Liam White. Not a myth or legend per se, but definitely the most important man on campus (aside from Daddy Grant). He’s responsible for managing and looking after the OUSA-baby in all its glory. Whether it’s getting along with everyone or shitting itself, Liam is ultimately the one responsible for changing the diapers.
But whose diaper is Liam changing, you ask? Good question. “What is OUSA?” is a timeless query, second only to, “What is the meaning of life?” Standing for Otago University Students' Association, ‘OUSA’ aims to make your student experience as smooth as possible, so you can focus on your could-have-bought-crypto-but-now-I’m-studying-at-Otago degree. It includes departments like Student Support, Student Job Search and Clubs and Socs, employs Radio One and Critic Te Ārohi, and runs all student events and programmes (hence the many middle managers and marketing department). It’s also home to our student politicians, the Exec, who run the show. If the Exec is our Beehive and Critic is the Press Gallery, Liam White is the Prime Minister. And, just like the Prime Minister, Liam is a very busy man.
He juggles — brace yourself — the student Executive, speaking to press, chairing meetings, working with subsidiary boards, twenty-five OUSA committees, council meetings, meetings with Grant Robertson, regular staff meetings, his campaign, every OUSA-run event, lobbying, drafting agendas, readings, liaising with the University’s communications department, even more readings, coordinating with marketing, probably some extra readings, the iconic sausage sizzles; and whatever else he’s forgotten to mention. And this is all on top of being a student.
Despite being the man of the people, 55% of students (according to last year’s Critic census) didn’t even know the Prez’s name. That’s just among Critic readers, where the student exec gets plenty of coverage. Among the broader student population – those of you who flip straight to the horoscopes – it’s no doubt way lower. Liam is the most important, yet unimportant, man on campus.
But we understand. In the era of MAGA and David Seymour twerking on Dancing with the Stars, we all know politicians need a little je ne sais quoi (or a cult of personality) to rally the people behind them. So Critic spent eleven hours with the Prez on behalf of students, to determine whether we should care about him; or if Liam should remain in the “who?” category of student life, beneath dance-icon William, Critic Bachelor Joel Tebbs, and Miga Hako rice-balls.
8:00am
It’s a damp Dunedin morning, day two of O-Week’s Tent City, and Mr. President is already behind schedule. Cold mocha in hand, Critic waits patiently for Liam’s permission to enter his flat. As it turns out, Liam’s lateness is well known among the Exec, who have a 'Liam Late Tally' on the whiteboard in their office. It had four marks on it – and he’d just gained a fifth. Eventually, his flatmate Amy let Critic inside. His flat is exactly what you’d expect: boring as hell. The only notable decoration was a scattering of cliché inspirational posters throughout the living room. Could have at least tried to butter us up by including some Critic art, Liam.
8:38am
Picture a tall, pale, dad-bodded man. He’s got a dark, fabulously well-groomed beard and moustache, and a paradoxical middle-aged youthfulness. He might be 20, he might be 42 – we don’t really know (we do, he’s 22). Who is it? It’s Mr. President in his pajamas! He emerges from his bedroom, posing like your dad when he’s been woken up early on Christmas, knowing he’s only getting more socks and “joint” paternal gifts. Liam yawns a hello and says he thought Critic would be arriving later (he was sorely mistaken). Ten minutes later, he’s dressed and ready to bounce. The fit for the day? Cargo shorts, white t-shirt, miscellaneous flannel, rain jacket, and fresh Nike sneakers. After rubbing my eyes to make sure I was, in fact, seeing Liam and not my father, we left to begin the day.
9:00am
The sky is grey, and rain is pouring on the Otago Museum Lawn, its drumming magnified by dozens of tented roofs. After a bit of running around to set up for the sausage sizzle, Liam settles into his surroundings. It quickly becomes clear that Liam is a natural at chit-chat. He’s the kind of guy who seems confident in himself and what he does. “I just love the people, and the people love me,” he says. Well, the people would probably love him even more if he weren’t late to everything. Speaking of which, 10:10am rolls around, and Liam realises he’s late for the mihi whakatau, a welcoming ceremony for local Dunedin students. Once again, he’s on the move.
10:15am
Liam arrives at the Business School building fifteen minutes late. He gets a free ‘Locals’ shirt (it seems like Tent City’s slogan of “free shit” is just everyday for the president.) In the blink of an eye, Liam is already indulging in a personal photoshoot. With a flick of his wrist and a kick of his heel he declares that he “didn’t know we had a president that served c*nt”. Liam White doesn’t take himself too seriously, and while some older faces didn’t seem to enjoy his third-person commentary, the students loved it.
11:00am
Back to Tent City. Snag-dad with the griller grip is about to cook up a storm for the student body. He may only be 22, but by the way that man carries himself, you’d seriously never know. He stands in conversation like a statue: strong, unshakable, with wide legs and intense eye contact. At first glance, you might have thought it was the beginning of a porno. As Liam professed, he just loves the people – and the people love him right back.
12:57pm
Liam’s office has a clean-but-messy vibe. Little posters and trinkets scatter from his desk to the shelves. It’s here that Critic asks him the big question: What does Liam really want out of his student presidency this year? He sits up straight in his chair: “More student engagement [...] We [students] are only successful if we can act collectively,” he says, launching into a passionate speech. “If we could go to the Uni and say, ‘Look, 10,000 students have signed our petition, they want a student bar,’ we could 100% convince them to do it […] but we haven’t had a proven mandate from students beyond the Clocktower protest,” (which only around 50-60 people attended). According to the Prez, now’s the right time to get involved again and make ourselves heard. “I don’t see why we as a country accept that education is not the most important thing on the government's agenda,” he emphasises. Amen.
Side note: Thank you Liam for shouting “go piss girl” as Critic left for a bathroom break.
2:30pm
Meeting time with Student Job Search (oooh) but it was all off the record information (aww). Personal stories of students are clearly important to Liam in these conversations. He tells Critic he’s the “biggest advocate” of student livelihood, but when people don’t come to him with their problems, his job is more random stabs in the dark than informed political decisions. Got a shitty landlord story? Flick that thang his way. Email, phone call, talk to him in his office, or the middle of the club, he’ll hear you out because “your stories are powerful.” But enough of that cringy shit.
3:08pm
End of meeting. Liam swaps one metaphorical hat for another as he returns to his computer for some desk work. He opens his calendar, and after everything we’ve witnessed — from his serving c*unt to snag-daddy form — Critic wasn’t sure what to expect. We certainly didn’t anticipate a schedule that was quadruple-caked with even more meetings and events. Before Critic has time to gawk at the rest of his schedule, a member of health and safety walks in for Liam’s second meeting of the day. Critic thought the meeting might have been better with Subway Surfers in the sidebar or even some sped-up slime ASMR. Nonetheless, Liam’s dedication to student welfare shone through the boredom. He ensured that health and safety support reached every group of students, from the majority to the minorities, advocating for safe, quiet spaces at all O-Week events for students who might find the crowds a bit much. Lit.
3:43pm
Another goddamn meeting. Critic’s rival, the Otago Daily Times, called up with some media questions about students' bottle breaking tendencies. The call ended after a few minutes; they didn’t need much from Mr President. Lame-o, but his immediate switch from event organisation to explaining the reasons behind student bottle breaking was impressive.
4:00pm
The Exec office (also known as the ‘bullpen’) falls quiet. The breeze from the air conditioning feels a little heavier now, a cooling chill settling over the room. Shit’s about to get personal. It’s getting late, and Liam’s inner dad must have kicked in as he floated the idea of a pre-dinner Coco Pops snack. Thrilled, Critic accepts — only to be crushed upon being handed Cocoa Puffs. Not Pops. Liam calls my pour “pathetic.” The day’s bonding went out the window. Notes were scribbled down: ‘Evil. Conniving. Dictator.’ Staring down at the bowl of off-brand puffs, Critic let out a defeated sigh.
5:00pm
Liam really began to let go after his 9–5 wrapped up, both mentally and physically. Mentally as he started referring to Grant Robertson as “G-Money”; physically as he let out little toots followed by a “teehee”. All courtesy of the “Liam-Experience” as he, himself, put it.
5:30pm
The day was coming to an end, and much like a kick-ons DMC, the mood turned to wistful reminiscing. Liam shares that his campaign last year was interesting in that he was the only one to run for president, and won the position non-contested, something he admits to hating. Leaning into Critic’s recording device, he says “I always had the thought of like, ‘Wow I’m so lucky to be in this room.’ The longer you’re there the more you realise […] actually, there’s not that many people in the room.” People get busy, and student life — especially in this economy — is basically a real-life Roblox disaster survival. But as Liam puts it, “It’s good for the soul. It’s really good to give back.” And unlike Roblox, engaging with student politics won’t cost you a cent. “Anyone could be president,” Liam says, probably desperate for some competition. With his sights set on a second term, it’s about time. 2026 could be your year, dear reader.
6:30pm
To close the work day, Liam chugs a can of pineapple energy on one knee in a swift three seconds before sauntering out of the office. Critic does the chivalrous thing and walks Liam back to his flat. It’s been a long day for Mr. President; followed around all day by an eager, second-year Critic writer is no easy-feat when you’re also just trying to do your job. He noted that the day certainly felt longer. But tomorrow? Do it all again. By 7pm, we'd successfully clocked eleven hours with the very important Liam White — if for no other reason than his bonafide Dad energy.
God save Mr. President.
P.S. Liam, we hope you like this profile. But if you don’t, Critic has editorial independence from OUSA. And we know where you live now x