Piss, Puke & Pelicans: 24 hours inside a flat initiation

It’s been over two years since the day I was initiated into a Castle Street flat in Dunedin. I still think about it at least once a week. That’s not to say I’m traumatised, part of me is glad it happened. It helps me to appreciate the days that I don’t wake up covered in spew, half bald, cock and balls hanging out of a makeshift toga, sprawled across the bathroom floor while my mum sobs quietly in the next room. 

For those in the dark, initiations are a tradition that hit peak popularity in the 2000s, but are still very much a part of the grimy underbelly of student society today. In a 2018 article, Critic summed up the tradition: “You gather up whoever is moving into your shitty flat next year, force a few drinks down their throat, make them do some dumb shit, and everyone has a good old time.” Eloquent as that description may be, it doesn’t go all the way to describe just how horrific these occasions are for some. A few memorable stories include being dunked in a wheelie bin of vomit, racing naked down the street, and having someone piss on your face. Nasty shit. 

There were seven of us in total. “The initiates.” All of us wide-eyed and fresh-faced. Most of us had gone to high school together, a couple we’d met in the halls at the beginning of the year. We’d heard all the stories about what to expect. The mood during the days prior was one of nervous excitement. It was practically all we talked about, actually. Just constant speculation about what we might have to do. The mystery of it all was almost unbearable. One member of the group, Scott Green* wasn’t allowed to drink due to a head injury. The group initiating us had told us that he must smoke a bong any time one of us finished a vessel. Lucky for him, he was the biggest stoner of the group. 

A quick disclaimer: I’m not telling this story not as a way to glorify the experience. You can make up your own mind about the ethical ambiguity of initiations. My own opinion is that it’s a good thing that universities are cracking down on them. What started as a fun bonding experience decades ago, has descended into some kind of “one-upping” culture, where each flat feels as though it’s their duty to outdo whatever pain was inflicted on them the year before. Either way, here goes the story of my initiation. The raw, uncut, uncensored, unfiltered whole of it. 

 The day before: 

11.30am

 Speedy* receives a text message. It reads: 

“Alright lads, tomorrow’s the day. Bring a 6-pack of Diesels and a bottle of wine each, and a bottle of vodka, two packs of Marlboro Reds between you. Dress code is togas. Kick-off is 11am. Don’t be late.” 

The message was met mainly with nervous laughter from our camp. That was a shit tonne of alcohol, even to us, the absolutely legendary 100% certified booze lords that we were. We planned to pick up the goods later that afternoon. I think I had work or something, so decided I’d just pop into a liquor store on my way there the next morning. First mistake. 

The day of: 

10.30am 

“You ready to get fucked up?” were the first words I heard that morning. I groaned and opened my eyes to see Speedy*, a half-empty bottle of Speight’s in his left hand, and a bag full of alcohol in his right. He was dressed in a bedsheet toga, jandals and jocks. 

“You’re honestly drinking before this?” I asked him. “Yes I am. And you are too.” He said, reaching into his bag. He pulled out a loose Speight’s, opened it, and handed it to me. “Down the hatch mate.” 

10.35am: 

Vorteke. 

10.36am: 

Ah yes, the toga. There was no time for YouTube tutorials. I grabbed the same sheet I’d slept on that night, tied it around me, chucked on an odd pair of socks and jandals, and glanced in the mirror. I looked like I’d fallen into a washing basket. Perfect. Let’s get out of here. 

10.44am: 

We were out the door, and on our way to meet headfirst whatever shitstorm was coming our way. “Where’s your alcohol?” one of the boys asked me. Oh shit. The nearest liquor store was a 10-minute walk in the opposite direction. “I’ll catch you guys there.” 

10.51am: 

I was belting it. Leaving the mocking laughter of my so-called friends behind, clinging on to my crudely tied toga for dear life as it slipped further and further down my body. Is that a shit stain or a chocolate stain? Why didn’t I just grab a clean bedsheet? Jandals were a bad choice. 

10.55am: 

I made it. I burst through the door puffing and panting like a flipping muppet. The initiation hadn’t even started yet and I was already spent. After grabbing a bottle of red wine, I began scanning the store for a box of Diesels. They were nowhere to be seen. I asked the attendant, and she politely informed me that they had sold out. This was bad news. I had entered the damage control phase. I grabbed the first 6-pack I saw: Monteith’s Radlers. I hurriedly paid and ran out the door. 

10.58am: 

I realised there was no way I was going to be able to hold up the toga while carrying the alcohol, so I untangled myself from the knotted mess and tied the sheet around my neck. Off I went. Hurtling down the street in broad daylight looking like Captain fucking Underpants. 

11.02am: 

As the flat came into view, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There must have been 100 people gathered around. When they saw me moments later, a chorus of cheers and boos erupted. My face was red with embarrassment, which fortunately I could blame on the fact that I’d just sprinted 2km. 

11.04am: 

I broke through the crowd to find my group sitting on the grass in the front yard. The “initiators” sat in chairs directly opposite, the two parties separated by a table where the alcohol had been placed. I stepped towards the table and added my stash to the pile. 

“You’re late. And what the fuck is that?” The bulkiest, hairiest of the men was pointing, of course, to my box of Radlers. “They’d... they’d sold out of Diesels,” I managed to stutter back. “Ooooh!” went the crowd. “Right, that’s one vessel for being late, and another one for bringing those.” 

11.06am: 

Vorteke. 

11.07am: 

Vorteke. 

11.08am: 

“Welcome boys, to your initiation.” I felt like we were on some perverse game show. “A few ground rules: If you lose a challenge, you skull a drink. Oh, and no spewing in the house.” With those short but poetic words said, it was time for the first challenge: Mystery bong. We were told to line up, blindfold up, and wait. I was first in line. I took a knee and had the end of a beer bong shoved in my mouth. I was shaking. “3, 2, 1!” Went the crowd. If I had to guess, I would say it was a can of Smirnoff Ice. Honestly, was pretty stoked with the outcome. I went to remove the blindfold but was instructed to keep it on. One by one, the group stepped up. It was clear from the noise, that I had been extremely lucky. I would later find out the mystery bongs had ranged from a raw egg smoothie to literal piss. 

11.25am: 

Next up was a dart race. We lined up facing the crowd, hands behind our backs. I had never smoked a cigarette in my life. What an introduction to the world of nicotine. It was awful. I would’ve preferred to skull the urine. If the government mandated a compulsory coming of age dart race, we’d be a smoke-free nation in no time. I haven’t touched a dart since. Even the smell gives me flashbacks. 

11.32am: 

We’d barely recovered from the baccy headspins before we found ourselves lined up again. In front of each of us was a 2L bottle of milk, each dyed a different colour. Beyond that, there were three full glasses of wine, each situated about five metres apart from the next. This was some fucked up beep test shit. “Skull the milk, run the shuttles, making sure to finish the wine when you go past it” somebody said, clearly relishing this brief moment of authority. I was starting to feel dizzy. I looked across at my fellow comrades. Two of them had spew all down their togas. Two more looked like they could barely stand up. One was doing warm up stretches. “Where’s Scott Green?” I say looking around. “GO!” went the crowd. 

We cracked open our milks, and drank. By this stage, anything that was going in was coming straight back out. I have to hand it to them: the multicoloured milk was a creative idea. The driveway quickly turned into a spewy, milky rainbow. It was almost beautiful. 

11.45am 

By this point, we were absolutely hammered. I remember trying to count how many drinks I’d had. I couldn’t put a number on it. It could’ve been five, it could’ve been twenty. Where the fuck is Scott Green? I stumbled around for a bit while the stragglers finished their shuttles. I found my way inside the flat. There he was. Asleep on the couch. He was cradling a fire extinguisher. “You alright mate?” I say, swaying a little on the spot. “Yeah man…. just….. very…. very…. high.” 

“Oi!” The voice came from outside. “Get your ass out here. NOW!” 

I tripped over the doorway on my way out but managed to make it look like I was doing a little dance. The crowd were all laughing. I realised I was no longer wearing my toga. 

I re-joined the crew. We were an absolute state. It was time for the pelican. 

11.57am

For those who don’t know, a pelican is the act of drinking so much that you vomit into somebody else’s mouth. Not a game to play at family Christmas. We were split into two groups. My group was told to climb up the fire escape onto the roof and await further instruction. The other group waited below. I still have no idea how we all managed to get up that ladder considering the state we were in. Once we made it to the summit, we were met by one of the initiators. He was sat in a deck chair, smoking a dart, the beer bong on his lap. The dozen or so remaining diesels were strewn at his feet. He took a long drag of his dart. “Who’s up first?” 

To be fair, it wasn’t nearly as gross as it sounds. By this stage, we had spewed so much that the only thing we had left to cough up was whatever had just gone in. Plus, we were too fucked to really care much anyway. The first three pelicans were seamless. The diesel went in, the diesel came out. The crowd’s reaction was a kind of satisfied repulsion. 

12.20am 

It wasn’t until we had descended the fire escape and found ourselves back on solid ground, that things turned sour. I was the last person to stand under the chunderfall. Speedy was to be my partner. He was on the roof, ready to skull and expunge. One diesel went down. Speedy assumed the puke position. We waited. Nothing happened. Two diesels went down. Speedy was barely standing up at this point. Still, nothing came. Three diesels went down. Shit, is he ok? Speedy was as white as a ghost and had gone completely quiet. I had been standing, mouth open head turned upwards for nearly ten minutes now. The crowd was silent as we watched him sway about and then BOOM! Out she came. The vomit rocketed from his mouth like a burst damn. I took a step back in shock and the spew missed my mouth entirely, splashing down my bare chest instead. The crowd was outraged. “He stepped back!” Someone yelled “That dirty little cheat!” cried another. 

The initiator on the roof stood up. “Clearly, that little bastard wanted seconds....” The crowd cheered. “But this poor fucker can’t do shit.” The initiator was pointing at Speedy, who was now out of view, but probably passed out somewhere on the roof. 

“I’ll do it,” a voice came from the crowd. I looked around. It was some dude in his mid-thirties, wearing a suit. He was standing next to three similarly dressed men who must’ve been his work colleagues. The fuckers were on lunch break from the real estate business down the road. 

The crowd roared in delight as this random rich prick ascended the ladder towards the roof. Once up, he took a bow (of course he did, the arrogant cock), and then grabbed the bong and swallowed the contents. It only took one - and this time, there was no way I was stepping back. Rather than the pure, mostly unadulterated Diesel-spew that the rest of the group had to swallow, I got his whole fucking lunch. 

1pm 

Down to my jocks, covered in chunks of carrot, corn and God knows what else, my dignity had hit rock bottom. Or so I thought. There was one last challenge. The head shave. One last time, we all lined up. A neat little number zero would have almost been inappropriate at this stage. The boys made sure to give us each a uniquely disgusting cut; there were skullets, front rats tail and friar tucks. By the time it was my turn, I think everyone was getting bit bored. They just took a chunk out of my hair with the razor and sent me on my way. 

And just like that, it was all over. There probably would have been some speech given at some stage, about how we could now all call ourselves “worthy” blah, blah, blah. I can’t remember anything from the head shave til the moment I woke up at 10pm on the floor of Mum’s bathroom. How I got home, I have no idea. Mum and I both knew the less I said about it the better, and we still haven’t spoken about it all these years later. 

Despite the fact that we were all willing participants, it’s hard to say whether the whole thing was ‘consensual’. Peer pressure and alcohol are a dangerous mixture. Although we laughed about it in the weeks following, we decided that the following year, we’d have a couple of beers with the incoming flatties, tell a few jokes and call it a day. Probably a good thing too, as nine students were suspended from uni that year for initiations. 

* Names have been changed

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