New Zealand has been revealed as the third fattest country in the modern world.

Fortunately the New Zealand Health Board has established that this “unhealthy disease” begins at childhood and is in the process of developing tests which will single out these “unhealthily overweight” children to remedy their “disease” before it goes terminal.

Gosh, that must be a terrible weight off the minds of all the morbidly obese parents out there; what a relief to know it’s not their fault anymore and that they no longer have to accept responsibility for their biological state – it’s their kids’ fault…

These tests will theoretically allow the parents to step in and make some dietary and/or lifestyle changes to correct the problem before these currently chubby, potentially obese children reach adulthood.

…Although I would’ve said, the chances are if the kid’s already a pudgy little monster it’s likely because the parents have little idea of good dietary and/or lifestyle habits…

Obesity is set to overtake smoking as the nation’s biggest killer and while – depending who you speak to and what study you read – I was certain that it already had, like smoking, the Government is against it.

…One silly mother was quoted voicing her belief that the impending run of testing for overweight children is simply “Another way for the Government to invade our privacy and tell us how to live…”, which I felt was a wonderfully insightful and not all contrived piece of free-thinking.

The problem largely, as we already know, is sugar. Kids load their little bodies up with so much complex carbohydrate that they just cannot use it all and as for the portly parents who distribute these treats, well, simply, you ought to know better.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Port-Lee P Rent

Photography by Larr Darse

Tremendous as New Zealand’s record breaking 62 – 13 win over France yesterday was, the highlight for me came long before the final whistle blew.

I believe it was just the 6^th minute when Brodie Retallick stormed the French attack, charged down a kick, lumbered forward, retrieved the ball, stumbled a few more metres then dotted down to become the All Blacks’ First Try Scorer…

Effectively it took only seven minutes to win that game. Such was the All Blacks intensity in that opening period; such was their intent, their commitment and their self belief, the woeful French never stood a chance.

…Makes me wonder though, did this towering behemoth of a man have any idea that he was paying $41? Did he have any inkling at all that his 6^th minute act could have had a simple country lad screaming at the top of his voice and fist-bumping the air around him?…

This game ought to have quelled and lingering doubt about the All Blacks’ past lacklustre performances; as a wise man recently asserted: any team will only ever play to the standard of their opposition – it is extremely difficult to maintain a high level when your opposition is not.

…Mind you, despite that one bet affording me an over four hundred percent return, every other wager comprising my ten pronged attack failed quite considerably; Nehe Milner-Skudder, who just needed to score twice – as many players did, including Tawera Kerr-Barlow of all people – after scoring once in the first, come half-time took to the sidelines nursing a sore bloody shoulder…

Regarding this game against the French, unlike the lesser games against the lesser teams I believe the All Blacks were genuinely scared of losing and were therefore psychologically prepared for a massive game; hence their scintillating performance.

…So that one fizzled spectacularly, as did my 21 point winning margin which, oddly enough, was met exactly with that first unconverted try after half time then subsequently blew out….

In the lead-up to the Namibia match for example, while every player might well have been heard quoting something along the lines of, “Oh nah, we’re not taking this game lightly”, in their heads there was no genuine urgency because realistically, there was no way they could ever convince themselves that it was going to be a tough game; thus their comparatively low standard.

…In conclusion, gambling is a brilliant pastime. Providing it’s kept under control and only ever uses money that can afford to be lost, what a rush…

South Africa have returned to form and should present a difficult, but not unassailable, opposition next week

…On that note, my other ‘One Pick for a Million’ finalist is out; this year I truly expected to see a New Zealand/Ireland final but, well, there you go…

The question now: which team will New Zealand meet in the final?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Anne I Lited-French

Photography by Wynn Wae Jar

Only around 24 hours now to the one Rugby World Cup match that’s worried more Kiwis than any other.

Of course memories of 2007’s quarter final exit at the hands of the French, or in fact last time’s final against France which New Zealand only won in the dying stages through a penalty kick by that pseudo hero, Stephen Donald, (let’s not mention his other kick earlier that year that cost the All Blacks what would have been their unprecedented unbeaten record), to come out just one point ahead, have been brought back to the fore.

This time though, despite France’s recent decision to, reportedly, oust their coach on the grounds that he was causing the team to underperform (the very same thing in fact that they did last time – is it an omen, is it nothing, who knows?) seemingly confused about whose ultimate efforts actually contribute to the full-time score, I’m not worried. A few possible reasons for that: either maturity is having a calming effect on me which, much as I wish that were true it clearly is not, or it might just be that my competitive streak has grown dull with age, but, no, that doesn’t sound any less hopeful. No, the reason is simple: I truly believe that in this 2015 Rugby World Cup, France has been comprehensively overtaken by the other European nations; England excluded but Ireland most definitely included.

After yesterday afternoon having a punt on the greyhounds (or ‘dogs’ as they’ve become known to the TAB), starting with $25 which I promptly built to $50, I closed the ‘Racing’ page and opened ‘Sports’…

Sports betting was where it all began for me; I remember the exhilaration of, each Friday, stopping in at the pub and lodging a single $20, long-odds bet on that weekend’s Super 12 rugby competition – Super 12, dude how old are you? – I won once, too. My one bet for the Crusaders to be losing at half time against the Chiefs, then to be winning at full time against the same team, flaunting odds of 12 – 1 (not as far out as most of my other bets but still), returned me almost as much as I’d lost in the two years of wagering those ridiculous bets.

…This time though, 2015 Rugby World Cup year, having learned that the best and really the only way to make money gambling is to bet small and regularly against high odds (no, for the record, I don’t think I ever considered one $20 bet once each week, ‘small and regular’), that is just what I did.

On one game I spread my $1 bets around the field, from ‘First Try Scorer’ – Brodie Retallick was paying $41, and he just might do it, too; to ‘Exact Winning Margin’ – 21 points to NZ paid $21 so that was nice; also, and this was a ripper, ‘Player to Score More Than Two Tries’ (I know, what the hell is that? It’s like you can bet on anything nowadays) – Nehe Milner-Skudder was paying an easy $13 for that one; ‘Last Scoring Play’ – a NZ drop goal, I can totally see happening right on full time as Carter prepares for the final, paid $26; shit, I could go all day and honestly, I damn near did. Realistically though, my entire stake was only $10 and get this, potentially, my winnings exceed $200…

Yeah, nice one, spoken like a true gambler, although in my defence, it has been over six months since I’ve had a punt on the greyhounds (dogs) and in fairness, after doubling my money almost immediately (aside from all I’ve gifted them over the years, I mean) essentially the money I’m gambling is the TAB’s anyway so, you know.

…It’ll never happen. I’ll be lucky if I even retain my stake; I know that and so does every person who’s bothered to read this far.

What is likely to happen though, is New Zealand’s prevailing over France on Sunday and given that I’ll have something on it (ten things in fact), well, obviously, I’ll find it all the more exciting.

Isn’t that how it works?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gum Blair

Photography by E Ting-Frugs

Despite having only become acquainted in the weeks prior, this young woman seemed remarkably keen to unearth the cache of information otherwise obscured by my natural barriers.

Walking single file through the kickboxing area, heading towards the changing rooms, to my back I heard Jenny pose another inquiry: “So, I’m confused – if you’re so massively brain damaged how come you’re so good at BJJ?”

I chuckled, spun 180 degrees and continued walking backwards at the same pace. “I find jiu-jitsu doesn’t require a great deal of cognitive ability – just memory and ability to think under pressure,” and with that I completed the circle.

Walking past reception we emerged into a wide area presenting several different corridors. Jenny stopped to fill her water bottle at the drinking fountain. I looked on. She straightened, stepped back and seemed to assess me. The occasional person passed between us. “You are so interesting,” she said, almost to herself.

Seizing the opportunity, implementing my historical ineptitude at reading situations, while my own nervous system accosted me I quipped, “I’m glad you think so although it should be noted, Jenny, I think you’re pretty awesome too” – my head at this point started oscillating on my neck while my elbows periodically kicked out at my sides – “so how would you like to go out one evening to grab a drink, or an eat, and chat further, about stuff, someplace, sometime, somewhere” – my head was shaking so badly at this point I reluctantly dropped eye contact and physically, firmly pulled my neck down with my right hand just to gain some sense of stability – “somehow?” Peering up from the corner of my eye I concluded the gamut then, feeling a little silly, added, “I like to keep it general.”

“Oh,” she appeared taken aback at the question, which struck me as peculiar, “oh yeah, yeah, that sounds cool, but it would have to be in three weeks’ time – I have a big essay to do for my course…”

“Oh nice, how big’s ‘big’?”

“Um, fifteen thousand words.”

“Nice, so you have three weeks to do that..?”

“Yeah, so I’ll have to, like, kill my social life for a few weeks.”

“Fair enough, hey,” after a brief respite the limbs were flailing again, “well, do you want to, throw me your number then, and I’ll, give you a yell in three weeks?”

“Oh, oh, no, like, I’ll still be doing this, just I won’t be going out in the weekends.”

“Ah, right, sorry, misinterpreted, but of course, you don’t consider jiu-jitsu part of your ‘social life’.”

“No,” she laughed uncomfortably, “this is my exercise life, not my social life.”

“Nice one, guess I’ll be seeing you next week then.” With a brief wave I turned to leave.

“Bye,” I heard from over my shoulder.

Those few conversations took place months ago, spanned a number of weeks and aside from an awkward encounter some weeks after that, were the last time I spoke to Jenny.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Miss Indust Ending

Photography by Con Foose Yin

It’s no secret that the majority of New Zealand doormen are natural born shitheads; this recent Christchurch incident simply reinforces that consensus.

Most of the men tasked with manning the thresholds of the country’s bars and clubs are essentially thugs for hire; little prior training or knowledge of the industry they’re supposedly guarding is needed and in fact the defining requisite these men do appear to flaunt is a lust for power and a boundless passion for exerting just that.

Granted these people have a job to do: they have the security of the premises to their rear and the safety of the public kissing their rear to uphold; yet it’s the way many of these so called security staff parade about with a flagrant sense of pomposity, as though their position standing outside a licensed establishment makes them somehow better than all the people on the inside or, more to the point, exiting said premises, that I find infuriating.

During my time as a frequenter of Christchurch nightclubs I encountered many doormen. Some of these were great people who, while keeping an eye out for disharmony among revellers, loved nothing more than to partake in banter among patrons while ensuring that everyone in the vicinity was kept happy and safe. Most though, an upsettingly large portion that is, of Christchurch doormen, according to what I saw and nothing more, rather than having general well-being at the fore of their collective mind, were more intent on seeking out minor drunken transgressions and apprehending then agitating the ‘offender’ until he (invariably it was ‘he’) either said something inflammatory or, in the worst cases, attempted to assault the bouncer, where this dick-faced doorman would then execute some sort of hold on him, wrestle him to the ground and sometimes, conclude the effort by standing on his neck or face; grinning stupidly while his bouncer buddies looked on.

Occasionally I saw this fail, saw the drunken idiot manage to escape the bouncer’s grasp and try to abscond; in this instance it was the bouncer’s buddies who would step in and bring back the wounded prey in the hope of restoring the pride of the alpha male.

That’s what I saw and that was around a decade ago. Who knows, things might have changed since then; I doubt it though.

It was nice to see in this recent Christchurch episode that after holding a rear-naked chokehold on the man for far longer than was necessary; on dumping the body on the pavement and preparing to leave the scene then looking up and seeing that he was being filmed, the bouncer in question promptly returned to the unconscious figure and flipped him into a half-arsed Recovery Position.

Apparently this drunken dude had only minutes earlier “made death threats” towards security staff so, you know.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Duncan Fowler

Photography by A R Swipe-Derrmann

I often find myself considering the consequences of a world overrun with technology.

There is no doubt that scientists will continue to develop their understanding of all things digital transmission, harnessing that ability to utilise open space to our benefit by cramming it with digital signals until, well, until our breath begins to take on a horrid metallic aftertaste or something.

Seriously, technology has gone forward in the last ten years with more alacrity than I think it had in the fifty years prior to that, and while I might foresee no end to this brutish technology juggernaut, fair to say that when it comes to the advent of digitally enhanced progress, I have never foreseen much of anything anyway, so, yeah.

There have been a number of movies and other highly imaginative, thought-provoking productions created where technology – specifically robots/androids intended to benefit the human marathon – have been constructed with such highly functioning ersatz minds that they soon develop the ability to think, therefore learn, for themselves and subsequently, start vying for domination over their soft-fleshed counterparts.

At first whisper it sounds far out, incredible; unbelievable even – but how far off is it really?

Seems to me that those people paid to develop and push technology as far as it can go are already most of the way there; they have already created devices so very lifelike that people (the soft-fleshed kind) struggle to distinguish their thought-processes from those of an actual (soft-fleshed) human…

So how much longer do you realistically think it will be before there are manmade creations (not the soft-fleshed kind though) walking among us (the soft-fleshed people)?

…Hang about; how do we know there’s not already?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tak Nolo Gee

Photography by Wyatt A Monnet

Shamefully, ruefully, regrettably, it’s official: New Zealand’s propensity for self-obsession is costing it.

The self-directed camera shot, or ‘selfie’, according to the Collins International Word Bank, became a legitimate thing towards the end of last decade and since then, the desire to photograph oneself, with or without accompanying cohort, has become compelling to the point of insanity.

Insane perhaps, yet the lengths to which these people will go to capture their selfies is not just mad anymore, it has become downright burdensome; the reported ACC cost of selfie related injury has surpassed $900 thousand and at a loss of twelve lives…

I’ve said it before and by God I’ll say it again: people are dicks. Honestly, some of these idiots have been known to take massive risks – free-climbing buildings, towers, or reaching other great heights just to photograph themselves then post it online, and for what – to gain popularity on Facebook – for other like-minded idiots to swoop in and offer their affirmation – so the rest of the world can share in your overt narcissism – so you can feel good about yourself..?

…Come on, for Christ’s sake, shit man, this inane pastime, this idiotic plea for recognition is more bloody deadly than shark attacks; yet being ravaged by a shark is something over which we largely don’t have control.

Understandably should a selfie related calamity befall any one of the aforementioned idiots, well, you can be damned sure that Accident Compensation would be among the first Corporation to receive an update and of course be expected to provide support.

Carrying out an reckless act for the sole purpose of photographing yourself in the hope that it will afford you up to fifteen minutes of fame is tantamount to waking up one morning and discharging a 12 gauge into your stomach then quickly snapping a pic of the results; it’s ill-planned, it’s impulsive, stupid and deadly, but then I guess, a large part of ACC’s support plan has to be looking out for the nation’s idiots.

New Zealand, seriously, take a decent look at yourself and for once, not though the lens of a bloody smartphone camera.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sal Fe Stack

Photography by Lou D Chryst

Come a particular Sunday in the month of October, each year petrol heads across the world strap themselves in for Australia’s biggest day of motor racing – the Great Race.

For about as long as I can remember in my household Bathurst has always graced the television screen; I remember it so well because it was the only day of the year when Three News had to battle to maintain its timeslot.

With the duration of the Great Race spanning practically an entire working day, understandably many less dedicated people choose to create their own virtual highlight reel: watching the beginning of the race, along with the first few laps; the end of the race, along with the last few laps; with a few periodic updates thrown in along the way.

Since having my own place thus total control of the television, from as far back as 2004, I have fond memories of dedicating this entire Sunday to the Great Race; in the early days, despite the race itself not being underway until 1 p.m., I recall flicking on the TV at 10 and catching all the preliminary racing hype…

Three years ago I did just that. Two years ago, around 11 a.m. I flicked on 55 inches of Sony Bravia LCD (first of its size to go on sale in New Zealand, now over five years old, possibly outdated but still awesome), and watched in delight as the Porsches, the Formula Fords, the Suzuki Swifts and all the other classes of racecar flew around the famous Mount Panorama racetrack at Bathurst. I recall seeing the spectators, seeing all the the enthusiasts; seeing those who only saw the race between foraging for cans of beer amid the depths of their Eskis, and those who appeared too drunk to see much of anything. I saw Bathurst. I saw the sensational television coverage, I saw so many different camera angles and viewpoints; I saw the camera-equipped helicopter all day flying up and down Conrod Straight just to secure that birds’ eye vantage point. I saw Bathurst.

…Suffice to say, two years ago, the Great Race was a reasonably big day on my calendar.

One year ago I flicked on the TV at 10 with Bathurst preliminaries in mind, to see some cheesy daytime television show. On consulting my television page I saw that someone had made a terrible mistake. What were the television editors at Sunday News doing, I asked myself, with that uneasy feeling of foreboding collecting at the base of my neck. One year ago I knew something was wrong. Perhaps they were just not screening Bathurst this year until the main race..? But why, I wondered; that wouldn’t be very fair on the Suzuki Swift supporters. This wasn’t right, something was up; where was the racing – where was Bathurst?

Finally I realised what I realised I had known all along. Bathurst is no longer a free-to-air production. One year ago, on that realisation, I vomited in my mouth just a little bit.

Speaking to my father later that evening one year ago I was surprised to find him similarly bemused; he after all, pays for the honour of viewing television. He asked me, “Where was Bathurst today?”

I responded, “I think it was in Australia, think it’ll be there tomorrow, too.”

“Don’t be a smart-arse,” he said, one year ago, “I mean why wasn’t it on TV?”

“That’s a good point,” I said, “I would’ve expected it would have been a part of your deluxe programming…”

“Well I couldn’t find it,” he concluded in disbelief.

This year, having clean forgotten about last year’s debacle, I was again excited about Bathurst. Having bought my paper containing the TV page then checking the TV page, the memories of last year’s horror show came flooding in. I recall thought/mumbling several profane utterances before having a half-arsed slap on my drums then stomping dejectedly outside.

I came back in minutes later to fetch my (Holden Racing Team) bucket hat and saw the paper where I had left it. I wonder where Bathurst is screening, I thought to myself, riffling through pages of All Black support until finally coming upon one Bathurst-dedicated page. Scott McLaughlin was taking readers through the Mount Panorama racetrack which, fetching my glasses and taking a seat, I read with some interest. Minutes later, feeling as though I could have driven that track just as well as he did, I remembered what I was originally seeking.

Sure enough, in small print at the bottom of that page were the words, ‘Coverage on Sky Sport 4 from Noon’.

Sky Sport 4? Shit I had no idea there was even a Sky Sport 3.

As per last year, guess I’ll be catching the Bathurst highlights on Three News tonight.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pete L Vision

Photography by Beth Hurst

I have had just about enough of these idiot rugby fanatics who claim to be able to gauge the All Blacks’ future performance based on a few recent games against decidedly weaker teams.

“Oh, nah, we’re not playin’ good enough, eh,” I have heard, “nah, we shoulda put eighty points on Nam – on Nami – on Nabimia…”

”Oh yeah,” was another, “shit at this rate they’ll get knocked out by ‘stralia in the quarters…”

“Nah man, we’re not as good as last time eh,” was the last opinion I bothered retaining, “last time’s team was so much better than this one…”

Stop it right there. I dispute any drunken rugby speculator who claims to have clear recollection of the last game the All Blacks played, let alone a 2011 Rugby World Cup match…

You’re likely the same bunch of lack-witted numb-skulls who showed such blind adulation for Stephen Donald after he – according to sources – kicked the penalty to secure New Zealand the 2011 Rugby World Cup, seemingly forgetting that up until that moment you had loathed and mocked the abilities of that very same man for, despite winning us the 2011 World Cup final against France, being responsible for losing us the Tri-Nations trophy earlier that same year by, in the dying seconds of the game with New Zealand ahead by just a few points and a deft boot into touch being all that was required to seal the win, kicking the ball straight back to Australia then watching in dismay as they skirted our defences and dotted down to score the winning points.

That’s the Stephen Donald I remember – the very same Stephen Donald who ruined what was to be the All Blacks’ longest ever unbeaten record; heading for 16 consecutive, all we ended up achieving was merely equalling the record total with a relatively mediocre 15…

Sorry, back on track. You mindless idiots are acting just as the media expect you will: they’re feeding you propaganda about how poorly the All Blacks are playing; you’re lapping it up and even reinforcing it with your ‘memories’ of past instances.

Here’s the fact, guys: this is exactly what the media did four years ago, only then it was worse because the tournament was in New Zealand, and in fact this is the very same thing the media do with every world cup in the intention of causing exactly what they have – doubt.

With doubt comes talk, with talk comes ratings.

In reality, any team in any sport struggles to play at their best when their opponent lacks the competency to perform at the level at which the aforementioned side has been practising; in other words, it’s tough to do your best when they’re not playing your game.

It’s a fairly worn-out adage but in this case, I think it does actually hold some truth – a team only ever plays as good as its opposition.

Dude, they’ll do fine.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by A B Wiry

Photography by Noah Kneed Fwit

Occupying one of those ‘ergonomic’ chairs that make a user feel about as stable as they might if they were sitting on a tightrope, I glanced leftward at the expectant face of the woman for whom I was quickly developing a fondness.

“I was seventeen when they released me from hospital then for the next five or so years, I was so deep in rehabilitation that I had no desire to, I guess, indulge in life’s carnal pleasures, and you could be damn sure no girl wanted to hit me up about it anyway … It wasn’t, I guess, until I was, say, twenty-four that I felt able to re-enter that scene, but I always seemed to screw it up.”

“Screw it up, how?”

“Oh, my nerves’d get the better of me and I’d either pussy out and just not do anything, or if I did muster the gumption to capitalise, I’d end up making a big ugly hash of things – I’m talkin’ heads bumpin’, teeth clashin’, all the shit.”

“Nice – painting quite the picture over here.”

“I know, it’s shit but like I was saying, all the years of my own screw-ups coupled with the constant stream of rejection I’ve faced in latter years, basically, has left some pretty massive scars.”

“You say ‘constant rejection’ but that can’t be right – sounds like you did alright..?”

“That was in the early years, before I had been raped of my self-belief.”

“Nice – what happened there?”

“See,” I laughed out loud for some reason; perhaps it was the returning feeling of hopelessness, “in the years immediately following my honourable discharge from hospital, it was brilliant, everything was brilliant – I thought I was great … Looking at life through the eyes of a recently head-injured patient, in the beginning, is tantamount to deluding yourself – you are great, everyone loves you and nothing could be better…”

“But I thought brain trauma went hand in hand with depression..?”

“Yeah, that comes later, once you realise just how shitty your life has become, and how there’s a huge part of your old life that, try as you might, simply, you will never be able to recapture…”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, and then you start to realise that people lie, too – start to realise that all the shit you’ve been fed you about how amazing you are and about how everyone loves you so much because you’re such an awesome person and all the respect that people claim to have for you on account of the shit that you’ve endured, is all largely crap – that’s when the depression sets in.”

“O-K … So, did this happen to you, like, did you actually realise this, or is this you talking about how other people feel?”

“Yeah, far as I can tell, Jenny, I think it’s more of a, a third person kind of insight, you know.”

“Right.”

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rip Upshelf-Steam

Photography by P Paul-Lye