At a certain point of your university life, you stop feeling like a student and start feeling like an anthropologist observing student behaviour in the wild. The only time you set foot on Castle Street is to cut through to the Botans. The only people you recognise in Central are the librarians. You realise your degree is going to lead to a 9-5 job. Shit starts getting too real.
By our fourth and fifth years, Abby (23) and Hanna (21) have reached a very specific kind of Otago washed-upness. The kind where you still get student discounts but also find yourself having serious discussions about the price of kumara at New World and the construction of the Dunedin Hospital. The kind where all your friends have left Dunedin and the ones who stay are trying to sell you kumara at New World. We aren’t old, but we’re too old for this. So, in a final, misguided attempt to recapture something – our youth, our enthusiasm, our ability to metabolise alcohol without consequences – we decided to go to the Toga Party.
Phase One: Construction
The worst part of the process wasn’t sneaking in. It was, without question, making the togas.
How many law students in their early 20s does it take to tie a bedsheet into something wearable? As it turns out, more than two. In fact, we had to recruit social media influencer Brad into helping us figure out what the actual fuck we were doing. However, even he tapped out and ended up rewatching the toga video he made on the Critic ‘gram (we won over the Exec and R1 so suck it) before switching to YouTube tutorials – chardonnay in hand (the kind that doesn’t burn on the way down).
After multiple failed attempts, some aggressive safety pinning, and getting tangled in some sheets (not even in a fun way) we had our fits sorted. With her Mary Janes, toga two-piece and makeshift headscarf, Abby looked a bit like a sexy nun. Hanna resorted to tying knots into an attempted mini-dress, giving total fresher cosplay with her AirForce 1s. Slugging down rosé and overlooking the hordes of sheet-clad freshers, it was time for Phase Two.
Phase Two: Infiltration
With Critic’s designated shitposter Brad in tow (a PhD student, and therefore practically a fossil), we stormed the gates. There were gigantic, too-confident, intimidating packs of 18-year-olds as far as the eye could see. Their eyes were bright, high off life (plus maybe other stuff) and full joy from never having paid a power bill.
It didn’t take long for disaster to strike. Abby, as someone who has made the questionable decision to post her face on the internet as a fifth year student, was always a liability in an undercover operation. “Aren’t you that fifth-year law student that makes TikToks?” a doe-eyed fresher, in one of those cunty toga-bras, asked. “Keep your voice down,” Abby hissed, and we slipped unsuspectingly into the night.
Our first stop was the silent disco. With the blare of the main stage reduced to a bassy hum, we donned wireless headphones and made our way into the thrall. For whatever reason, the headphones played on two different ‘stations’. This meant Hanna was singing to Katy Perry’s ‘Last Friday Night’ while Abby and Brad bopped to Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Bonkers’, causing them to believe she’d suffered a mental breakdown from realising everyone around her was born in 2007 (shudder).
Around us, groups of freshers danced and laughed, taking endless photos with the kind of enthusiasm only first-years possess. A few even took pictures of us, oblivious to the fact that we were at least three years too old to be there. Then, in a moment of clarity, Hanna mused, “What I will say, it is really nice to party with a bunch of people who aren’t judgemental. ‘Cause they don’t give a fuck about what’s cool or not. They’re new, so they’re really open-minded about everything. Everyone is just genuinely having a really good time.” How the tables were turning.
After a while, the sheer overstimulation of it all – the lights, the crowds, the brand new staches – became overwhelming. One thing was evident and that was that our ages had started to show (evident by our drink of choice, chardonnay rather than RTDs.) Gone were the days where midnight was just the warm-up. We were firmly entering grandma territory, where the most inviting place on earth at this hour was our own (queen) beds. “As if they’ve done this for four nights straight,” Abby muttered in disbelief. We, on the other hand, had taken a single lap around the venue and already needed wine and a sit down.
Phase Three: Wait, are freshers… nice?
If we’re being honest, we had entered the party fully expecting the worst. We were ready to document the unhinged chaos of first-year cringe. We’re talking about no festival etiquette, screeching to DnB, random vomiting, and spilling drinks. However, we are proud (and a little humbled) to report that the freshers were actually lovely.
They wanted to be our friends, organise flatting plans, take pictures together, and put Critic stickers on their forehead. We were well and truly taken under the wing of some really great students. The mosh wasn’t pushy, the music was good, and nobody was aggressive. The food was cheap, the drink line short. It felt like our own little oasis, forming a home made of four wonderwalls that guarded us from the normal bullshittery of student life. Not to rag on our fellow older students, but maybe we could learn a thing or two from these young people.
This was not the Toga Party we remembered. Where was the overpowering stench of RTDs and upchucked hall mac n cheese? Where were the dramatic public breakups, the guy throwing up in a bush? The girls sobbing? The bottles being thrown to the head, and the faux-rain on your skin caused by someone throwing their nearly empty drink in the air? Where were the ambulances?
This was not the lawless land of first-year debauchery we had once known. Has the Toga Party changed? Or had we?
Phase Four: Exit Strategy
At our big, old, haggard age, the only thing scarier than getting caught was the realisation that we might have to stay out past 2am. No can do. The mosh pit had been survivable, but the uncomfortable making-out phase had begun, and we knew it was time to leave. We battled the crowd until midnight, at which point we tapped out. Call it a tactical retreat.
As we walked out, the triumphant beat of Kendrick Lamar’s ‘Not Like Us’ filled the air. A quiet sense of hope settled over us. Maybe these freshers really were ‘not like us’. And for the first time, that felt like a good thing. As K-Dot said, “He [we] a fan” (as in admirer, not the cooling device or acronym used by Kendrick).
Toga Party was a beautiful night and the freshers were on brilliant form. When we finally leave this town (knock on wood), we can rest easy that the future of Dunedin is in some very capable, slightly sticky hands. Did we belong there? Absolutely not. Did we have a fantastic time? Against all odds, yes.
The Final Phase: Good Night
We have nothing else to say other than that Toga was so much more fun than expected. While we still retained our superiority complex about returning home to a cosy queen bed as opposed to a run-through single, our only conclusion was that maybe we were the problem in first year, not freshers more generally. As we walked home in our stupid togas, we were told to “have a good night” by passersby. And a good night we had.