I believed I had heard the end of this Chris Gayle fiasco; now, not only has the man been forced to pay a fine for his actions, there’s even talk of racial prejudice.

Following a recent match the Jamaican Twenty20 cricketer, understandably oozing with testosterone hence inordinate self-belief coupled with a whole lot of arrogance, Mr Gayle was recorded making flirtatious remarks towards the reporter attempting to conduct a post-match interview with him.

That he was immediately accused of sexism struck me as peculiar; I perceived the incident as no different to an attempt from any other conceited man to court an unknown woman – in fact I found it terribly reminiscent of an inebriated male picking up a drunken female at a Christchurch nightclub; Gayle did everything right – he was brazen, she was caught off-guard; he was utterly full of himself, she was swooning; he was svelte, confident and even a little crude – yet apparently what he did was wrong.

Now the question is being asked: Was the backlash against Chris Gayle stronger because it was a Black man propositioning a White woman? …

My God media are dicks: that is the most asinine question anybody could ever ask and yes, only our beloved world media could be responsible for entertaining such a fatuous notion.

…Clearly they are trying to escalate the story, to make the issue bigger than it already is but honestly, a renowned sportsman hit on an attractive television reporter and is now being labelled a misogynistic lecher, how much bigger – how much more ridiculous – can the situation become?

No, the only reason that Chris Gayle’s spontaneous attempt at seduction of Mel McLaughlin is such big news is because he did it under the world spotlight, directly under the frowning eye of international prudes, where although at the time Miss McLaughlin appeared flustered, I reckon that once the cameras were off…

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wendy Gale

Photography by Cass O Nova

New Zealand’s ‘Plus Sized Movement’ is releasing a calendar celebrating The Plus-Sized Woman…

This unsettling and, in my opinion, repugnant publication intends to flaunt pictures of attractive women of size 14 or above (mostly above) in provocative (ghastly) poses, while adorned in seductive lingerie (can’t fault the underwear, but).

…If these nice women were to just stop deluding themselves for a moment or two they might realise that what they’re actually celebrating is the carefree liberty afforded to them by their life of sloth or, more accurately, over-eating and under-exercising.

The story of “Plus Sized women” who are “happy in their skins” celebrating their “sexy and healthy Plus Sized bodies” and who refuse to “waste their time counting calories” must be among the biggest crocks of shit I have ever seen: they are clearly not happy with themselves or they would have no reason to continually make such a big fuss; while they might be ‘sexy’ to their obese husbands their frightfully exalted Body Mass Indexes will assuredly be anything but healthy; as for ‘counting calories’, where in the ‘80s this might have been a fashionable pastime, nowadays I don’t know anyone who is particularly concerned with their calorie intake per se – like most people of 30 of 40 years, if my pants start tightening, rather than bitching and moaning about the genetic composition of the slim girl down the street (also the unrealistic standards she’s setting and how all her selfies must surely be photo-shopped), simply, I eat less and exercise more.

At a time where diabetes is one of New Zealand’s biggest killers, promoting the Plus-Sized body is unequivocal hypocrisy; thus rather than blindly pushing the ‘be happy with your body shape no matter how far above standard it has become’ doctrine, perhaps we ought to be spending more time promoting rudimentary ‘healthy living’.

A Plus Sized advocate claimed that by releasing the aforementioned calendar they are hoping to “overcome the stigma that comes with being plus sized” – stigma indeed; one needs only to witness the cruelty and scathing insults these big girls have been heard handing down to regular fashion models, who incidentally they sometimes like to refer to as “those disgusting human skeletons”, and one might say that stigma is largely self-imposed.

The irony of the above slander is that those ‘human skeleton’ fashion models likely have the very same sized skeletons as the Plus Sized girls.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by B Haim-Moth

Photography by Purdy Lon-Jury

The average cost of renting a dwelling in Auckland has surpassed the $500 mark.

This is up 9% on last year which, incidentally, is up 7% on the previous year’s 2% rise in rental cost. Understandably renters are outraged; particularly when one takes into account that house prices have risen around 17%…

Theoretically a house’s rental price – established by the landlord, the owner of the premises – is relative to the total price paid for the house thus covering outgoing costs such as general upkeep, periodic maintenance, also mortgage repayments which need to be continually paid.

…So that’s almost 10% of potential rental fee increase that is seemingly being absorbed by the landlord.

Hard to believe then that Auckland’s renters are harbouring such indignation towards the aforementioned property owners; it’s scarcely their fault property prices are always on the rise.

It’s almost as though these impoverished families-of-seven-or-eight currently renting Auckland accommodation should have stopped living for the day back when they still had a choice, and instead put some thought into their futures…

Given how much I detest repetition I’ll only say this once more: education is the key to prosperity – teach people how to be fiscally responsible and who knows, they might just succeed in life.

…Shit it sounds easier just to blame the Government.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ren Talcust

Photography by Reid Ock Ulyss

It was while occupying a slot along a Blackjack table at Christchurch’s casino this recent New Year’s Eve that I made an interesting observation.

Indeed the Christchurch Casino comprises a number of Blackjack tables, some with slightly differing rules – frustrating adaptations of the game I’m sure are intended to victimise novice gamblers whose attention lapsed some hours prior – also with each one offering a different ‘minimum bet allowance’, so I guess a punter feels he has some control over the speed at which he is rendered impecunious.

This however, notable revelation notwithstanding, was not so much the focus of the above observation.

As I stood rigidly amid a line of seated punters – throwing the occasional glance over my shoulder to the rabble of T-shirt-and-jeans wearing louts, each with beer in hand as they seemed continually to weave their way through the gaming tables as if with a destination in mind, leading to my mild feeling of overdressedness as I brushed an errant hair from the lapel of my suit jacket then leaned back to glimpse on a shiny surface the reflection of my chic black ensemble – my already compromised attention was further split as an attractive drinks lady demanded our attention to ask if anyone required refreshment.

My eyes flicked between the table – having just been dealt a 10 and a 5 in what I have been known to refer to as ‘ugly numbers’ and which tends to prompt an inaudible cuss word or two, then giving a quick tap on the felt to reveal a 7 which elicited several more still below-volume but slightly more audible cuss words – and the drinks lady who I heard repeating the order of the drunkard to my right and the ebullient Irishman to my left…

At this point while I had $80 worth of $5 chips stacked neatly before me, I noticed the chap to my right had a veritable heap of $25 chips piled in front of him; I noticed also that most every bet he was making – ostensibly unaware at this point of what was going on in front of him to the extent that he was ‘hitting’ on 18 or ‘standing’ on 13 – he was losing. On the other side I had observed this happy Irishman over my left shoulder for some time watching the game unfold, before finally sliding a wad of cash toward the croupier and embarking on his ‘$15 minimum’ Blackjack quest.

…I noted that both men had ordered alcoholic beverages. Given however that the majority of my day had been spent basking in the sun drinking scotch, also that I was now seeking as much clarity as could be salvaged from the residual effects of the aforementioned boozing session, along with a severely sun-kissed face, I ordered a lemonade – “also, if it’s not too much trouble,” I added routinely, “could I have a straw with that?”

Midnight came and went in the discord of a band of bagpipes, which seemed only to incite cringing among revellers. A short time later the pile of $25 chips in front of the drunkard to my right had dwindled to a mere scattering; the Irishman to my left, having initially put across $100 which he’d then followed up with some unfathomably reckless betting, had departed as smoothly as he’d come. Further to my left were the other three members of my ‘family’, as we’d become known to one another; alas their onset of poverty appeared to be moving in perfect proportion to their increasing drunkenness.

My cache, as always having begun with $60, had risen to $95 before dropping sharply to $30 then steadily accruing once more; at that point I was on $120 and waiting for a loss to give me reason to step down.

As it turned out the loss didn’t come until I had accumulated $180 worth of $5 chips and, slurping down the last of my fourth glass of lemonade and directing my jaded eyes along the table to what remained of my family, with hopelessly jittering hands I pushed my haul towards the fourth dealer we’d had to endure in however many hours I’d been enduring, half-heartedly claiming, “I don’t trust my luck anymore.” As the croupier returned the simplified version of thirty-six chips along with a perfunctory chuckle at my remark I hastily mumbled, “Thank you Nicole,” then for no other reason than the intoxication, the exultation of victory, added, “you’re beautiful.”

I stumbled across to the cashier, clasping in a sweaty palm the fruits of a night’s labour and thinking, somewhat lamentably, about a family torn, broken apart by alcohol; because that was exactly what had happened – that was the reason, you see – I truly believe that alcohol was the downfall of my gaming brothers and sisters on the Blackjack table that night.

Gambling or, specifically, Blackjack, is a game of judgement. Admittedly, while a large portion does rely on chance, much of what comprises the game is discerning the most prudent option. The impulsiveness and indeed, the recklessness associated with alcohol consumption are simply not conducive to proficient gambling.

It wasn’t that I was luckier than my counterparts that particular evening, or even, I wouldn’t think, that I am a terribly better gambler than they; nay, I truly believe, thus this week’s Theory shall state, imbibing alcohol is to the unequivocal detriment of gamblers.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cass E Know

Photography by B Tia DeHuss