There have been many versions of this editorial – my last.
First was the list of evidence I’d compiled for the eventual case to be made that I’ve aged out of studenthood. It started at the first Critic drinks in O-Week when, rather than opting for Scrumpy (the best value for money), I sipped red wine – from a glass. It only continued from there. Embarrassingly, throughout the year I was forced to ask younger staff members what certain slang meant in their articles (the fuck is “the huzz”) and was informed that my distaste of the Otago Gooning Community was a product of my near-mature frontal lobe. The nail in the coffin? The visceral shock from a newly elected Execcie at my date of birth. Rude.
Next was what I could only describe as an Oscar “thank you” speech. Overcome with sentimentality and love for the magazine that’s been my sole purpose these past few years, I tearfully expressed how simultaneously relieved and saddened I would be to leave. Critic is nothing without the team, and I wrote my heartfelt thank you to the endlessly talented people constituting the collective – who I’ve worked beside, learned from, whose writing I’ve been entrusted to edit, and with whom I’ve cheersed to another mag well done 78 times in three years. But how could I fathom expressing the depth of my gratitude in just 600 words?
I then switched tact into a confession piece titled ‘Cat’s Out of the Bag, I Don’t Care About Castle St’. If I wasn’t going to be sentimental, I was going out with a bang. My take: if there’s anything I’ve learned in my six years at Otago, it’s that the true student culture is found beyond those glass-riddled streets. The performative grossness of Castle and Leith is perpetuated by landlords, alcohol companies, and online casinos who profit from it. Through Critic, I’ve witnessed the true student culture: students who give a shit, pouring seemingly limitless energy into their passions, whether it be cultural, academic, or sporting. My goal has been to reflect this in Critic’s pages – and I hope to never use the word “breatha” again.
Mid-way through drafting this editorial, I had the privilege of reading Iris’s feature article, a profile of our oldest living editor at age 94. It was originally meant for our centenary issue in April, but Paul’s life story is so great that we owed him the time to write it properly. And how glad I am that we did; Iris has written his life’s story so beautifully. I was reminded how, while Critic does its best not to take ourselves too seriously, we do have an important purpose: to hold the University and OUSA accountable, platform the voices of the student body, add to the historic record of Otago Uni, and provide a good laugh and procrastination material. I think we’ve done a pretty good job.
I still recall asking Fox Meyer, who was the editor when I began, how he found enough content to fill a magazine a week. “It’s hard,” he replied. And it’s clear that after three and a half years – starting as a fledgling reporter in third-year, News Editor in fourth-year, and two years as the full-time Editor – I’ve wrung all the content I can muster out of my Otago experience. My notes app, once full with ideas penned at midnight when I couldn’t sleep, has dried up. I’m so grateful to have had this privilege, especially in Critic's 100th year. Thank you for reading, and long live Critic, you old bastard.
Critic Te Ārohi belongs to the students of Otago. If you’re keen to get involved in 2026 – anything from writing a column, illustrating a centrefold or reporting on campus news – we have made a Facebook page for contributors. Click here to get amongst