The social pokédex

The social pokédex

A fresher's guide to university students

Nick Ainge-Roy, a judgmental soul with a kind heart, has been navigating the realms of the University of Otago for less than a year. But as a Dunners local, he’s familiar with the characters you’re likely to encounter in your new home and here presents you with a cynical insight into the characters of Dunedin.

While I, along with most people, try to live my life in as accepting a manner as possible, abiding by such timeless and tiresome maxims as “Don’t judge a book by its cover” and “Know me before you judge me”, it is an oft-overlooked fact that through our daily goings-on we pass judgment on others constantly, be it conscious or not. It may not be inherently negative, but every time you pass someone you’re also making inferences, formulating opinions and making judgments about them. Entering university is akin to entering an arena of judgment because despite what people tell you, everybody here is judgmental as fuck. So, to aid the wide-eyed fresher in their judgments I have constructed the Social Pokédex. In this Pokédex you will find all the information needed to successfully identify those flies you will most commonly find in the social web of university and thus avoid being ensnared in the same traps.

When conducting a social dig, it is best to start from the top, with the most obvious and arguably offensive layer of the hierarchy: the basic bitches and bros. The basic bitch has received a fair amount of coverage in the media of late, but I find that while most descriptions of the BB are apt, they do not paint a complete picture. The New Zealand basic bitch is first and foremost hot, and while the levels of hotness across basic bitches may vary, they are generally considered attractive. The second most discernible characteristic of the BB is their tendency to move in packs: a gaggle of striped tops, puffer vests and exercise pants, merrily screeching their way down the hall, laughing just a little too loudly at something that probably wasn’t all that funny to begin with — the perfect picture of platonic pleasantness. That is, until you separate them from one another and their fangs emerge from their hiding place of pretty smiles and hashtags, ones that are generally along the lines of #reunited or #missedyou, despite the fact they see each other six days a week. Although the basic bitch may seem innocent and endearing, the real danger lies in the vapidity of her thoughts, as little else seems to fill their minds and mouths other than drinking, recounting tales of their drinking and studying a BCom.

The faithful companion to the basic bitch is, of course, the basic bro. Essentially interchangeable with the basic bitch, the only differences between the two are superficial, as the basic bro’s dress code consists of chinos/joggers, Chucks and a black t-shirt with a blue shirt over the top. Combined with a vacant look in the eyes, a love for rugby (and any rugby-related “banter” including, but not limited to, court sessions) and a study of Commerce, the basic bro complements the basic bitch with a guffaw to her giggle, and both are joined by their love for visiting the same string of bars every Saturday night and standing steadfastly by the belief that flat initiation was the most fun they have ever had. In second year the basic bro evolves into the Scarfie lad, a creature usually found out the front of a Castle Street flat dressed in a flannel, sweatpants and thick woollen socks, Double Brown in hand and drum ’n’ bass — it mustn’t be more complex than a snare and a kick at 140bpm — blaring from the open door behind him.

The New Zealand social scene is possibly unique in its division, one that I would consider almost unrivalled elsewhere in the world, with the exception of our crass Australian cousins. This division is embodied through the bogan, the antithesis of the basic bitch or bro — as a disclaimer, I would like to point out that although the bogan is not usually found on campus they are frequently encountered within its locale and throughout Dunedin.

Whereas the basic bitch/bro expresses a desire to document almost every movement on Facebook, the bogan seems to possess an ineptitude with modern technology that would rival that of our parents or grandparents. If you listen hard enough, you can occasionally hear a bogan muttering, “How do you use this bloody thing?” as they hopelessly try to upload a photo to Facebook before admitting defeat, firing up the WRX and dropping the clutch to go rip some skids or run some mainies. For those of you unfamiliar with these terms, ripping skids is the process of driving in circles in an empty carpark or similar venue, preferably until a tyre bursts or the turbo is thrashed so fucking hard it blows. In contrast, “mainies” is the rather sedate act of driving up and down the main street of a town while chain-smoking rollies and indulging in a box of Billy Mavs (at this point, the author would like to pay his respects to bogan culture by acknowledging the demise of the 10% Billy Mav and the 8% Diesel).

Alongside their passion for burning rubber, tobacco and proverbial bridges, the New Zealand bogan has a fascination with one of those relics of the 90s that, like Biggie or the Backstreet Boys, is rarely seen or heard: the chin strap and the soul patch. Other iconic features such as Metal Mulisha or Monster Energy hats can be used to identify a bogan, but none is as reliable as the presence of the chinstrap/soul patch combo, one that climbs skyward towards thickly gelled and spiked hair, mirroring the sneer a bogan will often display as he leans back in his car seat, arm extended, before dropping the living hell out of his clutch and peeling the fuck out of there.

Now that we have cleared away the offensive topsoil, we can examine the minnows of the university social clime. Because of the lack of basic-ness and bogan-ism, it is often difficult for a novice to differentiate and divide those who are not in the upper echelon into separate groups. But for the cynical, scornful and judgmental eye — such as that possessed by yours truly — it is easy work.

The largest of the sub-groups is undoubtedly the international students. Out of all the people you meet at university, the internationals are probably the least troublesome for the sole reason that you hardly ever see them outside class. The international’s university career will consist of innumerable hours spent in lectures, followed by a few more studying in the library. Coupled with their studious nature, they may have a poor grasp of English, making the international student a hugely inoffensive and often likeable character due to the hilarious soundbites that are produced when the rudiments of the greatest language on earth are still being learned. Derisive comments aside, the international student is possibly the best type of student because they represent what we all should aspire to be: hard-working, polite and determined to do something that actually benefits society rather than ourselves (looking at you, basic bitches and bros). I also wish to avoid saying anything truly offensive towards international students because a) I know that if I were to go to their country and study,
I would be even more of a hermit than them due to my fear of mispronouncing something, and b) because while nobody really gives a shit if you make jokes about your own race, it is frowned upon (and let’s be honest, bad) to talk shit about somebody else’s.

We now come to another of our university “cave-dwellers” — that is, people who are usually pasty, odd-looking and socially struggling. I am referring to the counterpart of the international student, the domestic student who takes uni just a little too seriously. While I avoided talking badly of internationals, I have no such qualms about doing so of the domestic students for a number of reasons. Firstly, they’re not from another country, so that makes it okay. Secondly, their mastery of the English language and academia always seems to make them come across as just a little smug: “Oh, you only got a B? That’s not too bad I suppose.” Fuck you and your 86 per cent average. The too-serious domestic student will, unsurprisingly, sit towards the front of the lecture theatre, be the first to answer any questions — out of what I am going to instantly assume is a smug desire to flaunt their wealth of knowledge on the topic — and will often carry with them some chunky text on politics or gender equality,
a sign that they want to be treated as an adult with a genuine regard for worldly issues and not as what they actually are, a kid who six months ago was stressing out over their
English NCEA Level 3 Unfamiliar Text paper. Do they actually expect me to believe that they spend their free time between classes sitting in the gardens adjacent to Quad, sunlight streaming onto the pages and refracting radical insight such as “Treat everyone equally” into their spectacularly large cranium? Fuck out of here, man, go back to your flat and bitch about how boring your lecture was like the rest of us. This accessory represents the sad impression that they are still under, the impression that the university of today is the university of yesteryear, a birthing ground for the leaders and thinkers of tomorrow, a place where all are welcomed, original ideas are nourished and intellectual conversation abounds. The sad reality is that university has morphed from a prestigious higher calling for those with a genuine desire for self-fulfillment and education to a paper mill churning out degrees to anyone with enough patience to stick around for three years without completely failing.

The too-serious domestic is an ode to a bygone age and, although I approve of such outdated ideals, my real problem with these specimens lies, as you may have guessed, in their title: this type of student simply takes university too seriously. Now I’m not saying that there isn’t more to life than getting fucked up; I’m merely saying that there is more to university than studying. Uni is one of the best opportunities you will ever have to meet people you genuinely like, and not just because you have to see them six hours a day, and to squander that opportunity seems a little bit foolish. Admittedly you (Mr/Ms Serious) will leave university with far better marks than I, which may lead you to a far better job and thus more success, money, happiness, etc. But while you might be in a high-flying job with an ear-to-ear grin about how well you’ve done in life, I’ll be sitting in squalor, resentful of your forethought and hard work but nonetheless content in the knowledge that I had a great time and, more importantly, made some pretty good friends.

At this stage many readers might be feeling incensed (especially if you happen to number in any of the groups outlined above) at my inadequate acknowledgment of any of the numerous other groups that will be encountered throughout one’s time at university. The reality is that there are just too fucking many and most of them — despite my bullshit about possessing a discerning eye — are too difficult to compartmentalise, leading me to prey on the easy targets, the majority. However, I will attempt to redress my selective shit-talking by providing a quick summary of some of the slightly less well-known but frequently encountered characters this university has to offer.

Members of NORML can be found sitting on the grass outside OUSA most afternoons, usually around 4.20pm. They’re an unassuming bunch and, if memory serves correctly, most don’t even have dreadlocks, which makes them a bit easier for the average middle-class white student to tolerate. Mature-age students really shouldn’t be that hard to spot, although be cautious as they may often be mistaken for the lecturer and any attempt to discuss the course with them will result not in helpful guidance as you had hoped but in a tedious conversation covering every aspect of the course as they try to wring every precious minute of interaction out of you that they can. It is also worth noting that the mature-age student is often the same person as the too-serious domestic student, after the mid-life crisis.

Alongside these characters are the usual “Freaks and Geeks” that can be found in any institution, but their numbers are neither large enough, nor are they annoying enough to warrant inclusion in this Pokédex so I shall leave it up to you to identify them.

Having almost reached my editorially prescribed word limit, I must now bring this piece to a close. Before my arrival at Otago, I had fallen victim to the familiar uncertainties that plague many freshers and former freshers: What am I going to study? Is it going to take me anywhere? Should I do something I enjoy or something that will get me a job?

To ease my worrying, my older brother told me the following: Uni is one of the only times in your life when you will be truly free of the constraints of a job, family or similar authority figures, so have fun. Do not stress about what you want to do, you’ll know in good time — better to wait and do something you love now than do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life. It’s good to work hard, but don’t let it take over your life; there are other, better things besides work. It is this message — along with my various observations and warnings — that I ultimately wish the reader to absorb. Work hard, play harder and, please, whatever you do, don’t be basic.
This article first appeared in Issue 1, 2015.
Posted 4:35pm Sunday 22nd February 2015 by Nick Ainge-Roy.