Wednesday’s Chilean earthquake inspired the typical wave of Tsunami alerts; even more typically no one in New Zealand appeared to give a damn.

Fair to say ‘Tsunami Reports’ in recent years have been reminiscent of that silly lad who cried wolf all those years ago; it’s just become expected that knowledge of a major earthquake somewhere around the world will be promptly followed by a Tsunami warning across New Zealand’s shores, but similar to the boy who cried wolf, nobody listens.

That is the nature of Kiwis: when a Tsunami alert is issued in New Zealand nobody pays it much heed, yet if an earthquake in one of those southern countries did happen to cause the ocean to flood New Zealand’s inland and there had been no warning, well, you’d better believe there would be uproar – ‘Why were we not warned?’, ‘Don’t we have people to find out about these things?’, ‘How come no one told us?’, ‘We pay our taxes so things like this don’t happen’, and so forth.

Early one morning a few years back I was taking a stroll down to a Banks Peninsula beach when I was intercepted by a manic Samaritan informing waterfront dwellers to be “on high alert”; apparently an earthquake had struck somewhere around the world and New Zealand’s eastern coastlines were now presenting a “Tsunami risk”.

That was before 7am. A few kilometres back from the beach my family and I climbed a hill allowing us full view of the ocean and kept tabs on progress from there. We weren’t terribly surprised when, several hours later, other than cramps developing in our legs, nothing of interest had happened. What was surprising though was despite this fabled ‘Tsunami Warning’ still technically being in place, the beach had become overrun with Tsunami spectators.

As a people I think New Zealanders tend to take for granted that there are always going to be others to look out for us. The same kind of overly cautious, seemingly pointless warning system is in place most winters with New Zealand’s weather predictions; it seems if there is even the slightest chance of heavy snow falling, forecasters will over-predict the shit out of it to ensure they are not caught out…

I find it laughable to see how frustrated or even indignant some people become with the Metservice in the days following one of these over-predictions, warning the people of heavy snowfalls that never eventuate.

…Of course if the Metservice are ever caught out, as happened some years ago when an unpredicted snowstorm caught the nation by surprise, massacring a large number of farmers’ newborn stock and ultimately upsetting the nation for days, all hell breaks loose and those inane third paragraph inquiries become reality indeed.

This is the nature of people.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Heffy Snow

Photography by Dick Crane-Wolf

I was speaking to a young woman the other day. She asked me an interesting question. I gave her an honest answer. She didn’t believe me. I elaborated. She remained incredulous. I explained. She shook her head…

“How many girlfriends have you had?” she asked.

I considered this: “If by girlfriend, you’re referring to females with whom I have embarked on a serious relationship lasting longer than thirty days and not just a schoolyard fling, then … None.”

“What – how can you never have had a girlfriend?”

“Well, think of it,” I said, “in primary school in the late eighties/early nineties, in the countryside at least, boys entertained an inherent fear of girls then later, at high school I mean, well, I just wasn’t that into it -”

“Yeah, alright, I get that, school-kids are grotty ‘nall that, but how old are you now, you must’ve had a girlfriend since then..?”

“Yeah I was getting to that … As I said, high school at a rural school in the nineties, not what I’d label a veritable mating ground – in those days of course most girls didn’t get boobs until they were at least twelve and some not ‘til much later still – then after that, well, after that, as I mentioned before, shit happened, as shit so often does, and suddenly I found myself, I guess, no longer in the game.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said, shaking her head, “I mean, clearly you’re in the game now…”

“Hah,” I responded in a tone devoid of humour, “you’d be surprised … Tell you what, take some time getting to know me then tell me if you still think I’m ‘in the game’.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well you claim to be shocked that I claim to be ‘no longer in the game’, yeah? Well perhaps you should see for yourself and make up your own mind.”

“Whaddaya talking about?” she said, ostensibly bordering on exasperated but with a sly grin betraying her good-humour. “Look at you, you’re tall, you’re pretty good looking, you’re athletic, from what I just saw in there you’re real strong, and … So what, like, is one of those legs artificial or something?”

“Interesting that you’d go there -”

“Oh my God, are you serious? Oh-my-God I am so sorry…”

“No Jenny, one of my legs is not prosthetic, it’s just funny that you – and in fact most people – perceive that the only way a person can be disabled is superficially, visibly.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“What about Cerebral Palsy, is that what you’d consider a disability?”

“Oh, yeah, but you don’t have that..?”

“Would you date me if I did?”

“Well yeah, I mean, if you were you but if you had CP, yeah, of course I’d go out with you.”

From two metres off, amid the shadows of the corridor I looked into her eyes; I think she was genuine. “Alright, what if I was a high-functioning CP sufferer, I was still me, but on account of my condition, I was rendered impotent?”

A ten second pause ensued: “Do you actually have CP, or not?”

“No, that was a hypothetical, I was hoping to make a point.”

“What, that Cerebral Palsy makes you impotent?”

“No – I don’t believe it does anyway – just that the unseen or misrepresented can be equally as off-putting as those defects you can see.”

“So what ‘defects’ do you have that I can’t see?”

“You might be surprised…”

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ian C DeUsh

Photography by Hine D Cop

John Key maintains discussions with new Australian Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbill, regarding deportation laws, is “top priority”.

I think what’s truly upsetting New Zealand Prime Minister John Key, is the overt injustice surrounding these new Australian laws: any New Zealander living in Australia who has amassed more than twelve months in prison, or is convicted of sex crimes against children, stands to be deported.

For a number of Australian residents who have lived in Australia practically their entire lives yet were born in New Zealand, this does seem somewhat of a draconian tactic.

The Rebels motorcycle gang is based in Australia. Typical of motorcycle gangs they are renowned for their lawless approach to life. One of the more notorious of these Rebels, AJ Graham, was born in New Zealand. Under this new Australian law, after spending the majority of his life in Australia – of which a significant portion was spent in Australian prisons – he would be deported to New Zealand.

Many of these potential deportees come with similar stories – born in New Zealand, having fashioned a life in Australia, having borne children in Australia, having committed a crime in Australia; thus being sent back to New Zealand.

It simply doesn’t add up that, although the only relationship some of Australia’s long-standing residents have with New Zealand is that they were born here, when they go on to commit felonious deeds in Australia, they are then sent back to New Zealand.

Sounds about as fair as the media referring to an emaciated runway model as “a skeleton”, when to refer to her plus-sized counterpart as “chubby” would undoubtedly result in a lynching – both offensive labels yet you can be damn sure only one would ever be taken to heart.

Mind you, I have no sympathy for these prospective deportees: they committed a crime against the society amid which they wish to lead a harmonious life; therefore, ultimately, it’s your own bloody fault.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Kay We-Crim

Photography by Dee Poor Ted

I always thought that tampering with somebody’s mail was considered to be among the most dastardly of actions..?

Illegal too.

This week’s theory relates to the apparent frequency of just that: for as long as there have been radio stations willing to send out prizes by courier post there have been sticky fingered courier drivers to intercept them. This much is a given and it seems, sadly, we have all come to accept that.

While New Zealand’s band of unscrupulous couriers are busy plundering CDs, concert tickets and the like, however, I have maintained the belief that our trusted mailman, our good old postie, that friendly character who delivers our daily allotment of white envelopes and glossy paged advertisers to our postage receptacles, has remained uncorrupted by what I am just now labelling ‘Postman Avarice’.

That was my belief, anyway. Lately though, after a few years back signing up to an online survey company and giving genuine responses to what has totalled over $500 worth of surveys, my belief has wavered. Alas it has waned to the point where I am left not only disenchanted, I am now downright disgruntled with the New Zealand postal service.

I fill out, on average, four or five dollars worth of surveys each week. Not a lot admittedly, although this does allow me to request a ten dollar ‘reward’ at least once a month, which I then gratefully accept – up to a promised twenty days later – in the form of a ten dollar Subcard.

In the beginning I wasn’t too worried about the reliability of the reward reaching my post box; I naturally accepted it would. Although I had always tried to mentally calculate which card I was receiving in relation to which card I had requested, given the erratic nature of the ‘up to twenty days’ assurance I would frequently lose track – or so I thought – and end up waiting on a particular month’s card that would never eventuate. In this case I would happily assume that I had already received the card on which I had been waiting and, not wanting to cause a fuss, guessed that it must have been my fault for mixing up the card distribution count and that the last card I received must have actually been one from an earlier survey or something, and leave it at that.

It wasn’t until one particularly lucrative month where I was able to in fact request a card on the 1^st, a card on the 14^th, and a card on the 31^st, but over the coming month imagine my surprise at receiving only one $10 Subcard, that I became sufficiently pissed off to inquire into the whereabouts of the missing rewards.

I wasn’t even a smidgen surprised at, when entering the Valued Opinions ‘complaints’ sector and leaving a filthy message for them, on submitting the complaint I was directed immediately back to the start with the website claiming malfunction.

As many days and as many messages as I sent to the survey company, I only ever faced the same issue. It was then that I thought to myself, Perhaps it’s not Valued Opinions who are screwing me over after all, maybe it’s a force much more sinister – given that the envelopes the survey company uses are indeed distinguishable and whatever reward they contain is only ever a gift card thus can be used by anyone – maybe my beef is with the underpaid, overworked and eternally reliable postal worker of New Zealand..?

Given how sticky-fingered your courier counterparts can be I guess you simple posties would be feeling a little left out; not to say increasingly disgruntled.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Starr Kefin Gird

Photography by Poe S Tay

Since its conception in November 2009, the law prohibiting use of handheld phones while driving has been increasingly flouted.

Over a thousand traffic incidents last year were attributed to ‘driver distraction’, which obviously refers to cell phone use…

There is an $80 fine in place for people caught using their cellular telecommunications devices while operating motor vehicles which when you think about it, is only really a hard day’s smoking cigarettes.

…Makes me wonder though, of all the so called driver distraction out there, how much of it can actually be blamed on cellular usage? What about all the other things people do while driving that will not result in an $80 fine?

What about eating your Big Mac?

What about smoking your cigarette?

What about sipping from your water bottle?

What about applying your eye-liner?

What about dealing with your kids?

What about rearranging your underwear?

What about receiving road head?

Alright, in fairness I think that last one is pretty heavily frowned upon; but it’s not even the least bit discouraged to remove your hand from the wheel, lean into the passenger side, fetch your water bottle then throw your head back majestically as you slurp down the last few millilitres of water.

Back in my diesel mechanic days, somewhere around 2003 I used to operate a veritable shit-box of a car. This 1984 Nissan Pulsar, ‘Pussar’, was rough, she was untidy, she was uncouth, and the wheel alignment was so badly out of whack she would chew out a set of tyres every six months; suffice to say on account of the massive leftward tow driving in a straight line over distance was something of a difficulty. Given how well accustomed I was to having Pussar’s gunmetal-grey semblance pulled over by police at least once a fortnight, I always ensured she was kept unequivocally road-legal.

One occasion I recall coming home from work I was, not uncharacteristically, driving with my knee – if I spun the wheel a quarter-turn to the right and wedged the patella in place I found I could maintain a relatively linear passage – while rolling a cigarette. I must have misjudged the angles on this occasion though and a number of times ran onto the gravel along the road’s edge.

Cigarette rolled I looked up to see beseeching police lights in my rear view. Of course I pulled over immediately. “Morning sir,” said the officer with a suspicious tone.

“Don’t call me sir,” I responded with ebullience, “I’m no better than you are.”

“You got a reason for driving so erratically back there, sir?”

“Oh, ah,” I hesitated, dropping the now-dead cigarette on the floor, not expecting to be able to impress this officer with my feat of multi-tasking, “I was, doing some, ah, preening.”

A prolonged pause ensued; given my dishevelled facade the policeman seemed incredulous that I would be the least bit bothered about maintaining my appearance. “Well,” he said finally, “just be sure to pull over next time – safely – you almost went off the road a couple of times back there.”

“Surely not,” I drawled facetiously, watching as the policeman surreptitiously checked for a current registration and WOF before returning his eyes to my grinning face. “All good..?” I asked smugly.

“Just be more careful in the future,” he said before walking back to his car.

The point is that there is a lot more to distract us from driving than our bloody cell phones and most of those things aren’t illegal either.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tex Tang

Photography by Mr Plod

Seems Australia has recently passed a law which means that many New Zealand-Australian criminals will now be sent home.

For a number of these New Zealand-born Australian overstayers this means leaving behind their Australian-born children, which some people who really have no right to even have an opinion (like me) believe is unfair; the aforementioned idiots apparently believe that to break up a family thereby potentially damaging a child’s future based on a parent’s thoughtless actions is an example of Australian border control heartlessness, rather than that parent’s display of sheer dickheadedness.

In my opinion (which, as earlier stated, is totally unsolicited thus utterly meaningless), I have zero sympathy for that questionable variety of Kiwi battler who make their way to Australia in the hope of finding a brighter future only to find it’s not nearly as bountiful as their idealistic mindset said it was going to be in that gold dust doesn’t blow with the prevailing wind and the money-trees they’d heard so much about either succumbed to drought or perhaps that recent timber shortage so end up in the exact financial predicament they were experiencing in New Zealand minus the cost of a plane ticket then with nothing else for it get knocked up and eke out an impoverished existence under the Australian sun while periodically emerging to commit petty thefts…

I think we’re supposed to then take pity on these people, once the Australian authorities have caught up with them I mean, once the Australian border control decides they don’t want them in their country anymore as all they’re likely to achieve in their adopted homeland is not likely to amount to much of anything although the progeny they have borne in the meantime, under Australian jurisdiction no less, are of course welcome to stay.

…As the legal guardian of anything I would have expected top priority ought to have been guarding the well-being of said dependant/s; this includes not embarking on pastimes which could directly or indeed, indirectly harm that dependant.

The problem is that in the moments prior to one of these soon-to-be criminals contemplating their soon-to-be unlawful actions, Mr Perpetrator doesn’t appear to take one of those moments to consider the implications, the ramifications of their impending actions; these people don’t appear to understand, to comprehend that their impetuous actions reflect negatively on others around them.

As I’ve seen it though, this problem is not exclusive to those crossing the Tasman Sea, it’s a Goddamn worldwide plight – children being torn from their dickheaded parents because it turns out those travesties of carers are in the business of robbing houses or ripping off cars by night; also probably selling illicit substances on the side.

As in one of these deportee cases, where the man was found to be dealing cannabis from his Australian shack and now faces the prospect of losing his children, honestly, who could be so brainless? How can anyone call themselves a parent then go off and partake in an act which jeopardises the futures of all involved?

You can’t commit a crime then bitch and moan because the subsequent prison sentence interferes with your lifestyle.

Piss off.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by A R Swipe

Photography by D Keyed

An organised brawl at Manurewa High School has left the nation aghast.

It shouldn’t really though, I mean, this kind of thing happens in New Zealand high schools with alarming frequency…

The fact the aforementioned fight was planned via social media and recorded via cellular telecommunications device is nothing new either; it’s simply an example of kids embracing the technology we’re pushing upon them.

…The only reason I believe this particular rumble was so upsetting to New Zealand’s public eye was because instead of it comprising the usual rabble of loutish teenage boys, this bought involved loutish teenage girls.

This shocking transpiration inspired words from official-sounding people such as, “Disgusting”, “Horrible”, “Shameful”, “Unacceptable”, and so forth, leading me to wonder, where’s the equality in that?

I have witnessed a number of these brawls incited by school boys and the only kinds of words I hear in these cases are, “Misguided”, “Violent”, “Feral”, “Uncontrollable”, or the like; why should it be any different for girls?

Select woman’s groups are always on about ‘Female Equality’ in New Zealand, yet when females do start acting like males it seems that nobody wants to accept it – no boys are ever considered ‘horrible’ or ‘shameful’ for allowing their testosterone to manifest in the uncoordinated flailing of fists.

On the topic of injurious injustice, Michael Murray has gone to prison for ‘life’ on the charge of ridding the world of just one Headhunter; for no less than the next ten years Murray will therefore reside behind the comparative safety of steel bars.

Makes me wonder: how long do you reckon the rest of the Headhunters gang can hold a grudge?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Scrap P Gal

Photography by Gong Homme-Sade

Even in this modern era of permissive disparities and pervasive acceptance, many walking among us still walk alone.

In a time where almost everything desirable is practically at our fingertips one might expect that the age-old act of ‘shunning’ has been left in centuries past; alas, and some might prefer the term especially, in today’s world, the act of scorning, spurning, rebuffing or shunning, is still alive and very well indeed.

The problem is that today, where the entire world is essentially connected via satellite allowing our fickle natures to develop to the point where it doesn’t matter how much you treasured something yesterday by tomorrow you’re likely to have become bored with it, it’s become so very easy to cast off whatever, or in fact whomever, has become dull, and readily exchange it, or perhaps them, with the later, more fanciful version of whatever/whomever it/they was/were.

Today’s world is indeed a harsh reality in which to suffer through adolescence and in fact as I glance back it occurs to me, despite the advent of NCEA along with the outlawing of schoolyard bull-rush, life is quite possibly even more demanding for today’s youth than it was when I was a lad.

Certainly prepubescent cliques have more of a discerning exclusivity about them than they ever did; schoolyard hierarchy also seems to hold more authority than it did in my day and of course if one doesn’t conform to this authority or at least abide by its regulations, one could very well find oneself the subject of a poorly shot cellular video on YouTube followed by a brief news article entitled ‘Schoolyard Beating Participated in by Most’.

From as far back as I can remember I have struggled with frightfully low self confidence – I can only imagine how I would go today if thrown in amongst and forced to grow up with the mix of disrespectful reprobates, bumptious scallywags and insolent ragamuffins – fortunately, fifteen or so years ago, I found I could compensate for my lack of genuine esteem with an excess of quick witted humour coupled with a convincing ability to masquerade as ‘one of the boys’…

Fair to say many of today’s youth mightn’t be so lucky: for many the dearth of self esteem which has for years thwarted prosperity and threatened to hold them back in most every aspect of life – for which they just happen to compensate with a technique decidedly less innocuous than disrupting the class with humorous repartee and instead turn to a life of vandalism and/or petty theft to impress their cohort – isn’t so easily masked. These kids aren’t going to respond to the ‘rip, shit, and bust’ philosophy which is no doubt practised, celebrated and dictated by the schoolyard majority; these worrisome souls will likely require extra care and attention, their dissimilarly functioning mentalities will require encouragement and nurture rather than the bombardment of so many of life’s cannonballs.

…It was this aforementioned ability to maintain a charade along with my, always appreciated and never undervalued, natural academic prowess which pulled me through – to project the showcase of class clown while still managing to score among the upper echelons of test rankings was a demanding schedule but one which seemed to, perhaps oddly, endear me to most. Sadly though this pseudo confidence didn’t ever transfer into the authentic variety and in fact the constant verbal thrashings I took from teachers on account of my loutish recalcitrance, only ever drove it further back.

The pressure today for kids to perform in class academically is, I think, thanks largely to parental awareness, less demanding than it was in the ’90s of last century; even so, on any level, it is the constant pressure and fear of failure – which I hear NCEA has done their best to abolish – that can result in a child’s mental, which can quickly progress into physical, insecurity thus instability.

I recall going through high school driven by the fear of failure. It was an unavoidable, ubiquitous presence that hung over me like the smell of pig shit on a nor’ west day on the Plains of Aylesbury. As an adolescent, dealing with such self-imposed terror, being compelled to always push harder lest the fear – the fear of the fear – catch me up, was awful. It was in my stomach every day as I boarded the bus to take me to that place the confident kids referred to as ‘High School’ but I always felt was more aptly described as the ‘Veritable Hellhole’ and, while the fear did dissipate slightly between the hours of 3 and 8 p.m., probably on account of the comfort offered by food, by bedtime the dread of what the next day might bring, along with all the schoolwork that needed to be finished, reports that were almost due and tests that were soon to come, was again on the rise.

It was a silly fear and I can appreciate that now. Having completed school to an amply sufficient level I can now see there was really never any need to worry – whatever the workload or whatever the time constraints, I would always manage to pull through satisfactorily. In fact the only thing my fear ever accomplished was a needless increase in the speed, hence untidiness thus teacher dissatisfaction, with which said work was completed.

Nevertheless this fear of failure is still very much in existence, even amid the technology of modern classrooms. Fear of failure immediately translates to fear of rejection and it is moreover the latter that I have witnessed as being rife in today’s schools: confident kids lead the way with the less confident kids hanging off their shirt-tails while the even less confident kids – the timid kids, the kids suffering ‘the fear’ – they hang back about twenty paces to ensure they’re not mistaken for pioneers and before long, they’ve blended seamlessly into the background to be forgotten; rejected.

Terrifying for me as the fear was then and frustrating as it is now, more frustrating is that not even my practised display of ersatz confidence stayed with me when, as a teenager, it would have truly counted. While I had no trouble conversing with young women I could never seem to muster the gumption to do anything other than talk. This quickly earned me my next reputation, as a charming and funny – if not terribly nervous – guy who would quite happily sit and chat with you while he listened to, and even offered advice on, your problems.

They considered me a good friend then just as the more grown up generation considered me a good friend ten years down the track and so on. Ultimately, possibly inadvertently, I portrayed myself as a nice guy and although I didn’t realise it back then – in fact I’m not sure the saying had even been coined at that time – Nice Guys Always Finish Last.

No, that’s not fair; to say I always finished last would be untrue – I reckon there must have been the odd time where I simply finished well behind the pack.

I am unsure if kids today suffer the same variety of co-ed difficulties that I endured because while I am certain the girls have changed, whether the boys have shifted with them is a different story; probably a very interesting one at that. Regardless, one thing I can say for sure, if nothing else, my nightmarish days at school did prepare me well, for a lifetime of rejection.

Schoolyard social standings are a difficult beast to comprehend; I can only imagine how tough it must be for, and I very much sympathise with, the innately timid or diffident kids of today having to cope with the undulating terrain that is the school playground status system. My only advice to youngsters of this unfortunate origin would be to dig in, hold your position, and hope like hell the situation improves with age.

Honestly, it didn’t for me, in fact it became a whole lot worse, but that’s not your problem, and I just hope like hell it never is.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Duffy Dance

Photography by Pua Seoul

A group of Ngati Kahu activists occupied Kaitaia airport for several days; five were arrested.

Hard to believe that any Maori protest could be anything but peaceful and law-abiding but, well, there you go.

The protesters were aggrieved that they were not involved in a decision pertaining to airport land, claiming it was in breach of their rights.

You know, I think somebody ought to write up some sort of contract or agreement or something between Maori and European New Zealanders; some way of easing all this tension regarding ownership of New Zealand and the land therein.

Hold on. Somebody has. It’s called the Treaty of Waitangi. It was signed in 1840 by both sides. It was intended to achieve just this resolution.

Apparently though the land up for dispute – Kaitaia airport land – has been on loan from Maori since the 1840s as aid in New Zealand’s World War II effort, and was supposed to be returned on conclusion of the war.

At this point I must concede confusion. How does one ‘borrow’ a piece of countryside, then later ‘return’ it? Far as I understand the white man never actually took the land anywhere and when they were supposed to ‘give it back’, it wasn’t going to be so much of a hand off as it was a simple verbal exchange – if that.

This brings me to my next point: since 1840 it seems Maori activists have been constantly aggrieved at supposed mistreatment at the hands of the white man. It’s almost as though these activists close their eyes and totally shut off from everything happening around them until they sense the arrival of an opportunity where they can feel injustice.

I understand that they feel they have had something ‘stolen’ from them. I can completely empathise with this feeling of indignant hardship, but from the perspective of someone who has seen his country go through this same rigmarole again and again with no ostensible outcome, and shake his head in dismay each time it happens, to the activists, I say, simply, look at what your people have gained.

Honestly, if I had my way, to these groups of Maori activists who are always discontent and never quite appeased, you can have back every piece of land that you feel the white man ever stole from you; in return, you must relinquish everything – every modern convenience, every scrap of technology, every piece of life – that the white man has ever given you.

You seem to enjoy living in this modern society, yet you refuse to play by its rules..?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Uk T Vest

Photography by Trea T Still-Mint

Enough with advertising; this week’s theory surrounds our great nation’s current area of consternation.

The flag.

Far as I can see no one gave a rat’s arse about the state of the New Zealand flag until some douche-bag started throwing around the possibility that we might change it…

Delighted as some people no doubt were to have been included in this monumental referendum, debate, decision, ballot, poll or whatever the hell title one gives to a government’s decision to burn up over $25 million at the local haberdashery outlet stitching up a few pieces of material to fit snugly over the nation’s official flagpole, the majority thought it to be nothing short of farcical.

Admittedly, a debate on New Zealand’s national flag was an odd thing to have occur ostensibly out of nowhere, so why?

Was it to do with an upcoming election; did the Right Honourable John Key wish to offer the country a parting legacy, perhaps? No that’s silly; the election is much too far away to be concerned with that.

What about the 2015 Rugby World Cup then, might it have had something to do with that? Perhaps if we won again Uncle John wanted the nation to be able to victoriously fly clear of the Commonwealth for some reason..?

Perhaps he just could no longer handle the fact that New Zealand’s flag has been so manifestly ripped off by Australia then..?

All interesting theories, but I don’t think so.

Look at the amount of interest – both positive and negative – this foolish debate has aroused. Look at how it has taken focus away from most other national issues. Think about how easily the New Zealand Government could now push through most any initiative, while remaining so thoroughly obscured by this flag debate; hah, think of all the assets that could be being sold from right under your nose.

…Do you even recall who it was who decided the flag-changing initiative was a worthwhile endeavour? Perhaps more importantly still, who the hell decided it should cost the nation’s taxpayer over $25 million? Gosh they’re a sly bunch, those politicians; using a comparatively innocuous debate as a cover for the real issues – who really knows what the hell’s going on anymore?

There is no question that New Zealand currently has more productive drainpipes down which to pour a reported $26 million, so what else is there – what is there that we’re not seeing?

I’m an avid right-wing supporter, but even I can smell bullshit when the wind blows.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Flog D Bate

Photography by Wista Mooney