Being the designated recycler at a party is a rite of passage. Glass and aluminium have their place in society, the bin. The recycler toil is difficult, never simple, and often met with an ‘Oh crap that is not grade 7 plastic!’ Open aluminium cans leave nasty cuts leaving you to wonder whether that counts as getting tetanus. Still, the odd recycler remains humble. No position nor prestige amounts to this job of both saving the environment and cleaning out space for kisses. Without recyclers, Hamilton City Council would crumble.
If you find it hard to decipher the recycling hieroglyphics, allow for a short explanation. Glass recycling crates are used for glass bottles (obviously), no lids included of course. Yellow top bins are used for aluminium cans and are (apparently) the most cost-effective way to recycle. It’s not rocket science to distinguish which is which. Recyclers are the backbone of a house party, show your respect by giving them a firm pat on the back.
No one likes a sulky boy. Slunk back on their territorial spot, their head remains low. It’s hard to gauge how long they have been in such a mood or whether it is non-interchangeable, like being stuck in the phallic stage of Freud’s psychosexual development model. Sulky boys, or sad boys for better use of words, have a certain edge to them you can’t quite shake off. That edge, naturally, pisses people off. Not having their way leads to microaggression, poor communication skills, and ultimately a butt imprint on the couch from sitting down too long.
If you don’t have the sharpest eyes, sad boys can usually be identified by their DiCaprio-like hair, pale complexion, slender and malnourished figure. Usually with a ciggy in one hand and tension in the other. To clarify for the mature students, this isn’t the ‘00s and they are not to be confused with emos- strictly refer to them as e-boys (it’s a TikTok reference that’ll make you appear more ‘down with the youth’). In short, sad boys are inevitable in any drinking setting. Leave them to insert their butt print and tension, join the recycler instead.
In my time as a party attendee, most have been in rural settings. Rustic farm sheds reared up looking like they belong in an inbreds farming catalogue. The rural setting beckons the others.
There’s the potential to encounter the gifted mechanic- nothing compares to his presence. He stands close to seven foot in overalls and a pair of gumboots. Arriving in his eight-person campervan, which also contains his collection of Thomas the Tank Engine books, he can ramble on about anything horticulture related.
Then there is the historian. He’s mad, bonkers, and an absolute nutter. The historian is the type of person who was born in the wrong generation and can recite the whole USSR anthem in three languages. The Congress of Soviets would be proud. Often left out of the group, the historians are truly the missing book in the archive of characters. Invite them next time you plan a party.