking insecure during the first couple of weeks, looking for emergency exits just in case something happened.

Do you think the attacks brought the university community, and Norway as a nation, together?

There’s certainly no doubt that it brought Norway as a nation closer together, the first couple of months after the terror. I think the values and how we reacted will still be in our subconscious, and will be a part of the generations growing up. But I think everyone will admit that it was hard to have a good public discussion of the issues that followed, because there were so many feelings connected to the happenings.

Did you think about leaving Norway following the attacks?

Leave the country that has been ranked as the best place in the world to live several times? Nope. Compared to the rest of Europe this is a very safe place to be a student, both in terms of the welfare while studying and job opportunities after finishing your degree. The only thing I was thinking about after the attacks was how fast I could get to Oslo and comfort my friends. It’s very important to remember that the attacks were carried out by only one man, terrorist Anders Behring Breivik.

What effect have the attacks had on extreme-right-wing political discourse in Norway?

Wow, this is a tough one, because everything depends on how you define ‘extreme-right-wing’. For ten years, after its beginning in 1998, there was a Nazi group called Vigrid in Norway, but this doesn’t exist anymore. Historically, there hasn’t been an extreme-right-wing political party since the Second World War. Some people would say that the Progress Party in Norway have a tendency to talk about asylum seekers in a racist way, but this doesn’t necessarily make them extreme.

What is interesting to look at is how the terrorist Anders Behring Breivik found inspiration online. I don’t know how it is in New Zealand, but Norwegian online newspapers’ message boards are dominated by angry racists when it comes to rape, jobs, murders and criminality. It’s scary to see what opinions there are out there, and the worst part is that you don’t know if it’s your neighbour, a person beside you at the bus, or a mentally ill person writing it. So one could say there’s no clearly extreme-right-wing political discourse in Norway, but we know there’s a dark force in our society as well.

How are the responses/reaction to the attacks in Norway different to responses by the public in mass-shooting incidents in the US?

I feel like I need to choose my words carefully when trying to discuss this, because there are so many differences between the 22 July attacks and the mass-shooting incidents in the US. Firstly, this was the first national attack since World War Two. There have been over ten mass-shooting incidents since 2011 in the US—mostly on universities. I think I can say with quite a lot of certainty that the first reactions after the terror attacks in Norway and US are the same: the deepest, blackest grief you can imagine. It’s the second reaction that makes us different from each other: instead of getting angry and vengeful, Norwegians were filled with love and care for the victims, their family and each other.

One can of course ask “Why or how are Norway and the US different from each other?” There are many historical differences, which I don’t need to talk about now, but a big difference is that Norway is a peace nation—we have never been at war, except during the Second World War when we were occupied. The two countries deal with criminality differently also: the highest imprisonment in Norway is 21 years (and lifelong custody*), and in the US there’s death penalty in many states, yet there’s more crime in the US. It’s cultural differences.

Were there many arguments to increase gun control/gun access following the attacks?

The only discussion which I can really remember is whether the police should carry guns when patrolling. Currently the gun is locked in the car, and they have to ask for permission from their boss to take it out. The Norwegian police are the ones demanding the change, probably because of the experience of 22 July. When it comes to the average Norwegian it’s already hard to get a gun, and if you get a gun it’s because you’re going to go out hunting animals, not—as in America—as a protection for your family.

What do you think can and has been learned from the attacks?

Even though we have come a long way with our society and democracy, it’s still fragile. We have a safe environment in Norway, but we cannot close our eyes for the evil in the world, even though most days are struggle-less for us. I’m so happy that we reacted with love, and wanting to fight with words for democracy and openness. I hope, and know, that Norway’s reaction to the terror has been and will be a role model for other countries in similar situations.

Is there anything else you would like to add?

I think I would have answered these questions differently if it was a terrorist attack at a university. The 22 July terrorist attacks were an attack at the Norwegian Labour Party and its youth organisation—and what most people in Norway would say are Norwegian values: democracy and openness.

——

*A sentence where the criminal is tried every five years and can in theory be in jail for life.

- Student Health tips.

- Other free things that are on.

- www.assignment4u.co.nz.

- Dispose of a family member and get compassionate consideration.

- Eat raw chicken to the same effect.

- Dump your significant other.

- Ritalin.

- Bore everyone you encounter with details of your essay/exam; talking it out will help. Alternatively discuss how TOTALLY FUCKED you are in an effort to convince yourself you don’t have to do any real study.

- Make like eight flashcards on Quizlet, post the set to your class Facebook page, and ask for others to chip in.

- Spend all your time at the library.

- Leave class Facebook pages; the notifications are ridiculous, and you will be fooled into thinking you need to study less because everyone else is asking such dumb questions.

- Taking a bag of baby carrots and a thing of hummus to the library will get you through a day.

- If you consider yourself too good for the mocha during term time, you should relax this; they are surprisingly comforting.

- Go running or swimming a couple of times a week. You will sleep better and feel less stressed. (If you run all the time and are never stressed, stop running; Hermione Granger would say it’s better to be a bit nervous.)

- That app called SelfControl that blocks social media.

- Actual self-control.

- Spring-clean your room/fl at before you start studying, this will help you focus and remain calm (mess creates stress).

- Tweet and make statuses about how much study you have to do; people are really interested.

- Use studying as an excuse for just about anything: a day off work, skipping Aunt Helen’s 50th, etc.

- Plan actual breaks—not just checking Facebook, but getting out of the house and doing something you enjoy.

- Classical music.

- Switch things up and study nude.

- Find alternative study venues: forests, in the middle of roundabouts, farms, in the Bucket Fountain, under tables in fancy restaurants.

- Put a picture of Colin Craig at the end of every page, so that you motivate yourself to avoid being as ignorant as him.

- Sleep. Like planned, regular sleep, not just when you fall asleep during your Breaking-Bad-studybreak-turned-marathon.

- Tell yourself that if you don’t study, you have to hang out on the overbridge.

- Berocca + ice + sparkling water (+ gin).

- Cover all your walls in colour-coded notes outlining every single point your lecturer ever made for every subject. Also colour-code your subjects.

- Use this as an excuse to go stationery shopping (also buy: a pack of fine-tip black Bic pens, highlighters, Post-it notes, more fine-tip black Bic pens)

- Find your lecturer’s blog/Twitter. Read through their archives – it’s totally, somehow, related to the work you did in class. If you reference something they’re interested in, they have to bump you up a grade. It’s like a rule or something.

- Completely change your personality for three weeks.

- Hang out in your Hall’s dining room in the middle of the night, chatting to the security lady, and watch shit videos on YouTube.

- The soundtrack from A Single Man, full volume, 24/7.

- Go to Kirks and get heaps of perfume samples. Wear different ones depending on which subject you’re studying, then wear that perfume in your exam. Scent memory = totes real memory.

- Take breaks to make yourself nice, decent dinners. Download semi-related podcasts to listen to while doing this (and going for walks/runs) so you’re still technically studying.

Location, location, location: Study spaces—Wi-Fi-nk you very much

- The Botanic Garden is a serene place to focus on your study, with many quiet areas for a quick gobby.

- Switch it up a bit by studying in other libraries you wouldn’t usually go to; Vic has heaps of them hidden away among the Faculties.

- Wellington Central Library has free Wi-Fi.

- Wellington National Library, corner of Molesworth and Aitken Streets. Recently redecorated with a whole bunch of new computers, desks, and there’s free Wi-Fi.

Student Health’s Tips for Exam Stress

With exams nearly here, things are heating up. Here are a few tips to get you through:

Try to TAKE THE POWER OUT OF EXAMS—they are pieces of paper with questions on them for you to show what you have learned and thought about. Can you see them as a challenge rather than a threat?

If the level of tension you feel over exams gives you a sense of energy and productivity – great! This is useful. If it makes you feel unpleasantly anxious, or interferes with your thinking and planning, it is probably too high.

Here are some stress-reducing ideas to try – experiment to find out what works best for you.

Exam preparation

- Maintain a healthy lifestyle with a balanced diet, sleeping, exercise, work and relaxation. Plan time out to do things you enjoy, not connected with study. Avoid overuse of stimulants and relaxants.

- Have a realistic study plan that you are likely to stick to, and study when your energy and attention are at their best. If possible, find a distraction-free study environment.

- Put any unnecessary tasks, demands or problems on hold until after exams. Also, let friends and family know about your exams and ask for the support you need.

- Practise some relaxation, breathing and sleep management techniques. See our website for FREE Educational Programmes that can teach you these: www.victoria.ac.nz/st_services/counselling/resources/group-programme.pdf.

- Get familiar with general exam techniques. Student Learning Support have advisors and run workshops that can help with this: www.victoria.ac.nz/st_services/slss/.

- THINK BEYOND THE EVENT. Look forward to the day it will be all over. Plan a reward – something that will help you to feel good.

On the day of your exam

- By now, you probably know all you can know!

- Try to give yourself the best chance of remembering and focussing on your knowledge. Excess stress and worry can affect your memory, recall, focus and attention. Hopefully you have done some of the preparation above.

- On the day, have a reliable way of waking up, and consider when/what you will eat and drink beforehand. Try to get a whole night’s sleep the night before your exam. Keep your energy and concentration up!

- Get there early enough so you are in the right place. A brief walk, using the bathroom and a relaxation/breathing exercise, can be helpful before going into the exam room.

- Position yourself in a space in the room that is best for you, and take a little time to breathe and relax before the exam begins.

- Remind yourself you have learned all you can. Try to focus your thoughts on the exam. If you are distracted by worry or other things, notice it, STOP, and refocus on the exam paper.

All the best from the Counselling Service.

My night begins as all Saturdays should, at a party somewhere in Aro Valley. I walk there at around 9.30, while Wellington warms up. Three girls in matching headbands occupy a space near Slow Boat: one standing, bored; one sitting, crying; one somewhere in between. Two loud guys and a puffer-jacketed girl jostle their way into a liquor store, apologise profusely for “how drunk she is”, then bound back out, purchasing nothing. Karaoke tunes blast out of Shalimar. It is very cold.

The party, when I make it there, is kinda small. Ten or so of my friends inhabit an end bedroom, with no strangers. This is good. I overexplain what I’m doing to everyone who listens, occasionally to the same person two or three times. I’m after a buddy, someone who will accompany me through the black chucks and sticky floors in exchange for some free drinks. Someone puts on ‘Best I Ever Had’, splitting the room between Drake-lovers and Drake-haters, but without any booze I’ll only rap along to ‘Over’ or ‘Headlines’. I try in vain to secure some Ritalin. A friend narrates her ‘212’ dance. Midnight, or ‘town-time’, approaches, and the gulf between ‘them’ and me widens. They all stand in a circle singing something, I sit and write about said circle on my phone. Conversations start to repeat, mini-cliques start to develop, and I start to really want a bourbon.

The party ends abruptly, around 11.40. I barely have time to fix my hair. Worse still, my friends are heading to Puppies. Salient isn’t after Puppies-town. Fortunately, there is a cover charge, and I peel off a few people with promises of free drinks at Good Luck. They finish the last of their wine as we approach Cuba St. A block down, two girls stand in heels on their phones; I ask them for a quick interview. They’re waiting for their friends to leave a fl at, heading to “anywhere but Hope Bros”, because “their bouncers are shit; they let 15-year-olds in.” At the end of the interview they realise the black object I’m holding in between us is, in fact, recording. I probably should have made that clear. This is going okay. I’ve interviewed people, I’ve got a few friends to come along, and I’ve already got pages of what I think are trenchant observations. It’s just on midnight.

I don’t hate town. I should make that clear here. Due to an unfortunate foray into Design School, I’ve had two first-years now, and my fair share of screaming Skrillex drops at my friends while 40 other people pulsate around us. Town can be a wordless adventure, a kaleidoscope of texture you share with one other inebriated person. So, I’m not just here to bitch about town. But don’t worry, I will.

Near Vivian St, an elderly taxi driver confronts a guy and a girl. I stand awkwardly near, for the sake of journalism. They won’t pay because “you hit her bro!”, a fact the driver denies, citing video evidence. A woman in her mid-30s, staring as she walks, narrowly avoids an electricity box. “We told you to go to Bristol anyway,” interjects the dude (I’m recording this), which seems like a pretty weird direction given Bristol isn’t on a driveable street. The lights change; I hurry after my friends.

Despite the cold, Cuba Mall is packed. A blonde girl in a blue dress excitedly yells at her group. A guy and a girl sit on an ATM, somehow. Two guys in faded jeans and untucked dress shirts add themselves to the Good Luck queue, which is already pretty long. My whole group needs to pee, so we hurry into Bristol, where a covers band are playing. While a female friend of mine is ID’d, a random guy grabs both her arms, screams a lyric into her face, then walks off. Bristol’s downstairs space is full of an awkward convergence. Teenagers throw themselves around to the band, while groups of uncomfortable-looking 20-somethings wish they hadn’t ordered a whole jug. A guy with black hair and a black shirt holds a girl’s finger. It’s 12.19, and the male toilets are already somewhat fecal. I manage to urinate without touching any surfaces. A chubby dude in his early 30s claps me on the back as I wash my hands, obviously proud of my journalistic efforts. It’s too loud to interview anyone, and the drinks here are pretty terrible, so we head back out.

Good Luck’s line is still huge; my friends decide on Ivy. I worry a little about whether Ivy is quite within the student experience Salient wanted me to write about, and whether I can even write about the ‘straight’ experience of gay bars without being an arsehole, but I love Ivy, so we head down. The bouncer, like every bouncer ever, smirks a little at the photo on my five-year-old learner licence. Eager to appear self-aware, I interrupt his smirk with “I knowww, right?”, as I have with every other bouncer in Wellington. Ivy itself is loud without being annoying, and crowded without being packed. I buy my friends shots of tequila (I did promise!), which has never looked so appealing. One of them offers to buy me a shot in return, but my resolve holds strong. ‘Beauty and a Beat’ comes on, causing the girls in my group to coo at each other while they dump their jackets. I find myself, oddly, confident enough to join them, as I love this song. One won’t always be young enough to growl “but-you-gotta-keep-an-eye-out-for- SELENAAA” at a friend in perfect time while three couples make out around you. Still, I touch my neck a whole lot, not knowing what else to do with my hands. Dancing for me is basically just moving my knees. All too fast, a new, unknown song is on, and my sober awkwardness kicks in fully. Back with our jackets and the bored-looking boyfriends, I type notes into my phone—very aware that I look like that guy who can’t stop texting. It’s around 12.45 when we finally leave.

Courtenay Place is a writhing beast. I’m constantly touching people by accident, brushing past them or being brushed past, and I’m acutely aware of it. Every second person is on their phone, swinging around to establish their exact location and relay it back. Every guy is wearing those all-over black chucks, or hideously shiny dress shoes. For every five drunk teenagers there’s a really uncomfortable looking adult, regretting being out so late. A girl runs right into me, apologises, then chases after someone, iPhone in hand. I ask a friend if she needs to be a little buzzed to enjoy town, and if so, why? She can’t quite get a good answer out. Like any good interviewer, I give her one to spit back at me, and elaborate on. “Sensory overload, yeah, just, uh, it’s a lot.” One of the boyfriends, eager to contribute, interjects. “It’s fucking depressing, just, I don’t know, I hate it.”

We enter Public around 1 am, and last all of four minutes. Small groups dance in circles throughout the fog, pointing at the ceiling with their mouths half-open. I am intensely aware of my jacket and where my wallet and phone sit within it. ‘Ni**as in Paris’ comes on, but my friends don’t want to be here. Outside, four guys walk past with a pizza box each. That’s a really great idea. There’s still a feeling of energy in the crowds, but it’s starting to flag, starting to get messier. Girls instagram photos of their shisha. A guy walks backward a metre or so in front of his friends, dancing at them before he bumps into our group and yelps “Watch out for these girls bro!” Three guys in near-matching polo shirts jump out of a cab. We sit on the corner of Blair and Courtenay and discuss whether Puppies is worth it at this stage. A few people almost sit on me. I have absolutely nothing interesting to say, no conversational wisdom or elegance. The music from two or three separate clubs is mixing into one, shiny, beatless mess. It’s 1.11 am.

An acquaintance, who wishes not to be named, used to be a bartender at a Courtenay Place bar. Consequently, she isn’t a huge fan of town. “This is what people look forward to every weekend; this is their way to lose control, and it’s just so… greasy and disgusting.” Which group was worse: students or young professionals? “Men. Men from both of those groups. Men will come around the side of the bar, they’ll call you names, they’ll demand a smile, they’ll refuse to be served by anyone else. Some of them tried to get my attention with laser lights. Female bartenders are expected to be overjoyed by the experience of serving.” So, if you do want to get the attention of a bartender, without being a douchebag, what should you do? “Just wait. Waving money or clicking at us is fucking rude. We see you. We’re sober, we know what’s going on.”

I’m outside Puppies, sober, and I don’t know what’s going on. It’s almost 2 am. My group has left. It’s much more crowded than I expected. My ankles really hurt. I snapchat a selfie of myself, alone, to the Salient editors, captioned “bleak”. I feel physically ill when I think about Courtenay Place, where I should probably be for this story. Eventually I find some new, town-bound people who I know from high school. I ask one of them what they want out of the night. “To be honest, I want to objectify women,” he chuckles. “Don’t put my name on this.” My new town-’friends’ are discussing their shoes at great length, and which one of them deserves to get with a girl they know. A woman brushes very close to me as she walks past, her hand touching my crotch for no discernable reason. I figure it’s an accident, until she turns back and stares. She’s kind of old and obviously wasted. Finally, a few friends come out of Puppies. They can understand each other’s slightly slower diction, but I’m having trouble. Still, they are comforting, and one of them is keen for Courtenay-town.

The friend—let’s call her Amy—has lost her wallet. She’s searching on the pavement of Tory St without even a phone backlight to aid her, when a passing piece-of-shit “shotguns” her. My notes here read: “I hate everything”. She finds her wallet, and we start the walk to Courtenay, planning on visiting Famous, the new Lotus. She’s trying to tell me funny stories about her night; I’m imitating laughter. She’s drunk enough not to notice. Around 2.20 am, we reach Courtenay.

Town fucking reeks. The sweat; the urine; the booze; the cologne. I’ve never been so in love with my phone, which I’m continually using to remove my mind from the situation. Famous’s line is too long, so we head to The Establishment. I haven’t been here in years. Amy buys a bourbon and coke, which I have a sip of. Carbonated liquid has never tasted so amazing. I almost buy one for myself, but decide against it. ‘212’ comes on; we go to dance. Every guy who isn’t already closing looks as bored as I am. Two of them come to dance near us—near Amy—and overplay their hands, literally. She calmly puts down her drink before telling them to fuck off. I feel horrible. I’ve put her in this situation, I’ve convinced her to come to town, and now she’s been groped by some guy in a fucking Cotton On shirt. Of course, this always happens in town; I’m just better at forgetting about it when I’m drunk. Just on three, we leave.

Amy’s in a cab, and I’ve found a flatmate to investigate Manners McDonald’s with. A guy just stumbled out of the bathroom with vomit down his front. A couple sit between two groups of friends, the guy with his hand up her lacy dress, their half-eaten burgers forgotten. My notes read “only approached guys to interview in the last few hours because the idea of approaching a girl rn is horrific”. Following this trend, I ask the only guy alone in McDonald’s if I can talk to him about town. He’s been to Hope Bros, which was “how Hope Bros always is”. Why did he pick Hope Bros? “It’s sleazy, uh, to be honest.”

I try to interview my taxi driver on the way home, but he isn’t that keen. McDonald’s is terrible sober. People slam the windows of our cab as we drive by, jump out in front of it, fall over. The driver finally tells me he prefers to work weekends because of the extra cash. This has been the worst night of my year, but it’s just that: a night. Not my life. Not my livelihood. I leave the driver a tip, the first time I have ever done this, and hurry into my warm flat.

Never again.

Observations from the field

9.34: white guys singing wu tang

10.37: “we just need a song to get everyone up ” but no one has trouble by taylor swift 12.30: i really love my phone

12.52: excited girls yelling about hope bros

1.34: girls who look like they went to all girls schools who study boring practical subjects really intimidate me. it’s not attraction but it isn’t repulsion either. Ii’s just they feel both older and younger than me at the same time. 1.50: sitting on phone by self. people are yelling about star signs

2.05 fake laughing along with best friend as we walk 2 famous

2.29 met new person talked about job wasn’t that hard but hard to end conversation without awkwardly just saying bye ended up doing that