Monthly Archives: September 2014

Tim Walker’s Repeat Offence

It happened again.

The first time, I let it slide. I thought somebody must’ve made a comical mistake or something; I even had a chuckle. It just seemed so outrageously self-important, so very self-indulgent; so utterly self-aggrandising.

Then it happened again. Then again. Then another time. Then another one after that. Then I started to worry. I could appreciate that we as a nation were coming off arrogant. I understood that this ostentatious show of national pride needed to be dialled back somewhat, lest our perceived slogan should become, ‘New Zealand, the Pompous Nation’.

I have mentioned it before and it looks as though I’m saying it again: the NZRFU’s pre-match ritual is out of control.

With a national anthem comprising two verses of Te Reo along with two verses of English followed by a Maori Haka, that’s over five minutes of national pride; other countries scarcely need one.

It wouldn’t be so bad either if we restricted this prolonged pride show to home games and used a shorter, perhaps two versed anthem, overseas, but we don’t, do we?

No, we don’t. We take our national saga of pride everywhere; we watch in anticipation as with perfect enunciation the two-versed Te Reo anthem is sung; we watch with boredom and growing agitation as the words are basically repeated in English; we watch from a sense of obligation as the opposing nation – the home team – sings their brief anthem and finally, we’re ready to go. We watch as the two teams fall into formation…

Wait, wait, wait. That’s not the start of the game at all. Despite being visitors in another nation, our team and by implication, our nation, makes their nation stand to attention while we spend the best part of another minute yelling and screaming in their faces and if they fail to respect our display of native culture, well, somebody’s head might just end up on a pike.

Honestly, do we consider this respecting of their nation, of their people, of their culture? Let’s be fair, Maori Hakas are not friendly. They are war dances and as declarations of war go, they are intimidating; especially if the recipient doesn’t fully understand the meaning of the exhibit. Even so we like to perform them as often as possible, at any opportunity – welcomes, farewells, victories, deaths, challenges, remembrances, celebrations…

Only a few weeks back David Cunliffe thought he was having his presence celebrated by a lone Maori man who lunged across his path and appeared to burst into a Haka of some sort; as is the fashion, Mr Cunfille stood his ground in a show of respect to the man.

Yeah, turns out the little Maori dude was cussing him out.

Don’t for a second think that I am forsaking my homeland, I most certainly am not. I take no issue with people wanting to embrace their native culture, but despite what many seem to think, New Zealand’s culture is really no more remarkable than the culture of any other country around the world.

Perhaps we need to stop acting like it is.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ngaire Spect

Photography by Tony Bach

Tim Walker’s Political Analysis

Days on from what was possibly the most enthralling election in New Zealand memory, I still find myself giddy with excitement in the wake of an outcome which even I, a hot-tempered right-wing realist, could not have imagined better.

John Key is back in power. Not just the watered down, weak as piss MMP version of power either, oh no – should he have chosen it, Prime Minister Key and his team of cronies won a sufficiently commanding majority to effect total control of the nation. Yeah, turns out that if Mr Key was at all disposed to fascism we could now have a dictatorship on our hands. That’s just how much trust we placed in one man.

Fortunately our incumbent Prime Minister is not a crazed megalomaniac from Germany with nothing more on his mind than the absolute control of a nation directly resulting in his own personal gains regardless of consequence…

Kim Dotcom is gone. Departing with him is another mentally questionable political radical, Hone Harawira. Curious that after being unceremoniously dumped from the Maori party for his frenetic behaviour some years ago, Harawira was able to quickly push through parliament another political party, Mana, which by its second year of existence, despite having strikingly similar policies to his old haunt, was eliciting more support than the Maori party; showcasing if nothing else, the mightily fickle nature of politics.

Interesting to note also that while the well known minor parties were busy earning their 1.2, 1.7, or the most pitiful, their 0.7 percents, Colin Craig’s heavily mocked and very much maligned Conservative Party won more votes than all those minor parties combined; still, at 4.5%, it was too little to break through that staunch parliamentary threshold.

Sorry, who said democracy was fair?

Russell Norman’s party was literally decimated – by which I mean one in ten NZers voted for them. I have zero sympathy for this man, with all of his criticisms but with no adequate solutions; with all of his arguments but with no willingness to compromise; with all of his fiscal plans but with no financial knowledge; with all of his ideas for a brighter future but with no pragmatic forethought into the prosperity of the nation.

What about Winnie though? Who can recall, several elections ago, having lead his party to humiliating defeat, Winston Peters, ever so graciously and with all the dignity of a lifetime politician, fledgling alcoholic and pack a day smoker, bowed out of politics altogether? Of course it wasn’t long before he was back, stirring up acrimony among his contemporaries and unrest in the public arena, slandering those who didn’t share his views and of course, making reckless allegations about things of which he had little knowledge.

Speaking of little knowledge, with the election result officially recorded for another term, all talk among environmental lobbyists appears to have swung back to Climate Change. They’re teaming up in their thousands, equipped with multicoloured banners and pun-tastic catchphrases, walking through cities around the world, all chanting in unison, just chanting, chanting, chanting about how somebody needs to put an end to climate change…

I would have thought they of all people should have understood that any sort of impassioned chanting promotes excessive emission of carbon dioxide – the leading gas responsible for this supposed climate permutation.

How about shutting your bloody mouths and instead of complaining, try doing something productive..?



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Polly Tishan

Photography by Nash Nahl



Walker’s Final Origin of Stuff

It is important to acknowledge, and as the election draws nearer certainly, we all have a voice.

Better yet, some of us are endowed with more than one voice – some of us have a veritable array of voices…

The oral voice, the voice that comes from betwixt my lips or is channelled through the first three digits of my right hand and which indubitably showers people with regular onslaughts of pompous vocabulary, extraneous description, recklessly excessive levels of opinion, passion and volume, also some saliva, is the most congruous and indeed, the only truly coherent voice in direct connection with my brain.

The others, oh God, the others, these guys do more or less as they please. They are loud, they are vehement, they scarcely show regard for any kind of controlling force and with even less frequency do they ever completely stop talking.

They don’t talk to me as such, they talk, or more accurately, they yell, at me. It’s not abusive at all; I do actually think they’re trying to assist me in some way, perhaps help me navigate this convoluted debacle that is life and if they exhibited proper conversation etiquette, if they gave a damn about showing courtesy or in the least, common decency towards their fellow voices, well, I’d probably give serious consideration to heeding some of their advice.

They don’t though, do they? This multitude of voices in my head appear to not know the first bloody thing about the accepted way to hold a discussion and that riles me to the point of combustion, to say nothing of elevated stress levels.

With most every significant decision I make or action I take, I hear the subsequent cacophony of opinions who think they know better. Not one opinion at a time, as is regarded as the most effective way to put across a point, but all at once, as is regarded as the most puerile thus ineffectual way to convey thoughts.

Firstly we have the voice of reason, which unlike a typical, rational voice of reason, is actually a voice. On the plus side and I suppose true to form, it is the most intelligible, also vociferous, therefore easiest to make out; hence my generally logical disposition. It is this voice, hand in hand with my actual, verbal voice, that comprises my salient voice.

Then we have the others. These are an eclectic bunch. From the most garbled to the most haunting, when they’re all going at once, it’s as if I’m standing two metres from a passing freight train. Suffice to say it can be intense.

The voice of compassion is a bitch – that or just a man with an effeminate and nagging tone, I’m unsure. Gender notwithstanding I generally do my best to shut out this voice altogether.

The voice of empathy is similarly tiresome because it likes to try and deduce the feelings of practically everyone I encounter, which would be fine, if it didn’t yell them in my ear while I was focused on initiating conversation with this person.

The voice of reality, which should really be part of ‘reason’ but for some reason is a separate voice, is constantly deriding my voice of delusion, presumably to keep me real and possibly to prevent my travelling the remainder of the way into dreamland.

The voice of hope started life as its own voice but with time became increasingly akin to my voice of delusion, which only began its existence in recent years after I realised that much of the world’s hardship didn’t actually require a logical outcome, and so I often don’t bother distinguishing delusion from hope and just accept them as one blissful entity.

The voice of delusion, my beloved voice of delusion, perhaps ironically, is the only thing that keeps me sane. ‘Delusion’ provides the impetus to keep pushing. It keeps me hopeful that one day, things just might be better. It brings a lovely, mellifluous and reassuring tone, and faced with a devastating or similarly unfortunate situation, my voice of delusion likes to talk about and to offer up a range of plausible, however unlikely, positive outcomes that just might happen to take place sometime in the near or distant future.

This of course starts my voice of reason shouting, its voice reverberating around my skull, assuring me that the voice of delusion is full of shit and by paying it attention I’m only encouraging it so if I ever want to live permanently in the real world I need pull my head in; then just when I’ve managed to subdue ‘reason’, bloody ‘reality’ starts having a go at ‘delusion’, too.

In a recent showcase of the aforementioned calamity, I was making my way back from the local garage having just collected my mail, on foot and striding out the final stretch, perspiration prickling as it had been for the last seven kilometres, vision increasingly blurred as a result of heat’s inner suffocation, my voice of reason yelling at me as it had been since shortly after departing the garage that penance is for fools who don’t know any better and I should have taken the shorter route home, when I make out a humanoid figure in the distance.

I am conscious of my voice of hope utter in a wistful tone, “Wonder if it’s a woman..?”

My voice of reason shoots back sardonically, “Well there’s a 50/50 shot, dickhead.”

My voice of reality then adds, “Yeah, so you might as well go ahead and apply the 50/50/90 rule to that one.”

As the figure drew closer I could tell by the posture that it was in fact, a woman.

My voice of hope was at it again: “Wonder if she’s pretty..?

Reason: “If she is she’ll be married, dickhead.”

Reality: “Yes and by implication, fat.”

As the gap between us grew smaller still, despite my blurriness I could see that this slim, attractive and youthful woman was smiling at me; this set the cacophony in full swing.

Compassion: “Pretty girl, pretty smile, pretty…”

Empathy: “Yeah, wonder what she’s thinking..?”

Reality: “Probably thinking about her husband…”

Hope: “Yeah but what if she’s not though…”

Reason: “If she were single…”

Compassion: “…eyes, pretty pretty.”

Empathy: “She’s looking into our eyes…”

Hope: “Oh wow, she’s really…”

Reality: “Shame you can’t look into hers.”

Reason: “…she wouldn’t have a house…”

Empathy: “…her eyes are wonderful…”

Hope: “…beautiful.”

Reality: “You can’t see her eyes, dickhead.”

Compassion: “God, what a sweetheart.”

Reason: “…in this district.”

Empathy: “She looks so peaceful.”

Hope: “That smile is just for me…”

Reality: “Don’t be daft, dickhead…”

Hope: “…and nobody else.”

Reality: “…she probably smiles like that…”

Delusion: “She and I could start a life together…”

Empathy: “Smile back man…”

Reality: “…at everyone she doesn’t know.”

Compassion: “God, what a sweetheart.”

Reason: “Don’t waste your time smiling at her…”

Delusion: “…it would be perfect…”

Hope: “So let’s get to know her..?”

Empathy: “…she wants you to smile back…”

Reality: “Why are we scowling?”

Hope: “She’s into us, eh.”

Reason: “…her husband’s probably at home…”

Delusion: “…just imagine it…”

Reality: “Oh, face isn’t cooperating today…”

Empathy: “…but oh, she’s looking away…”

Delusion: “…house in the countryside…”

Reason: “…having just made sweet love to her…”

Compassion: “God, what a sweetheart.”

Delusion: “…she just has to be a cat person…”

Empathy: “…and she doesn’t look like a cat person…”

Hope: “She is so into us.”

Reality: “…so yeah, smiling seems to be out…”

Delusion: “…she’d make a great wife…”

Empathy: “…she just looks creeped out…”

Reason: “…and we know we can’t offer her…”

Empathy “…look away, look away…”

Reality: “…just give her a casual wave…”

Delusion: “…to our kids…”

Compassion: “God, what a sweetheart.”

Reason: “…even half of what he’s bringing…”

Empathy: “…what are we doing…”

Reality: “…as we pass – I said casual, dick…”

Hope: “Bet her husband’s a fat douche-bag…”

Delusion: “…we’d be so happy together…”

Reason: “…he’s probably a builder or something…”

Empathy: “…that was too obvious…”

Hope: “…probably treats her like dirt…”

Compassion: “God, what a sweetheart.”

Reality: “…head, wave, don’t salute.”

Delusion: “…yeah, she’s thinking the same thing…”

Hope: “…she deserves so much better.

Reason: “…so just give it up.”

Empathy: “…now she thinks you’re a douche.”

Compassion: “She’s even a sweetheart from the back.”

Reality: “Nice one, dickhead.”

Delusion: “…shit. Missed it.”


Tell you what, my voice of delusion must have some mightily robust self esteem because it’s always there when I need it, irrespective of how much it’s been downtrodden by logic and told it’s full of shit; showing me that maybe, just maybe there is a scenario that’s not as bleak as the world sometimes seems to be and no matter how shitty things become, it will always be there, my beloved voice of delusion, to whisper reassurance in my ear while casting its glorious cloak of effervescent illumination, so much like the sparkle of early morning dew on a freshly trimmed lawn, the world, momentarily at least, will appear that much more beautiful.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Carmen Voice

Photography by Dee Lou Shinn

Walker’s Origin of This Stuff

What stuff’s that then?

The stuff that makes me…

Me? In fairness, that is a fair bit of stuff. Do you really think we have time for it after all?

Alright then, stuff it. Besides, I rarely think of using thyme fore or aft.

That’s not the origin though, is it? It’s more of an insight into the current.

You’ve lost me. Last time I had insight into the currant I found it was nothing more than a dehydrated grape.

Yes, one should always keep up with fluids, or we’ll all turn into wizened fruit.

Come on, I accept that I’m eccentric, even a little odd, but to suggest I’m fruity..? Really?

Agreed. Exceptionally eccentric, rarely halting on anything but evens. Even with fruit.

Not fruit?

If it’s not fruit then what the hell is it? Eccentric, they reckon that is. Well off centre, they say it must be. Well, off centre, they concluded it must have been. Who said punctuation wasn’t important? “Let’s eat out, Grandma, tonight!”

Uh. Vulgarity.

A little on the nose, do we think?

Who knows?

Your nose.

Really, is it all mine?

It is incendiary.



Evaporating easily.






Stop. Is that the origin of me, do you think? Vulgarity, do you reckon?

Perhaps it is. Tell you what though, they’d have needed to have done more than just eat her out.


Is that that Latin version of the Bible from the fourth century?

No. That would be, Vulgate.

Close though. Fourth century. That was a fair while ago, too. Hard to believe they even had religion back around 300AD.

Religion in 300AD – are you hearing yourself right now?

Try not to. It’s just such a peculiar thing to do.

What, listening to yourself?

No, tacking two letters on the end of a numerical representation of time. Looks pretty silly too, you’d think someone would’ve said something by now.

You’d think.

Yeah, but what about even earlier, because time goes back to around 4000BC, how do you reckon they dealt with it then?

I don’t know, I guess they were more tolerant of Block Capital, Alphabetical Denotations back then.

Right. That was after dinosaurs but still before Christ..?

No no, I don’t think dinosaurs fit into the Christian belief system. That would suggest there were cavemen rather than God-fearing men.

You mean troglodytes rather than ignoramuses..?

You said it, not me.

What about the letters then – how would they have explained it to the puritans?

Shit I dunno, they probably placated irascible townsfolk by telling them it stood for, ‘Big Clock’, or something – denoting years rather than hours.

Yeah, or it could have been, ‘Backwards Clock’, because it went backwards back then eh – from 4000 to 0.

Yes, back then they counted backwards.

Funny how they knew where to start.

Yes, quite hilarious.

Then later it turned around and started counting up. Then the letters changed. How do you reckon they explained that?





Alas, Douche-bag.

What was BC again?

Brain Combustion.

Yeah, my brain hurts too.

I concur.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Seriously? You think that crap was edited?

Photography by Come on..?

Walker’s Origin of Other Stuff

A woman’s idea of her perfect man has evolved significantly over the centuries.

For example, Neanderthal woman’s ideal Neanderthal man was invariably tall (for plucking fruit from those higher branches), robust (for enduring the wrath of constant wolf attacks), athletic (for a better chance of running down tonight’s dinner), broadshouldered (for casting that reassuring silhouette), longl­imbed (for that all-encompassing cuddle), square-jawed (for ease of gender distinction) and h­igh cheekboned (for if gender distinction becomes too clear cut). Nowadays, although women are attracted primarily to those same criteria, there are some subtle differences.

Based on observation, experience; also my being witness to the disintegration of a number of youthful marriages, allow me to introduce what I have coined ‘The Paradox of Women’.

For as long as boys have liked girls, a woman’s initial attraction has largely favoured the laid-back over the attentive; then once that initial attraction has given way to a steady relationship, the woman has done her best to transform her cool, casual and laid-back man into the attentive, compassionate and caring character who she’s always dreamed of marrying.

The problem is that when a modern man outwardly portrays an air of indifference, it’s not necessarily exclusive to his exterior – that vein of disinterest can often run the whole way through.

A notable similarity between the male counterparts from each of the aforementioned failed marriages was that all of these men fell into this ‘cool, calm and laid-back’ category. The issue these women soon had is that while this kind of demeanour is extremely desirable during the seduction/courting process, once a single night of passion has matured into what she considers ‘a relationship’, he is beholden to relinquish this laid-back display of dis-interest, and start exhibiting some genuine interest.

From the woman’s perspective: she has fallen for a man predominantly because of his suave exterior; the fact that he projected such coolness, such calmness, the fact that nothing was a problem, the fact he was so laid back, like, he just didn’t care.

From the man’s perspective: whatever, bitches be bitches, plenty more fish in the sea.

From my perspective: if the reason that you were attracted to him in the first place is because he was so laid back and didn’t appear to care about anything, how did you possibly expect that he would always care about you?

In a time where it is unattractive for a single man to openly display emotion, attention, or passion; in a time where the shithead gets the girl while the decent guy walks home by himself, women increasingly appear to be falling for men who will never treat them the way they deserve to be treated.

Women. Those guys you spurn for not acting in the correct manner; the guys you leave behind for showing you too much interest, generally, are the same guys who would have given you the life of which you have always dreamed.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Miss Anne Tropic

Photography by Master Bater