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SocietyAugust 25, 2023

Yes, those are testicles hanging from my car

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What possesses someone to drive around with a pair of bollocks dangling below their towbar? Gabi Lardies investigates.

It started on a crisp walk in a leafy central Auckland suburb. Something red and dangly caught my eye. The item in question was hanging off a parked car’s towbar, and upon inspection, didn’t seem to be attached to anything useful. 

The more I looked, crouched down behind the unsuspecting sedan, the more I failed to see how the plastic object, uncannily similar to a ballsack, could be a part of the engine. But what do I know about testicle shaped plastic or engines?

Months later, on a cold evening in Dunedin, a friend mentioned those “ridiculous nuts” people attach to the back of their cars. “I’VE SEEN THAT,” I said, thinking I was special. “What the hell are they for?”

Stupid question. If you’ve seen them, that’s their purpose. Truck Nuts, sometimes stylised as Truck Nutz, are an aesthetic car accessory. Their resemblance to a ballsack is entirely on purpose. If they’re not for anything, then I’m left with the questions of how and why.

Like so many great and questionable things, they originated from the US. In the 80s, home-made nut sacks began appearing on the back of utes, driven mostly by rural white working-class men. Some of these early iterations are abstracted enough to be visually appealing, for example two extra large steel nuts threaded through a chain. It wasn’t until the late 90s that moulded plastic Truck Nuts became a product (with two companies going to war over who made them first). 

Grid layout of different truck nut products, as found on Google
The glorious options available to purchase via Google shopping

It’s impossible to say how many Truck Nuts are now gracing the streets of Aotearoa. They are easy (though surprisingly pricey) to buy online. An unscientific survey of my Instagram followers confirmed Truck Nuts have been spotted in Titirangi, Morningside, Grey Lynn, central Dunedin, on a wheelchair and on vehicles “parked in our driveway without asking”.

 Truck Nuts have even made it into lecture theatres at the University of Auckland. One slide in an introductory course to social geography is covered in photos of nuts on trucks, and their owners sitting on the back so that the nuts appear to be theirs. “It has quite a good shock value,” explains Salene Schloffel-Armstrong, geographer and professional teaching fellow. Apart from providing comic relief, she uses Truck Nuts to illustrate the performance of gender. “It lends to thinking about masculinity as more ridiculous than maybe they have before.”

“What is that desire to put nuts on your car?” asks Schloffel-Armstrong. She doesn’t think there’s a single answer. “You can read them as a performance of a particular masculinity, which could be somewhat binary and problematic, or something that’s nonsensical and surreal and ridiculous”. In other words, where does ball-worship end and irony begin? 

One Aucklander got Truck Nuts and headlight eyelashes for her birthday a couple of years ago. They were a gag gift, “for a lol”, but were put on her baby blue Nissan March on the spot, and stayed there until she upgraded her car. “People would definitely react worse to the eyelashes because they were giving ‘very bimbo idiot woman’,” she says. Judging by the reactions of other motorists, the veiny ball sack on the back was less offensive. Her new car has no adornments.

One US Truck Nutter, Tyler, who has had green Truck Nuts on his green ute for eight years, spoke about his choice on the Decoder Ring podcast. “I revel in the trashiness of it, I think that’s part of the humour,” he said. When he stops at red lights, he can hear the balls rattling on the back of his truck. “I get a chuckle to myself.” 

But while he may be having a private joke, the nuts are on public display. They’re born of a culture infamous for being racist and sexist, and one which has used other car accessories, like bumper stickers and mudflaps, to be provocative and offensive. Some say that Truck Nuts became more popular in the US when there were attempts to outlaw them – they became an issue of free speech. Perhaps macho Truck Nutters are laughing, but could they be performing that dominant toxic masculinity at the same time?

Unable to get to the bottom of the phenomenon via Google, academic experts or Truck Nutters themselves, my only remaining option was to try them out for myself. New Zealand based Truck Nut stockist Not Socks thanked me for my particular interest, but said they were out of stock – they’ve stocked them for a few years, but usually only for Christmas. Instead of waiting for international shipping, I decided to tap into Truck Nuts’ DIY origins. 

At 9.07pm on Wednesday night I began rifling through the misc drawer in my kitchen. There was a white plastic bag and two potatoes which could be put inside, but the end result looked more like a doggy poop bag than testicles. “What can I use to make Truck Nuts?” I asked my partner, who has more intimate knowledge of both nuts and trucks than I do. He went to the misc box on top of the cupboard, and pulled out a bag of party balloons. Partially filled with water, two orange balloons became beautiful, bright, slightly saggy orbs. Perfect.

The next morning, I tried my Truck Nuts to the tow bar of my 1998 Toyota Corolla L-Touring Station Wagon, and embarked on a tour. Truck Nut stockists always make a point of describing their nuts as being strong and hardy, which is not two words that come to mind for balloons. I felt precious about my dangling balls – what if a piece of gravel or a shard of broken glass flicked up and popped them? I was hoping to feel their sway like Tyler described, but even though they’re pretty big for balls, I felt nothing.

I drove slowly and gingerly through Mt Eden to Symonds Street, the domain of Schloffel-Armstrong and her students. It was rush hour, but no-one tailgated me. I tried to find shocked faces in my rearview and side mirrors, but everyone looked otherwise occupied.

I was wondering if I looked tougher than usual when a white Mazda SUV undertook me and cut me off as I was indicating a lane change. No one was pointing or laughing at me, even though students are known to point and laugh. I made my way towards Queen Street, cautious of the many manholes. Truck Nuts are very ridiculous car accessories, but in some ways they are subtle (small, at the back and low down). Choosing to drive the biggest possible ute, having chunky tyres, attaching a spade somewhere onto its exterior (we all know it could easily fit inside) are also performances of macho masculinity – maybe if I had the whole kit and caboodle I might feel like a tough guy instead of someone scared of popping their nuts.

As Queen Street approached Karangahape Road, some small butterflies of shame or embarrassment stirred in my stomach. It is highly likely there are people I know here. I wanted to pull my hoodie over my head, but to be a good driver one needs peripheral vision. Luckily the route to Ponsonby Road passed without incident. Perhaps my balls, with no pubes, wrinkles or veins, were too beautiful to offend people. Or I simply couldn’t see the wake of disgust and amusement behind me.

On Ponsonby Road, an Inner Link bus showed up in my rearview mirror. Could my two orange bouncing orbs bring joy to a bus driver on a long shift? When I checked, he was staring straight ahead, bored out of his mind. If only he had looked downwards. When I ended my tour outside The Spinoff office, my orange nuts were intact and perfectly plump – undamaged by their tour of Auckland’s roads.

Then an Instagram notification popped up on my phone. At least one person had noticed my Truck Nuts.

‘Help keep The Spinoff funny, smart, tall and handsome – become a member today.’
Gabi Lardies
— Staff writer
Keep going!
Image: Evie Noad / Critic Te Ārohi
Image: Evie Noad / Critic Te Ārohi

SocietyAugust 25, 2023

Is Castle Street dead?

Image: Evie Noad / Critic Te Ārohi
Image: Evie Noad / Critic Te Ārohi

The Dunedin street infamous for hosting riotous student free-for-alls appears to have adopted a more exclusive, invite-only party culture. What’s going on?

A version of this story was originally published in Critic Te Ārohi.

Castle Street has become a “gated elitist community” populated by “Auckland fucks” who regard those outside their inner circle as “shit on the bottom of their rich Adidas Sambas”. At least, that’s what some of this year’s disgruntled UoO Confessions have claimed.

But residents reject any suggestion that the notorious North Dunedin strip has lost its aura. Members of the Beehive flat told Critic Te Ārohi that while Castle Street’s most riotous days may be in the past, “it’s never gonna be dead … the legacy will always live on.” 

To many outside the Castle gates, this year’s residents appear to be exploiting this legacy, standing on the shoulders of breathas past without paying their dues.

“Castle is just shit, isn’t it?” says Robbie from Corner Store, a flat on the adjacent Leith Street, which he claims has now overtaken Castle in party spirit. “It seems like they want the status of living there without any of the responsibility of upholding the culture.” 

“For other people coming into Dunedin, you think [Castle Street] is going to be the craziest time of your life and you’ll wake up in a ditch or something. It’s just not like that [anymore].” 

So what’s changed? There are a few theories floating around, and many of them point to external factors forcing Castle Street’s party culture to become more insular.

The most obvious one is Covid-19. Quintin Jane, president of the Otago University Students’ Association, describes the pandemic as a “circuit breaker” that forced students to reshape what Dunedin partying looks like. “There’s still parties and noise, it’s just different now”, he says.

“The fact that it’s so easy to record someone and get them incriminated” may have also stopped Castle Street from partying like it used to, says another student Critic spoke with. In 2017, 17 students received disciplinary action and nine were expelled after the proctor came into possession of videos and photos of some “sick” and “demeaning” flat initiation rituals.

Others point the blame at landlords, who they say have been putting up more and more legal barriers to the student quarter’s party culture, with “no parties” clauses in rental agreements becoming increasingly common.

Castle Street’s most famous flat (Photo: Google Street View)

But some students say the street hasn’t really quietened down at all – the only thing that’s changed is who’s allowed to show up. “There’s been a lot of closed invite hosts where not everyone can rock up and drink,” claims Alex, Robbie’s flatmate at the Corner Store. “The parties have been good [this year]. It’s just a matter of whether you’ve been invited to them.” 

A number of non-Castlers Critic spoke to claimed that a deep-rooted elitism had sprung up on the street in recent years. When students were asked where they thought this elitism had come from, many were stumped for an answer, though a number of UoO Confessions seem to pin it on residents clinging to high school and regional ties. 

Competition for Castle Street rentals is fierce among budding breathas, and considering some leases are required to be signed as early as April, it makes sense that first-year students would be more likely to flat with long-established friends from high school than with new Dunedin mates. This has apparently resulted in a majority population of Auckland and Christchurch private-schoolers, who limit their invites to those in their existing circles. 

There is a good reason for this, argue the residents of the Courtyard. They laugh off the suggestion that they face external pressures not to party, gesturing to the Sunday morning state of their flat. But they do admit “there’s an invite barrier … it didn’t used to be like that.” 

The Courtyard girls claim the exclusive culture of Castle Street is something they inherited, rather than created. “We’ve got a host coming up in October, Courtchella,” one of them explains. Courtchella used to be an open host, but “a few years ago it turned into a closed-invite thing”. 

Although pandemic restrictions – the original catalyst for closed-invite hosts – are no longer in place, the girls say reopening Courtchella to North Dunedin’s masses is probably not on the cards. “It’s hard because we pay for everything. It costs like five grand. We’ve already had to do that in O-Week.” During that party, someone climbed on the flat’s roof and ripped open their water tank, leaving the flat without water for a week.

While they anticipated living on Castle Street would be “a fun experience”, one Courtyard resident says that when all the glitz is set aside, “the reality is kind of admin”.

Castle Street (Photo: Google Street View)

It was a different scene back in March 2020, when Kiley first arrived at Otago as an American exchange student to find Castle Street at its pre-Covid zenith. She says she was struck by how open and accepting the university’s party scene was compared to back home. Forced to return to the US after Covid hit, she came back to Dunedin to complete her Master’s this year and has noticed the change in vibe. “It’s just so much more deserted. You don’t see packs of students congregating in the party streets like they used to.”

Castle Street now reminds her more of the fraternity scene back home. “It creates this division amongst students. There’s this message [that] if you’re not affiliated, you don’t belong. It becomes very insular and perpetuates this culture of elitism and homogeneity.”

But demonising Castle Street’s current residents for the way things are isn’t the answer, Kiley says. “It’s not the most evil thing to just want to party with your friends. Sometimes the pressure to host gets put on the shoulders of people that have the most social capital and physical space to do it, but maybe the onus shouldn’t have to be just on these guys and girls.”

The solution, she suggests, lies in figuring out how to balance the needs of the residents with the need to gather and collectively pretend to enjoy drum and bass – even if that means moving the culture along. “Maybe historically Castle Street was that scene, but maybe now there needs to be a new one?” 

Quintin Jane, the OUSA president, shares a similar view. He believes the current moment represents an “exciting opportunity” for a more “diverse” student experience to emerge.

“How the partying looks is always going to change. Now it’s up to us to diversify the way we do things.”

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Lyric Waiwiri-Smith
— Politics reporter
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