Former State of Origin league legend Billy Moore has come under a shit-storm for referring to New Zealand’s Warriors as having a ‘coconut’ style of play.

As one would imagine, this comment caused uproar on social media sites across Australasia.

I can’t imagine it actually offended anybody, least of all the Polynesian sector of NZ to whom the title referred, yet in this modern world where it has become so very easy to vent distaste over anything harbouring even the projected potential for Political In-correctness, many dick-headed people are tending to do just that.

Alright folks, here’s my decidedly distasteful opinion on the matter: the majority of people across the world have become such slaves to the term ‘Political Correctness’ it is my wholehearted belief they have forgotten what genuine affront feels like. The world has become such a padded little area of social awareness that these people no longer seem to wait to actually be insulted before complaining, oh no, they carefully observe the actions taken or words spoken by television or radio personalities in the hope of picking up on those areas where somebody is perhaps doing or maybe saying something that they know could potentially in particular circumstances lead to their being insulted; that’s when they kick up their stink.

The world seems to have developed a set of rules that should apparently dictate etiquette. The problem is that many of these ‘rules’ are largely illogical and utterly ridiculous, yet if somebody breaks them somebody else is quick to ‘force’ an apology, which is equally ridiculous.

For example, that forbidden ‘N word’ is everywhere at the moment; so much so in fact that even Barack Obama was even heard using it. Of course this caused massive ‘offence’ across America. Forget the fact that Black and White folk alike use this word among friends as a term of endearment…

The ‘rules’ regarding ‘etiquette’ surrounding ‘racism’ are some of most asinine parts of life ever developed. Focus needs to be shifted; priorities need to be sought.

…I think truly offensive is the fact that Auckland dairy owner Arun Kumar’s killer has been handed down a mere six year manslaughter sentence, along with the recommendation that the teenage boy never see the inside of an adult prison cell lest it disturb his innocence.

Hah. Does the name Tony Robertson ring any bells? A judge took pity on the innocence of that teenage rapist and look what happened.

Now that’s offensive.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Way Cop

Photography by Gat Reel

The top of my number four spark lead had been completely shredded.

I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing until peering more closely, I was able to distinguish teeth marks in the rubber insulation. Looking even more closely though I am again rendered disbelieving; the cable’s conductor, whose job it is to transfer current from the ignition coil/s to the spark plugs thereby creating a spark hence combustion, has been completely chewed through – but for one metallic strand. “Well,” I recall though/mumbling, “there’s no way that strand could carry sufficient current to make the cylinder go pop,” leading me to hypothesise that further damage must have been done after I had parked up the previous night.

Unplugging the number four lead I immediately embarked on a ponderous stroll to my local servo although on arrival, checking my timepiece I wished I had delayed my departure by ten or so minutes. Entering the workshop the delectable aroma of coffee and cigarettes filled my nostrils. Suffice to say I was surprised when, despite being mid-smoko, my plight seemed to hold the attention of all staff involved. Strange as I believed the phenomena of a high-tension cable-chewing rodent to be, these guys didn’t seem to perceive it as at all astonishing…

I understand my history in the field of diesel mechanics leaves me somewhat wanting when it comes to bizarre instances of electrically induced engines, but I still thought it was pretty amazing.

…The boss or owner or whatever term he allots himself rose and with cigarette between his lips led me over to the kind of box that every good petrol workshop should have on hand – a veritable pick ‘n mix, an utterly disorganised array of assorted spark plug leads from every model from every make of car imaginable. A speedy ten minutes later he had found a match; handed it to me, discarded his expired cigarette butt and, refusing my offer of payment but offering his well-wishes, sent me on my way.

I arrived back at my car, plugged in the lead and thought/mumbled, “Nice one … Back in business.” Before closing the bonnet however, I did consider the consequences of returning to my car the next day and turning the key only to find that once more the lead had been chewed. Feeling trapped by the frustrating uncertainty of this quandary and determined to even the stakes I ran inside and fetched the two mouse traps…

These I had purchased at the time my cat was going through that springtime, sexually active and high on catnip, phase of bringing into the house live mice, dropping them at my feet, looking up at me expectant of adulation, while the mouse runs off and hides under the range and the cat makes a half-arsed, pathetically belated attempt at recapturing it’s quarry.

…I smeared on both traps some crunchy peanut butter by Pam’s and returned to the garage, taking some time to decide on the best location for them. Finally with both traps set – one over number four plug facing back, the other on number one plug facing forward, primarily because any other style would have upset my OCD – and with the bonnet left up I headed back indoors.

Next morning, following the obligatories, I excitedly opened the garage door and flicked on the lights. I approached the car tentatively as if rip-shit-and-bust might go some way towards ruining the surprise, and peered around the side of the open bonnet. Let me tell you, it was a glorious visage.

The shiny red rocker cover of my car’s GT engine glistening under the illumination of three 200 watt light bulbs, truly was a sight to behold…

(Shit, we’re already over 600 words; we’ll finish it up next time, yeah?)

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tua-Ly Z Tudae

Photography by Nick S Thyme

Simply, the judicial system in New Zealand is failing.

Auckland woman Blessie Gotingco was raped and murdered by the same man who, just ten years earlier, was imprisoned for the abduction and rape of a five-year-old girl.

The fact is that when Tony Robertson raped and killed Blessie Gotingco he was not long out of prison for this earlier crime where, at the time of conviction a judge had taken pity on the then teenager expecting that given the chance, the young man could still make something of his life…

During the aforementioned sentence Tony Robertson was repeatedly denied parole due to a total ‘lack of reform’.

…So they let him out. Tony Robertson abducted and raped a five-year-old girl. He showed no desire to comply with the prison’s rehabilitation policy. They then released him back into the public.

Granted he had to adhere to pretty stringent conditions but nothing too serious; nothing so austere as to prevent him from running down the defenceless Gotingco in his car, raping then murdering her. Nothing like that.

Tony Robertson spent weeks before the courts and despite firing his legal counsel in the early stages, managed to somehow burn up over $200 grand of taxpayer money.

Truth be told when I first laid eyes on the cretin he gained my pity. I actually thought this reasonably well-spoken and good-natured man who seemed to believe he could defend himself better than an agenda-driven court-appointed lawyer, was being persecuted by overzealous police on the hunt for a scapegoat.

It wouldn’t have been the first time anyway, he said soberly, casting a discerning eye in the direction of Teina Pora’s wasted youth.

Blessie Gotingco was a well liked member of her community. Now she’s dead. All it would have taken for her to not be dead is for that judge a decade ago to have based his sentence on the magnitude of the offence rather than a teenager’s apparent innocence.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Ena Sense

Photography by Chet Bag

The question of life on other planets has to be among the most debated in the world – in our world.

Look at the facts: planet Earth languishes amid a Universe so vast that nobody can adequately explain just how big it is, let alone reach its perimeters. Within that ‘infinite’ Universe is Earth’s Solar System which comprises nine planets, including Pluto. These nine planets all orbit one sun, our sun; the Sun. The Sun is a big flaming ball of largely hydrogen gas with some helium, held together by its own gravity.

Alright, now consider the following: our Universe, as we know it, contains millions of suns. Look to the Milky Way at night time, you’ll see millions of suns. Each of these suns, potentially, has its own Solar System. Of these millions of suns with their potentially millions of Solar Systems therefore, it is unreasonable to postulate that none of those planets have evolved conditions conducive to the nurturing of life.

The one key element that sets Earth apart from other suitably heated planets is that Earth comes complete with its very own oxygen-rich atmosphere. The reason for this oxygen-rich atmosphere is abundant, oxygen-producing plant-life. The reason for abundant plant life is soil and, primarily, water. The reason for water is hydrogen and two oxygens but hang on, I just said the reason for oxygen was plants and you can’t have plants without water but without water you can’t have plants…

Oxymoronic.

…The only way therefore for life to exist is if water already exists. Water is unequivocally the key to life.

Scientists recently discovered another planet which keeps a similar temperature, is a similar size and orbit pattern to our own and were talking about the possibility of using it to harbour life, I guess, once we’ve killed our own planet, but I saw a picture of this planet – it looks already dead.

Even so, good to see there’s a contingency plan.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Fritch Water

Photography by Dud Planet

Unbelievable.

Firstly that this ‘Indian witch doctor’ scandal is still heading Auckland news and secondly, the stupid things that silly people are saying with regard to the aforementioned.

First memorable quote: “…I was feeling really depressed so I went to see a priest – little did I know this guy wasn’t a priest he was a witch doctor…”

“My God,” I recall erupting at the TV in disbelief, “honestly, what’s the bloody difference?!”

Second memorable quote: “…They’re not priests, they’re con-artists.”

This time I managed to restrain myself; instead just seething quietly to myself from the comfort of my couch.

As an atheist, priests, in my opinion, are quintessential con-artists.

While they do perhaps provide mental relief for their flock, feeding them lie after lie, reassuring them with fallacy after fallacy until they are happy to live amid a world of delusion, far as I’ve seen they don’t provide any real, tangible solutions. Despite this notable religious shortcoming, members of a priest’s congregation will still happily part with their money to ensure their churches prosperity…

Can anyone smell the bullshit yet?

…Brian Tamaki and his Destiny Church are famous names among the Christian world and in fact provide a perfect example of religious con-artistry. The earlier Auckland speaker wanted her priest to aid in her struggle with mental illness because, well, we’ve all heard of the amazing results priests can bring, along with their wonderfully scrupulous approach to life…

I am reminded now of countless instances of child ‘mistreatment’ at the hands of priests; also there’s Brian Tamaki who appears to have zero compunction about sucking dry already impoverished families to ensure that his church undergoes frequent refurbishment.

…As it turned out, apparently under the impression that she was in fact visiting a priest, this confused Auckland woman went to one of these so called Indian witch doctors to be told the cause of her depression was black magic. As a lifelong Christian there was no way this was true – black magic? Preposterous – imagine her dismay when she was then told that such a revelation demanded payment.

Conversely she could have gone to her priest, to whom she likely makes weekly donations anyway, to be told her depression was the work of the Devil. That would have made much more sense.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Chris Chin Del Uzan

Photography by Blake Ma Jeek

Good, honest, hard-working Kiwi folk are being duped by the influx of Indian witch doctors in Auckland.

These so called ‘healers’ are in many cases taking Aucklanders for hundreds of dollars for essentially providing the assurance that through their mystical channels they will heal them of physical or often, mental anguish.

Sounds like a scam, right? Someone claiming to be able to heal by simply ‘wishing’ away their pain..? Yeah, right. It’s no surprise then that New Zealanders have ridiculed and written off these witch doctors as conventional con-artists…

Hang on, let’s not be too pushy; surely if these Indian healers believe in what they’re pushing, that makes it a legitimate practise. Far as I can see in today’s world, if you believe in a cause, that’s as good as reality; isn’t that the principle behind all religion?

How dare those narrow-minded Auckland bigots claim that because this supposed witchery is too far out for them to fathom, that it must be a scam? No one has ever seen or heard from this fabled Lord Jesus yet I’m certain each week a percentage of Auckland citizens happily offer money to their church, under the pretence that it will directly benefit their existence.

These Indian witch doctors might well be running a scam but so is every religion in the world; the only difference is that we are less familiar with this scam.

Give it time.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Indy N Heeler

Photography by Ray Lee Gus Skimmer

I’ve heard of a spit-beetle and a spit-bucket, even a spit-puddle or a spit-pool if you like, but a Spit-hill..?

Dean Barker appears to forgone whatever grudges he once held over Jimmy Spithill, the pair openly sharing pleasantries while posing for a television camera.

Unsurprising really that the smile has returned to Barker’s face after signing what one can only imagine is a lucrative deal, as skipper and CEO of Japanese yachting challenger, Softbank Team Japan.

As for the smarmy but frustratingly svelte and indeed charismatic skipper of Oracle Team USA, Jimmy Spithill, well, his team and he has been accused of cheating after that inexplicable comeback in the last America’s Cup final; although in fairness New Zealand never has been good at accepting defeat from Australians.

Best of luck to Mr Barker and may he enjoy every success as captain of another vessel; just remember, if Team NZ can’t take part next time around citing financial difficulties, it’s probably only because Grant Dalton demands a more than half million dollar salary.

Hard to believe New Zealand still considers Spithill the shithead.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tame Dalton

Photography by Ray Gutter

During the journey to Christchurch last Thursday night I noticed my car engine’s typically rhythmic purr undergoing a very occasional missed combustion.

It felt it misfire once around twenty minutes in then again ten minutes later…

Given that I have in the past replaced the majority of my car’s ignition system my thoughts immediately went to the fuel filter which incidentally, I’ve not replaced in over seven service intervals.

…As I bumped over the curb to my jiu-jitsu class that evening the engine responded to the momentum shift by giving a few more splutters – behaviour typical of a blocked fuel filter – before I shut it off the engine and went inside.

Two hours later I took my seat and turned the ignition. The engine started effortlessly. I drove out of Annex then Blenheim Roads without issue and it wasn’t until some time later, on reaching Rolleston supermarket that the car truly started to worry me; idling around the car park looking for a space it was spluttering terribly, and projections of having to call upon the AA were fast becoming reality.

Half an hour later I returned to the drivers’ seat, threw my bags on the passenger side and turned the key. The engine hummed like a high-performance engine should. I put the car in gear and started coasting out of the car park. The engine started to misfire badly. I reached the road and fearing the car would stall if I allowed the revs to fall too low, keeping up momentum I drove over the curb a lot faster than I ordinarily would, hearing my front spoiler crunch into the road as I left the car park. Some very loud cursing later I was safely cruising in the direction of home.

Parking the car in the garage I made a quick mental note to, second thing tomorrow, disconnect the fuel filter, take it for a stroll down to the local servo and grab a replacement. No trouble.

Next morning, having fulfilled the obligatory morning tasks, I ducked out to my car, looking so chic in the morning sun…

“Hard to believe,” I recall thought/mumbling, “that such beauty could be the cause of so much stress…” I have an additional recollection of my brain then being flooded with further examples of beautiful things resulting in inordinate stress levels and left it at that.

…I popped the bonnet catch, pushed the car back half a metre, went around the front and lifted the bonnet. My eyes immediately fell on the fuel filter, mounted on the firewall in all its shiny steel glory, illustrating the reason that I have avoided replacing it for so long; it’s rather an expensive component that in fact doesn’t require such regular replacement as some others.

Nevertheless pulling on my bush-mechanic’s hat I spun around to my toolbox and selected the required tools for fuel filter replacement. Spinning back once more, devoid of prescription vision enhancement, I eyed my target while thought/mumbling, “What if I do this and it still doesn’t run right, what then?” Somewhere in the course of the aforementioned consideration I must have placed my tools on the engine’s radiator and was absentmindedly, as we bush-mechanics sometimes do while a car bonnet is up, ensuring good connection between the spark plugs and associated leads. I recall checking number one spark plug lead on the left before absentmindedly moving to number two, number three then casting my eye back to the supposedly offending fuel filter, with my thumb and forefinger I pushed on the rubber insulator of the number four spark plug connection…

It feels peculiar. It doesn’t feel at all like it should. Granted I am working blind, not looking where I’m feeling and such, but I have mindlessly checked my car’s spark plug connection often enough to know when something is not right.

…I look down and astigmatised vision notwithstanding what I see shocks me. Although I’m glad that I won’t have to replace my fuel filter after all, I am still a little perplexed as to how the hell I’m supposed to go about replacing one of these without having to buy a whole new set..?

(That’s long enough for now; I’ll finish it later.)

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Thess A Rat

Photography by Indi Con-Krushon

After recently intercepting the biggest haul of methamphetamine in New Zealand history Customs officials are impressed with their efforts.

Customs minister Nicky Wagner shares similar sentiments of success, with total drug seizures over the last six months reportedly being worth up to $246 million on New Zealand streets.

Grand as this total surely is and wonderful as it must be for the friends and families of those lives otherwise ruined by drugs – particularly methamphetamine – equally phenomenal I think is the level of ingenuity shown by these drug traffickers; it is truly amazing to see the lengths to which these people will go to ensure their substances gain entry to the country.

From packing meth precursor into a bicycle frame to filling the handle of a hairbrush with finished product, it is obvious to me that the people behind this illicit trickery are wasted in the drug trade. With such brilliant imagination and clear determination instead of wasting their time packing drugs into the frames of kids’ toys, these guys need to be putting that creativity to work making and developing kids’ toys.

It’s no secret to me that drug takers are an imaginative people; when I was first shown a homemade bucket bong and was given the explanation of how and moreover why it was effective, I was genuinely amazed. On top of imagination these people had included knowledge of physics, chemistry and, perhaps less impressively, plumbing.

There is a whole breed of people out there who have fallen victim to the lifestyle promised by the sale of illicit substances – corrupted by the ease of drug production, seduced by the allure of drug money – but think if these fine minds had been put to work in some other industry, some other capacity, think how productive those lives might have been.

More to the point, wouldn’t the world be a sweeter place?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Moth Ampher Tymine

Photography by Gene E Ust

I heard a rumour recently that the next ice age is set to make its presence felt within the next fifteen years.

That doesn’t surprise me particularly and even if this rumour is bollocks, I believe there is merit to the theory. Going back a few years now, according to those people in the know, the entire globe was experiencing what we laymen refer to as, the ice age. As I am not one who knows a great deal about archaeology, fossil records or the like, I have no reason to disbelieve this postulation.

Therefore, and this is the point where I start offering my expertise which sadly is based less on facts and evidence, and more on passion and predictions, it is my concurring belief that another so called ice age is imminent. My theory, you see, is one of cycles; I have no idea when the next ice age will come because, well, I have no idea when the last one occurred.

Enhancing the credibility that another ice age is nigh is my other belief that, to put it very bluntly indeed, the 21^st century is the one that will kill our planet. We simply have too many people, we are using too many resources, thus generating too many bi-products and too much waste so yes, I believe the 21^st is the one that will do it. That doesn’t mean you should go off on some inane agreeable tangent and start speculating and ranting about when the sun’s going to burn out or some shit like that because honestly, what are the chances, I mean, where’s the evidence; where are the facts which say there is a finite supply of inflammable gases in our infinite universe meaning that in 80 years’ time, the sun will stop burning? Exactly; that’s stupidity. Stop talking.

No, I’m saying that within the next hundred years I forecast the earth will undergo a process of extreme cooling caused most probably by prolonged Northern and Southern Hemispheric winters more or less merging and revert to the icy sphere it was back when it was. Of course this impending ice age will be so inhospitable that all life, rather, most life will perish and whatever doesn’t, over the coming millions of years, will spawn the newest generation of whatever the hell.

Ultimately the earth will start again; regenerating life as we have come to know it, propagating similar races, religions and creeds to once again, a few thousand years after civilised life has been established, slowly devastate planet Earth’s ecosystem and begin yet another cycle.

My name is Tim Walker and that’s this has been this week’s instalment of ‘Theory’.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by I Sage

Photography by Ima Coole