But the flat with two names – one the Pākehā Marae Whānau and another too inappropriate for this column, showed me I'd made a mistake. Every weekend the occupying lads, made up of snaggy Bunning's boys and sexy builders would light up the lounge with a disco lightbulb and a Sony speaker as an offering to the party Gods.
And an offering to the Gods it was.
My first breath when walking inside the doors of 263 Castle tasted like stale alcohol, gave me an instant hangover and I couldn't help but grin knowing some idiotic things were about to go down.
Summer was spent in hammocks drinking 24 packs, making wizard sticks and smoking durries, cooking barbecues, and burning 99 per cent of food, resulting in far too many trips to "fatty lane". We spent an excessive amount of money on alcohol and had weekly fights over who would be in charge of the AUX cord.
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In winter, the phantom pooper made their first appearance, leaving a smelly present in the driveway. Some of us found love ... then promptly lost it. We drank early to cover ourselves in the "booze blanket", and relocated Friday drinks to the bars called Macs or Innocent Bystanders to make the most of their heaters.
Like many scarfie flats, it wasn't the newest or fanciest place to live, but that didn't matter because it was full of character. The floorboards outside the toilet broke on move-in day, the walls had more holes than a pumice rock, and the windows didn't shut properly.
The snaggy and sexy lads didn't let this ruin their fun. They found creative solutions such as filling the walls with empty beer bottles before trotting off to their favourite store (Bunnings) for supplies.
Castle St entered our life at the most perfect time. We weren't quite adults and weren't quite freshers. We were a squad made up of "I need to save for a house" people and "university is really hard, let's drink at midday" people. Castle St was our haven away from responsibilities.
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It taught us important life lessons like don't wear red lipstick when hooking up with that guy you denied hooking up with and "Steal My Girl" by One Direction is a fan-favourite. Running across the road drunk at 1am with your shoelaces undone may result in falling over and looking like you've been beaten up, and most importantly, a ciggy/coffee combo cures any hangover.
The Pākehā Whānau Marae was just that, a whānau. The lads who lived there snuggled together on the couch when the winter chills got too much. They dealt with serious issues like what bottle of spirits to buy for the night (always Jager). They supported each other through the many "I'm quitting smoking" attempts and they kept their door open for stragglers like me who needed the good vibes of Castle St to get through their troubles.
So, to all the students living their best O-week lives right now, make the most of it. These are the good old days.
