Buzz on the street is that Her Majesty the Queen turns 89 years old today, so congratulations on that one, Liz.

Yeah, then some idiot, who obviously didn’t know who I was, tried to correct me, saying that I was a bit behind, claiming she’d already turned 89. I responded with my typical display of unjustified frustration, rebutting hard with all the self-righteousness of a well used douche-bag, saying if they wanted to get all uppity about time zone differences and the like that was their call, but you know me man, I’m not given to pedantry.

They maintained it wasn’t anything to do with time zones though, they maintained her birthday is not actually on the 1^st of June; worse still their implication was that I was wrong. I know.

Every year I’ve celebrated Liz’s b’day in rollicking fashion on June the…

Hang about. Just scrolling back through last year’s diary, it seems I celebrated her birthday on a different day a year ago. Seems like a peculiar thing to do. What’s more, next year, apparently, I plan to change again.

Further to this birthday wrought (like the iron because it’s twisted, not rort as I see has become an accepted modern day manner of spelling the term but which actually has no meaning at all), and this really is noteworthy, it seems Australians, who like to refer to the English as ‘poms’ despite the term ‘pommie’ originating from the acronym POME which in fact stood for ‘Prisoner Of Mother England’ and related to the way in which England used to send their convicts to Australia thereby making them Prisoners Of Mother England therefore making that jammy bunch of Aussie louts the pommie ones and not the other way around; so further to this birthday wrought of today not being Liz’s proper b’day, apparently Australia don’t celebrate her birthday today either, but from what I’ve heard the day they do celebrate isn’t even her real birthday and on top of all that, on top of Australia’s audacity that is, not even the whole of Australia celebrate it on that day, like, Western Australia don’t but here’s the real shit of it, guess who else doesn’t? Bloody Queensland, that’s who.

Seriously, Queensland. Yeah. I know.

Alright, so on further research I’ve discovered my own folly. Yes, the nation of New Zealand – who I’ve noticed also seem to quite favour that erroneous usage of the term ‘pommie’ – celebrate Liz’s b’day on June the 1^st while Australia choose to do their Queen-related booze-up on June the 8^th except for WA which are doing it on the 28^th of September. Next year though, Queensland team up with WA, becoming similarly contrary and reckon they’ll do it on the 3^rd of October while WA are sticking with September but shifting the date to the 26^th leaving the rest of Australia to have their Queenie birthday bash on June the 13^th; oh and as for New Zealand, next year we’ll make sure we’re still just a little different from the mob and schedule our party on June 6^th.

All this, all this and I still don’t know Lizzie’s proper birthday – thought we were mates, her and me, like, I was gonna invite her to my birthday party and that but how can she invite me to hers when I don’t even know when hers is anymore?

Dude, be cool. Queen Elizabeth the second, was born on April the 21^st, 1926; so she is 89 years’ old, you were right.

So that’s when she was born, April 21^st, 1926 – even in Australia?

Shit, I’m pretty that’s when she was born even in Guatemala.

But Guatemala’s not part of the Commonwealth.

You know, I don’t think it matters.

Oh, well, so why does she have so many birthdays?

She only has one really, or maybe two – the actual one in April and another in June during the England summer.

You mean June the 1^st, like today, so NZ were right after all.

Happy 89^th, Liz.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by H R Einess

Photography by B Feater

The Australian man at the centre of group-purchase lottery ticket controversy has proven himself to be a player of psychotically clever standards.

For years this man had been part of a Lotto syndicate arrangement, wherein all involved put in a little cash then one of the group purchases a ticket on their collective behalf…

Seemingly what this, arguably deceitful, character was doing, whenever it came time to buy the group’s ticket, he’d buy two, thereby doubling his chances of winning. Of course if his ticket won, well, he won; but then if the syndicate won, well he could easily decide that the syndicate’s ticket was the other one.

…Then any winnings from this syndicate ticket are theoretically divided up between the players in a prize pool system that in principle is very simple, yet does require a fair exhibition of scruples.

Word is that these workplace syndicate tickets have enjoyed a long history of success in Australia and while they might appear a cheap and easy way to have a bit of fun with Lotto, the concept is fraught with loopholes.

Admittedly if it were I who’d won 16 or 17 million, I can’t see that I’d have any issue distributing the funds equally between the group but this guy – switching tickets so in fact nobody could ever tell that he hadn’t bought the winner for himself then running off with the most attractive member of the aforementioned group – shit, I don’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted.

I guess we’ll see.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Jimmy Prack

Photography by Millie Yon Heir

Researchers have discovered, of all things, that residing near a busy road or perhaps beneath a regular flight path can lead to ‘weight gain’.

Well, if nothing else I’m glad that researchers are finally researching something worthwhile although personally, your so called ‘weight gain’ has probably more to do with a frightful lack of self control, leading to egregious eating habits, resulting in the harbouring of a lot more fat than you would ideally want languishing under your skin.

According to research this ostensibly inexplicable ‘weight gain’ due to living near busy roads or frequent flight paths can in fact be explained. In a few words: comfort eating.

Apparently the excess of noise and overall disruption caused by the aforementioned traffic (air traffic’s still traffic, smart arse), can lead to heightened stress levels, further leading to increased appetite; resulting in no snack food left in the house.

Here’s my question: If you know you’re prone to comfort eating and the subsequent fat that this brings about, why would you even keep ‘snack food’ in the house?

Three meals a day is the most rudimentary eating plan I’ve ever heard and what’s more, generally, it’s all we need. Don’t go blaming the bloody planes flying overhead or the cars hurtling by outside for your desire to rip into that pack of chocolate biscuits only half an hour after mealtime.

Researchers long ago discovered that if any noise is consistently recurring, after a given period of time, the human mind does accustom.

People always told me that shift workers and other folk who worked interesting hours resulting in sleep deprivation often ‘gained weight’ (I always thought taking up the sport of body-building was a good way, too) but as far as I saw across a selection of four people embarking on shift-work around a decade ago, the two men became immediately chubby then promptly pulled it back to a reasonable state; the women began swelling also and while one managed to regain control, the other appeared quite content with her new shape, maintaining, “Oh, it’s just the shift-work, they told us to expect an increase of up to ten Ks in the first twelve months – ha, I’ve still got two Ks to go!”

What I extrapolated from this is that, firstly, nobody should ever tell a woman that she is ‘allowed’ or ‘expected’ to gain ‘up to ten kilograms in twelve months’ and secondly, it was these four shift workers’ severe reduction in sensible eating habits that lead to their severe gains in weight.

Sure, hormones, chemicals and the like play an additional part but if the planes flying over your head and the cars rushing by your window are causing you undue anxiety and a subsequent fear of weight gain, hey, stop, take a breath and focus.

Stay sensible, maintain proper eating habits and perhaps include in your regime some daily exercise – it’ll do wonders for all that stress.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Kea Pitt Real

Photography by Dona B A Faddy

Moving on from ‘Euthanized’, it seems Wellington lawyer Lecretia Seales’ hopes of dying on her own terms, via an assisted suicide, have been declined.

This terminally ill, brain cancer sufferer’s only hope now is to follow the lead of a particular British man in a similar predicament, and take her quest to die peacefully to another land which is not so bloody determined to uphold a senseless law which, for the record, goes against everything that we, as supposedly ‘free’ citizens of New Zealand value so much, stating that regardless of a person’s current, or indeed projected, condition or quality of life, that person must be forced to endure as much of the aforementioned life as is physically possible, before further enduring their inevitably painful and possibly horrific, also grotesque but indeed, natural, death.

I could never quite understand the law claiming that suicide was illegal; I mean, once the carcass is lying dead on the floor, who’s going to get punished? Is it supposed to act as a deterrent, as in, “Don’t forget buddy, despite your impending total loss of motor function resulting in your becoming completely dependent on others – including for your most personal and humiliating needs – if you kill yourself, you’ll be breaking the law, so you’d better not eh, because I don’t want to have to go through life having been affiliated with a known law-breaker.”?

Bullshitty as that is, even more ridiculous is the story of the Danish radio DJ who staged an on-air slaughter of a rabbit, which he then took home and cooked for his family, in protest to the hypocrisy involved at the way that humans somehow perceive a difference between killing for fun and killing for food…

In my opinion, it was a brilliant showcase of that exact double-standard and certainly, he made a marvellous point – he slaughtered the animal for the purpose of that night’s family meal therefore there shouldn’t have been an issue with his actions – yet because he killed a ’cute little bunny’ rabbit rather than the more widely known ‘scourge of the land’ rabbit – also the fact that he did it over national radio – this man has been vilified by the nation of Denmark.

…Killing is killing, suffering is suffering; death is death. Regarding the Dane, while some will assuredly argue the point, he did kill that rabbit humanely; certainly more humanely than many rabbit hunters would, anyway. It was the fact that he did it with public knowledge, the fact that he didn’t try to hide the extremely taboo subject of death, that people find so difficult to palate.

Just like Lecretia Seales. Her biggest mistake was allowing her death to become visible to the public eye – doesn’t she realise the public are generally dickheads? Now, on account of that disastrous folly, unless she heads abroad to die, this woman who once gave so much to her country will now perish slowly, while effectively suffering at the hands of said nation.

Dickheads.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Di Inna Payne

Photography by Peter Rabbit

His contemplation required little further thought as the very next morning, having risen again at 5 a.m. with just one task in mind – putting up guttering along the western face of his garage and installing the rainwater tank in the hope of catching any remaining spring rain – he received a phone call from one concerned mother.

“Kahn, baby, sorry for calling so early, I -”

“You consider 7 a.m. early now? I’m already half done for the day.”

“Well,” she laughed, “it’s earlier than phone etiquette dictates one should be conducting a phone call.”

“So, what are you – conducting, or dictating?”

“Well, funnily enough, my clever little boy, that was the reason I wanted to speak to you … You probably haven’t heard – your father told me – but Korea is apparently having a bit of a tiff with some other parts of the world -”

“It’s North Korea, and it’s a little more than a tiff, Mum.”

“Oh, so you have heard.”

“I do watch the news.”

“Oh, well I was, I suppose, worried, for you -”

“Why are you worried, Mum?”

“Oh, it’s just that, well, after your, disagreement with that horrible, Kevin fellow, I thought you might be feeling, I don’t know, down, on yourself..?”

“Mum, the Kevin incident was ages ago, it’s behind me … But if you are worried that I might feel some kind of misguided obligation to pick up tools and join allegiances with the North Korean army, simply because on the surface I’m of North Korean heritage, no, I was not, going to do that.”

“Oh, how nice … That wasn’t really my worry though … I was more concerned that because you are of North Korean heritage, you -”

“On the surface only, and no, I would never join those loathsome cretins in a million years.”

“Well, not by choice, no, but did you hear they’re conscripting anyone from Korea?”

“So you think, what, they might pop over to good old N-Z and start reclaiming their many immigrants?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past them…”

“Yeah, and after hearing the kinds of stunts their General’s been pulling, I wouldn’t be that quick to give them a ‘most improved’ award either.”

“Yes, well, Kahn, as you would have seen firsthand, improving on outright cruelty, can go either way.”

“Actually, Mum, I prefer not to acknowledge those early memories – far as I’m concerned, that isn’t me in those flashbacks.”

“I know, and that’s an admirable way to look at it, baby, but it doesn’t change the fact…”

“The fact that what?” Kahn pressed, “That no matter how much I believe that I’m a true Kiwi with absolutely no ties whatsoever to the land in which I grew up, I will always have the appearance of a Korean, therefore always be Korean?”

“Something like that, dear.”

“Honestly Mum, I would rather die than join their forces … And if they ever came for me I reckon that’s just what I would do – I’d fight those commie bastards to the death.”

That night he was ready and waiting at 6p.m. for The News to come on.

“Tonight on Three News we have further reports out of North Korea as the country prepares to go to war.

“Sources have it that North Korea’s entire male population, between the ages of fourteen and sixty-five, are ready and willing to engage in combat, for the North Korean cause.

“While their motives are indeed, unclear, popular projections are that, due to an ever-increasing, North Korean population coupled with a comparatively diminutive land mass, the country’s main objective, is expansion, this however, does not fit with earlier reports of colonisation, leaving the reason for North Korea’s movements, ultimately, as yet, undecided.

“Regardless, the affects of the two thousand five, North Korean Horror Story, are still raw in the hearts and minds of many across the world, and indeed, worldwide hatred towards the North Korean military, is high and with this in account, which is to say, perhaps pre-empting military action from abroad, is their goal, maybe finding a reason for this sudden and grandiose display of belligerence, is not, after all, such a far cry.

“In related news, the US today released a statement, saying that it was not willing to stand idly by, while another country, causes such upheaval and unrest around the world, boldly promising to take action, should action, first be, taken by the hands, of, North Korea.

“Further to this, is the question of New Zealand’s, potential involvement  in such a, war, if, that is in fact, what international, leaders, are calling it.

“This has been Jules Peach, with a Three News update, reporting live from Pyongyang, North Korea, where, believe me, the tension is palpable.”

Well, I can’t get out. It wouldn’t even be a productive kamikaze run because the bastards’d shoot me on sight. Besides, I don’t have any decent weaponry anyway. There’s just so many of them now, I wouldn’t have a hope. It’s no good even at night because they’re all shining their torches around so the place is lit up like its Christmas outside. Screw this. I’m lonely, I don’t care what you say, I miss my Mum and Dad. I don’t even know if they’re still alive – and if they’re dead I guess I miss them more. And by christ I’m hungry for some red meat. 

As humans we are obsessed with the idea of prolonging life.

So infatuated we are with this concept that we often pursue it blindly, allowing no life to become extinguished if there is any way to keep it alive; without question this desire to prolong life is fuelled by compassion but in some cases it goes beyond that, becoming a mindless quest and indeed, more of a callous compassion.

If a person is so affected by an incurable disease or illness that their quality of life is reduced to the point where they are unable to carry out the most simple of life’s duties; if that person’s once prosperous life and promising future no longer has any credibility; if realistically the only reason that this person is still alive is because loved ones are unwilling to let them go – or maybe they’re not…

Reminiscent of a brain dead patient in hospital during the first few days of life support: technically, despite having no hope of recuperation, to flick off the switch is murder, because humans love life in any form – no matter how pointless or impractical.

…What if there was a prominent Wellington lawyer, diagnosed in 2011 with an inoperable brain cancer? What if this middle-aged woman had struggled for the past four years, her family witnessing the deterioration of her condition; of her basic faculties? What if this woman’s only remaining wish is to die with dignity, rather than the illness-ravaged shell of a being she will inevitably become? What if her family supported her decision to have a professional perform an assisted death? Would the rules still apply? Would we still cling to our mantra, ensuring that every skerrick of vitality is squeezed from her life?

Has our inherently PC world, our innate excesses of human compassion spun so wildly out of control that we cannot see that it would be in fact more humane, more compassionate to allow this brave woman to die on her own terms?

Euthanasia in New Zealand is currently illegal – rather, it’s only legal to those people who can perform it without being found out. Of course if someone did euthanize a terminally ill patient and it was found out, the person responsible would likely be sent to prison for murder, or at least manslaughter, given that the only witness would now be deceased. It’s a dilly of a pickle.

There is no doubt in my mind that these laws, along with many of New Zealand’s law-makers, need to be relaxed. These people need to realise that there are instances where preserving life is not the most important thing. Sometimes these people just need to open their eyes and see a situation – see a life – for what it is: for Lecretia Seales, it’s been over for some time.

She just wants to die on her own terms.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Letta Digh

Photography by Oan Thames

In an effort to make the job of being a parking warden in New Zealand less abusive, the nation’s most despised profession plan to fit themselves out with cameras.

The hope is that these cameras will act as deterrents for parking cheats who, on returning to their illegally parked car to find it under the ominous shadow of a parking warden affixing a ticket to the windshield, think it’s appropriate to embark on tirades of unbridled fury…

In New Zealand we have time limits on our curb-side parks to ensure a continuous rotation, thereby ensuring that new vehicles always have an opportunity slot themselves into the grid; we also have handicap zones, usually positioned near a building’s entrance, which are restricted to the use solely of disabled people because they often have difficulty covering large distances; then there are ‘no park’ areas where, obviously, nobody is supposed to park.

…Nation’s most despised profession or not, it is a parking warden’s job to ensure that the aforementioned regulations are maintained – should the driver of a car occupy a park for longer than allowed because their job took longer than expected, should a fit and able person duck into a handicap park because they’re too lazy to walk a few hundred metres, or park somewhere that’s clearly supposed to be kept vacant, in my opinion, they deserve to suffer the consequences.

I have no time for dickheads who think they’re above the rest and can double-park or park on yellow lines because ‘they’re only going to be a minute’. I loathe shitheads who occupy handicap parks without the associated affliction. I have witnessed a car being ticketed for occupying a central Christchurch park for too long, just as the driver appeared. I saw and heard the way he verbally ripped into the portly female warden; I was pleased to see that she did not back down.

Many NZ males seem to possess a trait wherein the revelation of their own wrongdoing causes them to become inexplicably indignant, thus very angry. The fact that these men know they’re in the wrong is perhaps perceived as a weakness, making them fight even harder for redemption. Before long you have somebody arguing a point that although he doesn’t believe, he knows he must win at all costs.

I sincerely hope that these cameras do make the life of the parking warden less horrible because after all, these guys, like the rest of us, have a job to do.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Parker Warburton

Photography by A Buschi-Eve

In response to Bill English’s 2015 Budget revelation, predictably, throngs of hard working Kiwi citizens have taken to the streets in protest.

The theme behind their rhyme-less chanting appears to be that these young-mother advocates are unhappy with the New Zealand Government’s ‘tax relief for mothers’ package; seemingly an extra $25 or so weekly assistance is inadequate.

Here’s the thing about that: I’m quite certain that John Key is not deliberately being a frugal arse-wipe. Clearly, what with all the other areas requiring/demanding Government handouts, that’s all the nation can currently afford; as for David Little’s suggestion that his opposition party could do better, well Mr Little, you might recall it was Helen Clark’s Labour Government who first dropped us in the financial shit-hole – from which, along with the ensuing global recession, the nation has never completely recovered.

Honestly, protesters’ energy would be much better directed focusing on getting through to the humanity of those immoral shitheads who thought it’d be a bit of fun to scatter fish hooks across an Onerahi children’s recreation area.

Ultimately the aforementioned protesters can bitch and moan all they like about lack of support for young mothers but as the saying goes: You can’t squeeze fruit juice from dog shit.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Mini

Photography by Dick Heed Fisher-Hook

John Campbell last night broadcast that he’s finally had enough; this, in the same week that David Letterman decides the very same thing – conspiracy, perhaps..?

Come on, Campbo Live, Letterman, seriously? No, I’m not doing that. Not this morning. After I don’t know how many of these ‘Tim Walker’s…’, I feel as though I am entitled to one morning when my brain contains an inexplicable paucity of perspicacious ranting.

Yes, I consider the aforementioned shortage ‘inexplicable’ because if you’ve ever had to be in the same room as my brain for an extended period you’ll understand how vehemently opinionated, therefore easily irritated it can be and indeed, is.

Some other words my brain is currently, ever so thoughtfully, presenting, in an attempt I’m sure to illustrate and exemplify the ‘human thesaurus’ tag it so enjoys, to describe itself (oddly ‘conceited’ isn’t among them) are ‘passionate’ – although I would argue ‘pedantic’ – ‘strong-willed’ – I think more ‘obstinate’ – ‘intense’ – I’d say more ‘irascible’ – ‘perfectionist’ – my alternative there would be ‘fractious’…

We’ll stop there. Seriously, had I allowed, it would have gone all day. So you see the shit I’m forced to endure, while endeavouring to maintain this outwardly ‘typical’ semblance which, honestly, as the days go by, becomes less of a façade and increasingly a charade.

I confess, in order to ensure that I am sufficiently riled each morning to prepare ‘Your Daily Dose of Profundity’ – which, admittedly, curiously, despite the name, used to only be updated weekly, meaning that if it was in fact to be your ‘Daily Dose’, it would have been quite repetitive, wouldn’t it? – I simply watch the 6 o’clock News the night before which usually provides my passionate, intense, strong-willed, perfectionist (pedantic, obstinate, irascible, fractious) brain with ample content about which to complain (my brain’s now telling me it would have preferred I used the term ‘discuss’ rather than ‘complain’, but them’s the breaks).

After just now skimming through what’s already been written above my brain’s also suggesting that you might be misunderstanding me (personally, no idea what it’s talking about, it wrote the stuff, for Christ’s sake), so I best clarify: such is my brain’s propensity for antagonism, when it assimilates the evening news thereby witnessing the abundance of issues, the plethora of problems, the jumble of misdirected hatred and misguided scorn, it tends to come away indignant, exasperated and often even, enraged. I think that much was already clear though; I think the point my brain wanted to clarify was that it doesn’t go on seething right through the night until morning where the cathartic release of 21^st century pen to paper suddenly assuages its fiery being, rendering it once more the fun-loving brain we’ve come to know and revere. (Sorry, it made me write that last bit.)

No, my brain’s seething period only really lasts for the duration of whatever news story was riling it, where it then leaves me to it and begins its period of calm, comparatively relaxed contemplation. This stage can last anywhere from an hour to all night – I just hope like hell the phone doesn’t ring during this downtime because the response would be vapid indeed.

Not until the morning, once seated behind my QWERTY-board, do I consciously dredge up the previous night’s disenchantment. Sometimes, if no disharmonious memories are forthcoming, I check my cellular telecommunications device to find that my brain has cleverly recorded a reminder regarding the nature of that morning’s impending topic; that’s when the frustration, the exasperation, the indignation, the agitation and the antagonism all come flooding back like the biblical diluvium across Jerusalem. (Hang about, I thought the biblical flood was a worldwide thing; also shouldn’t ‘Biblical’ have a capital?)

At that moment I type with more fervour than five fervent fingers formulating (don’t ask me, it told me to write that one as well) and before long I have written ‘Your Daily Dose of Profundity’.

Sometimes it doesn’t work like that though. Sometimes you just have to accept that amid the scintillation there will be a dud. Sometimes things on the controversial front don’t appear nearly as tumultuous as one’s brain would hope. Sometimes, according to the evening news broadcast, the nation is relatively at peace with itself and the only thing worth discussing is the story of a middle-aged man, his overactive mind, its terminally youthful eccentricity, along with its inherently cantankerous temperament…

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by P Dan Tree

Photography by Tabit Dudley

This bloody flag debate has been running for so long now that my exasperation levels have damn near risen to the point of cursing out loud – those who know me know that it takes a fair bit to have me cursing aloud.

Alright, that’s patently untrue, I cuss all the time, but the point remains the same: the sensibility, the magnitude and indeed, the reasoning behind this debate of whether to dip into the nation’s budget to replace the existing flag with something which, let’s be fair, will probably end up being garish, gaudy or just plain ostentatious, or retaining the proud old red, white, and blue stalwart with its Southern Cross and its Union Jack to watch over us, is more akin to a toddler picking his nose, slowly withdrawing his hand, peering momentarily at the fruits of his excavation, before ducking the finger between his parted lips…

Prime Minister John Key recently admitted that New Zealand isn’t actually as financially solvent as it should be therefore tax relief is still a way off. Even more recently he admitted that our several thousand impoverished children will also have to continue their financial struggle for just a little longer.

…It’s not something you ever want to see at the centre of a debate, if it goes on too long you realise somebody has to step in and put an end to it and yet, from the perspective of the decision-maker you can understand that it really is an easy way for him to pass the time.

It seems ludicrous that, at a time when there are umpteen other good and productive channels down which to pour Government funding, the prospect of producing a new national flag – also the countless polls, surveys, and referendums that go with it – takes priority.

It rather annoys me that I am so vehemently against this movement because ordinarily, I do like to support John Key and his National party in most every decision they make; but ultimately, I like our current flag. It represents New Zealand. It represents us as a people. It represents our proximity to the Southern Cross, and our affiliation with the Commonwealth which, for the record, I do not consider a bad thing.

Shit man, I like our flag so much I wrote an article about it when this issue was first raised – all the way back in March of 2014 – which provides an example of just how much time, hence money, has been wasted on this ridiculous topic.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Whey Star Mini

Photography by Fleg B Rare