Guy Williams
A walk on Dunedin’s wild side
Do you ever find yourself feeling embarrassed about being over-cautious? It’s a weird satisfaction, if you’re proven right.
For me, heading to the famous ‘‘Party’’ street, Dunedin’s Castle St on St Patrick’s Day was an example of my this emotion.
Calling Castle St a ‘‘Party Street’’ is like calling Nutri-Grain ‘‘Iron-man food’’. You can technically run an iron-man on Nutri-Grain, but you’re probably going to end up lying in the bushes sick. You can technically party on Castle St, but you’re probably going to end up lying in the bushes sick.
Don’t feel too sorry for me, it was my idea, but when I told my only cameraman that I was nervous, I felt like an idiot. ‘‘Don’t worry, I’m from down here, it would be sweet as!’’ he reassured me. I was a scaredy cat. (I’ve been trying to stop saying ‘‘pussy’’, and it makes me sound like a pussy)
Not only was I afraid of a few drunk teenagers, but I was also arrogant enough to assume that they would know, or even care that I was there! I shouldn’t have been so modest.
We pulled up outside the Otago University clock tower around 4pm and the alcohol had raised my celebrity status from that mean gay guy on Married At First Sight to Ed Sheeran.
While taking my second fan photo, the young lady tipped most of her RTD on my head. She was so remorseful, I realised it was an accident – she’d just briefly forgotten the rules of gravity.
As I approached the shambolic flats of Castle St, I saw the groups of students in their wacky green dollarstore outfits and my whole career flashed before my eyes. That only took about three seconds, it hasn’t been that great a career.
My reservations were balanced with a genuine desire to find out what goes on. Why do people live like this? How do people live like this?
I quickly found out. What goes on? Alcohol. Why do people live like this? Alcohol. How do people live like this? Alcohol.
As I stumbled down Castle St, I had kids jumping on me trying to get on TV. I was wondering if they would be as keen when we called in a few weeks to ask for their sober permission? Probably.
People were chasing me down the street to tell me I couldn’t broadcast anything that they’d just said five seconds earlier. As if them interrupting an interview by running into shot yelling ‘‘SAMANTHA IS THE F ...... BEST’’ is going to be my ‘‘A’’ material.
They were right! That was my ‘‘A’’ material! Gutted I can’t use it.
It wasn’t long before I got wind of the biggest party in town, ‘‘The Lake House’’, AKA some dudes who live in a ‘‘former mental asylum’’.
Pulling the car up, a lady bleeding from her face should have been a red flag. Her boyfriend casually explained it was, ‘‘Your standard face-plant’’. She probably needed standard stitches and they demanded we drive them to the hospital. Fifteen minutes later at A and E they decided the wait was too long and they were going to ‘‘gap it’’ back to the party. It was mildly frustrating.
Back at The Lake House, more red flags, I took a photo with a bunch of boys while their mate heckled me: ‘‘You’re not funny bro!’’, which seemed ironic, considering.
‘‘You’re a fa...t,’’ he said.
I felt bad that he was so upset, and it was my fault!
I was so unfunny, I had made him homophobic.
Walking up the grassy drive towards the crowd, I started to do a faux news-style presentation.
‘‘We’ve made it to The Lake House, and I don’t know what to expe…’’
With perfect comic timing, boys in Hawaiian shirts flew out of the bushes and tackled me yelling ‘‘Guy ya c...!’’. They put me in a headlock and started pulling my hair. A third dude stood back and threw glass at my camera operator who dropped his camera and joined the fight. He got my hair free and I managed to break loose.
We retreated back down the hill, that was enough of The Lake House for me.
My whole career flashed before my eyes. That only took about three seconds, it hasn’t been that great a career.