Monthly Archives: May 2015

Tim Walker’s Novel 4

The next morning he was up at 5. He had a lot to do. He felt energised.

Having already informed his regular clients that he would be out of action indefinitely, Kahn felt a kind of freedom he had never experienced. He drove his ute to the city thinking of all the things he needed to buy. Not being a regular customer to any of the stores in Christchurch, it came as a surprise that cities don’t generally start trading until 9 a.m.; it was still before 7. Disappointed but not broken Kahn decided to do what any good son should and pay his mother a visit. She was still in bed. She was quickly up though, when she saw who it was coming to visit. She was full of questions about life in the country; he was equally full of responses about how wonderful it was. She inquired into his immediate plans; he told her he was doing some odd jobs around the home. She put on the jug for a fourth time; he checked his watch and announced it was time to leave.

He went first to an outlet called the Waterdome and bought a length of plastic guttering, a 1000 litre cylindrical water tank and through some shrewd bargaining, had them throw in the rainwater purification system at half retail price. He drove on to Ground Clearance, a well known landscaping supply chain in the area, where he purchased half a cubic metre of potting mix, the same quantity of compost then watched as the loader driver poured both loads into his Hilux’s well-side deck, showing extreme care to not touch the paintwork with his bucket; the driver then watched him as, with no regard for grace or style, Kahn tossed on four long railway sleepers. After that he headed for his final destination, a simple plant shop located in the back of an independent hardware store. Here he bought broccoli, lettuce, and beetroot seedlings, along with a sachet of dressed carrot seed.

He was all loaded up and ready to head back out to the country, and it wasn’t even time for morning smoko.

Tea breaks notwithstanding, he jumped in his ute and bidding the city farewell, drove home with the widest of grins plastered to his face; around an hour later indicated right off the Main West and drove sedately down Walkers road. He carried on a short distance past the entrance of his driveway and stopped, then with one eye on the left wing mirror and one eye on the rear vision mirror inside the cab, reversed into his residence. He backed up for the length of his driveway, drew alongside the conservatory then, checking between the two wing mirrors, ducked between it and the garage. Here he unloaded his haul, pushing off first the water tank, purification system and guttering, followed by the four sleepers, where he then used his rake to pull off the soil and compost. After parking the Hilux in the garage Kahn grabbed some additional tools and began construction. First using a measuring tape to find the length of the sleepers, he transferred this approximate square to the ground using a trowel to make a mark at each corner, then grabbed his favourite spade and began digging out the sods of turf. Half an hour of this in the hot November sun caused the perspiration to flow; he ran inside and brought back out a few bottles filled with un-chlorinated Waddington water then resumed digging. An hour after that he had twenty-five grassy sods alongside a sizable mound of Mid Canterbury dirt, as well as an almighty hole in the ground. He then laid the railway sleepers around the edge of his hole – a reasonably accurate fit – to make a square. It was at this point that Kahn did take that tea break. When he came back out ten minutes later, he was pleased with progress. He had a hole measuring roughly 1200 by 1200 across by 200 millimetres deep, shrouded with the rustic appeal of four railway sleepers. Good. He found a water outlet around on the eastern side of the house, attached a hose, rolled it out the entire northern length of the house and started slowly filling his hole with water. Next he started mixing, with his shovel turning over the piles of potting mix, compost, and real dirt. Another hour passed. His hole was full of water. Now he started to shovel this special mix back into the hole. Halfway from full Kahn jumped in and started jogging, splashing around, packing down his special mix. When he was satisfied that it held no air he applied more water then shovelled in the rest of the mix, packing it using the same technique. His estimates had been about right; the garden’s level came to just under the top of the sleepers. Next he planted out his seedlings, gave them a good douse of water, cleaned up his tools and went inside to watch the news.

Alas, even the effects of such an amazing day couldn’t shield Kahn from the utter horror he felt as he witnessed the leading story.


“A breaking story on Three News tonight, the nation of North Korea appears to have been forced, under strict martial law.

“North Korean dictatorship has announced today, in an effort, sources imagine, to avoid the plight of imminent lawlessness, abiding any form of authority, other than, the North Korean armed forces, is to be considered not upholding true North Korean law, and therefore, should not, cannot, and will not, be tolerated.

“The implications, of such a movement, especially taking into account the belligerent reputation, of said military, are many.

“Ordinarily, of course, a nation’s armed forces in control, of its law system, could be only a good thing, but in North Korea, according to UN consensus, this is indeed a step, in the wrong direction.

“Reports have just eventuated, that China, also one of the world’s top five military powers, despite sharing similar views to their neighbours to the east and whom, has always been seen as a mortal enemy, of North Korea, have just revealed, that they are now to be considered, allies.

“This revelation sets a tremendously worrying precedent, not only, for the people of North Korea, and in fact, the entire Asian continent, but for the greater modern world as threats of violence, have indeed been made, towards the rest of the world as North Korea, seem to be harbouring a grudge, with a tenacity of which, any rational mind could surely see, even the most petty of children would soon become tired.

“By coupling with Chinese forces, the North Korean army, and please bear with me as reports are still flooding in … Here it is, the North Korean army, is currently, a larger, a stronger military force, than anything … Imaginable, and, well, just like a toppled pot of fondue on a white tablecloth, this reporter simply can’t see how, this situation, is not going to get very out of hand, very quickly.

“This has been Jules Peach, reporting live from Pyongyang, North Korea.”


Unbelievable. He felt such loathing, such abhorrence for that evil General, Kodos Wanton. It sounded as though he was unstoppable, sounded as if things were only going to get worse, leading Kahn to contemplate: how safe would New Zealand be if Wanton decided to declare a worldwide battle?


Screw it. I’m getting out. I can’t do this anymore. They are everywhere. I can’t think for their infernal bloody chattering. But the problem is that now I’m trapped down here. There’s no escape even if I wanted one and I do, want one. No way. Getting out now would be suicide. Or a kamikaze run. Now there’s a thought.


Tim Walker’s Draft-Factor

The final of New Zealand’s X Factor played out last night and it appears I am alone in my abhorrence at the result.

Going back ten weeks I had already crowned my winner: in my opinion Stevie Tonks had this year’s X Factor.

When he was inexplicably ousted some weeks ago, strictly by default, my crown was passed to the charismatic Beau; although I did think B T and the V were awesome, being objective, when compared with the surrounding talent, they fell just a little short – leading to my speculation that it was likely their novelty factor in being the first proper band on X Factor which drove them as far as they had come. It was Beau Monga, in my opinion, who deserved to catch the falling crown; still, good as he was, when it came to the pelting out of heartrendingly impassioned and seductively emotive lyrics, he was no Stevie Tonks.

It was without question Beau’s smouldering good looks and idiosyncratic affability that so endeared him to the masses, and while New Zealand’s X Factor is apparently not a popularity contest or beauty pageant –nor in fact is it even just a singing competition – it is, in its special, scripted reality, way, a combination of all three.

The winner of the show is supposed to go on to represent New Zealand, at least around the nation; at most, around the world. Granted, to have selected a winner based purely on appearance or character would have been erroneous but the aforementioned champion needed to have been a person that the nation was proud to have step forward, as their delegate or ultimately, as an envoy for the people.

Being the health and appearance conscious person I am, simply, I do not feel that Samoan-New Zealander Nyssa Collins (pronounced Neesa, rather than the more logical, Nissa) is fit to take on that role; in fact I don’t think she’s fit enough to do much of anything – least of all to dance while singing.

The reality of it is that this obese 23-year-old walking example of medical intervention who is practically guaranteed a spot in the Type 1 Diabetes queue and who – despite her black jumbo-jellybean appearance, at the end of each performance invariably received accolades from at least one of the judges on ‘how beautiful she looks’, even though no one ever commented on how beautiful Lili Bayliss, who genuinely was gorgeous, looked on stage – is no different to myriad other larger-than-life Polynesian songstresses who have come to call New Zealand home, who maybe enjoy a little success but then, who are quickly forgotten.

Mark my words, Nyssa Collins (no, I refuse to elongate the ‘e’ sound), after contributing to the image that New Zealand is overrun with disgustingly oversized people (also probably overweight, I wouldn’t know, my eyes only measure size, not weight), will be quickly forgotten and New Zealand’s X Factor will only embolden its reputation for being a show where unhappy girls who can hold a note and carry a tune, yet have limited genre versatility, can go for a short, sharp self-esteem adjustment.

Congratulations, Nyssa Collins, you won over a nation of tuneless imbeciles with their bloody pity votes.

I didn’t much care for your singing, either.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Di B Tease

Photography by Trav S Tay

Tim Walker’s Factor

The conclusion of New Zealand’s X Factor played out last night and might I say, I wasn’t entirely disappointed.

Ten weeks ago I had selected my winner across all groups: Lili Bayliss for her enigmatic charm and powerhouse vocals; Steve Broad for his likability and unmatched tunefulness; Brendan Thomas and the Vibes because they were the only decent band and lastly, fair to say my overall favourite, Stevie Tonks.

Tonks’ vocal ability was brilliant and he possessed a kind of passion I’d never before witnessed in a young man; suffice to say I found myself uncomfortable when a few weeks back he came up against B T and the V in the elimination, and was utterly aghast when he was sent packing – he had a hat and a beard, for God’s sake. (I would have expected if there was any time to show support towards pasty gingas, it was now; I was wrong.)

Then there were three: Brendan Thomas and the Vibes, Beau Monga, and Nyssa Collins. I didn’t like Nyssa – she was boring, dull, and just another larger-than-life Polynesian songstress. B T and the V were good, but I felt their novelty factor was wearing thin. Beau was awesome and while he had taken up my crown, dropped by Stevie Tonks, I didn’t feel his own self belief was present and as a result, wondered if his audience felt the same.

During last night’s final show, in my opinion, oddly, B T and the V appeared the most polished performers and, typically, they also appeared the most at ease. Beau was spectacular (I believe ‘killing it’ is the accepted term), and Nyssa continued to leave me unimpressed.

Despite any personal feelings though, in the week leading up to last night, word on the street was that Nyssa had it. I couldn’t understand what people saw in her and truth be told, she repulsed me; if Nyssa Collins was the kind of role model parents across New Zealand wanted their kids emulating, I supposed, that was their call.

B T and the V were first to go. That didn’t shock me. Afterwards watching Beau and Nyssa standing on stage, having both performed their ‘original recordings’ – Beau’s being brilliant and Nyssa not even having the talent to write her own song, instead allowing her idiot mentor, Stan Walker, to pen a pandering travesty of lyrical content – I was shocked by Dominic Bowden’s ability to hold a suspenseful pause.

I was surprised yet relieved when Beau was pronounced the winner of New Zealand’s X Factor, 2015.



Thing is guys, such was my certainty that Kiwis would make the wrong collective decision and last night crown Nyssa the winner, I went ahead and yesterday wrote a scathing article based upon that very presumption. It’s more clearly thought out, quite a bit longer and indeed, much better written than the fifteen minutes of furious morning typing you have just read.

I’ll give it another proof and stick it up soon.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Shar King

Photography by Reese Alt





Tim Walker’s Compulsory

There’s been talk of setting up all New Zealand babies with Government assisted, obligatory saving plans.

The problem is that Kiwi folk are just not that good at looking after themselves. Many of us seem to be going through life living from day to day but with no financial cushion; too many young adults in NZ are embarking on life in the real world, despite having been part of the workforce for a number of years, without any savings, with no assets, and still with no real idea of how to handle money.

So this new idea is to set up children with saving plans from day one – the Government will first line the account with an ‘incentive’ then match subsequent deposits up to a set amount each year, all with the intention that when the kid is old enough to handle money they’ll have some cash stashed away to put towards a house, some land, or a big party or something…

Sounds more like a pension for newborns. Sounds like a Labour initiative to me. Sounds ambitious. Sounds daft.

The fact is a high number of NZ children grow up without a lot of financial nous. This is a quality that should be instilled by parents or other caregivers but if that parental body is similarly ignorant, what are you going to do? Hand them a large lump of cash once they’ve reached twenty years’ old? Send them out into the world cashed up and stupid? Will that sort the problem?

No, it won’t. Education. Teach these kids how to deal with money. Too many young adults still lack this ability. Education is the key. Speaking of which, John Key, possibly the most fiscally astute person I have ever known, is not keen to pay a pension at both ends; he says it won’t work and damn it, I believe him.

Come on, Labour. Pull your heads in. Focus on education.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Des T Toot

Photography by Ed U Kay-Shinn

Tim Walker’s Premarital

Year 11 students at Christchurch’s Papanui High School are being warned of the Wrath of God, should they engage in premarital sex.

I’m unsure which is more laughable: the assertion that God gives a shit about consensual teenage sex, or the presumption that these students – atheist or otherwise – would give a shit what God thinks.

To use a religious-based, antiquated threat in an attempt to control modern-day, technological teenagers is baseless, lacking relevance and ultimately, asinine.

The end game here, that initiators of this gambit were supposedly hoping to effect, is a reduction in teen pregnancy and Sexually Transmitted Diseases, which is fair; but regarding the forced abstinence of a schoolyard full of fiercely hormonal and indeed, sexually able teenagers, all the enforcement of such a dated convention will likely achieve, if it’s to be taken seriously, is a higher frequency of youth marriage, therefore the subsequent divorce.

Additionally given today’s teenager’s rampant proclivity to engage in the carnal art forms, claiming that God is not on side with these actions will probably only turn more young people off religion…

Offered a choice between carefree young sex or the rules and tedium of religion, which would you choose?



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tia Najia

Photography by Claire Maddy Yah

Tim Walker’s Bankrupt

After several years as New Zealand’s most flamboyantly effeminate drug manufacturer, Stargate Operations founder, Matt Bowden, is insolvent.

The man who made millions from the ignorance of wannabe hedonistic Kiwis, is now initiating liquidation, finally accepting that greater NZ doesn’t want his plastic drugs.

This is the same man who, a few years back, despite constant efforts from NZ’s legislative bodies to outlaw the production of his so called ‘legal highs’, claimed that there was an unchallenged market for his product and that he was only giving Kiwis what they wanted.

I think ‘giving Kiwis what they want’ is an interesting way of articulating the act of simply pandering towards a nation’s desire to try the newest product on the market – whatever the consequences may be…

Of the aforementioned ramifications, there were numerous. Our younger NZ population, generally, are easily led; they aren’t known for their forethought, nor do they tend to think a great deal about the results of their actions.

Mr Bowden, all you effectively did, sir, was exploit people who, in many cases, were already morally bankrupt.

Good riddance.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sue Doe Roch-Starr

Photography by Ban Crypt

Tim Walker’s Injury

Pretty sure I’m not malingering this time, either – this time I heard the ‘pop’.

Circumstantial – knuckles, for instance, ‘pop’ without injury.

Yes, but the injury in question had been injurious long before the ‘pop’.

Please tell the jury then, if the injury had long been injurious, what was the subject doing enduring undue stress during the time of said injury?

What are you saying, undue? It’s pronounced, jiu jitsu.

And are we to believe this was the origin of the injury then, this jiu jitsu?

Don’t recall the origin exactly but it certainly aggravated the existing injury, thereby, as stated, rendering it more injurious.

And what of the ‘pop’ – how is the exacerbation caused at this, jiu jitsu game, related to the ‘pop’?

Ah, the ‘pop’.

Yes, the ‘pop’.

The ‘pop’ occurred Thursday afternoon, after having nursed the injury through from Tuesday night.

But you claimed the injury was pre-existing..?

Well, I don’t know about pre-existing but, certainly, it already existed when back-slams coupled with knee-drops to aggravate the issue.

And this is where you claim to have heard the ‘pop’..?

No, too much background noise – don’t reckon I would have even heard a ‘crack’.

So that was Tuesday..?

That is correct – Tuesday night I came home nursing severe rib pain.

But there was no ‘pop’ Tuesday night..?

Hell, there might have been but like I said, I doubt if I’d have heard it.

So there might have been a ‘pop’ Tuesday night, but you are unwilling to attest to this..?

That is correct.

And this ‘pop’ you did hear, that was, Thursday, yes?

Also correct.

What about Wednesday?

Wednesday is the day between Tuesday and Thursday.

Thank you – the question alluded to rib condition..?

Wednesday, after a dreadful sleep of being confined to one particular position, the discomfort was much improved, thank you.

But Tuesday it was severe, yes?

Tuesday night, once the evening adrenalin had worn off, yes, severe would be one way of describing it.

Would you prefer another?


Right, so Tuesday the pain was excruciating, Wednesday it was less so – what of Thursday?

Thursday I imagined I was on the mend; I was even planning that evening’s excursion.

That would be this, Jiu JItsu, yes?

That is correct.

But did you honestly think that the rib pain experienced on a Tuesday night of a reported, excruciating level, could be sufficiently rehabilitated to partake in such a pastime as, jiu jitsu, just two days later – that Thursday?

Don’t forget though, it was an existing injury; it had been coming and going for some time – indeed, I was well accustomed.

Granted, but substantial damage, by which I mean, the ‘pop’, only occurred Tuesday, is this correct?

That is incorrect; the ‘pop’ occurred on Thursday.

The very same Thursday you intended to attend your, jiu jitsu, game..?

That is correct – but the intention in question was formed prior to the ‘pop’.

So, to clarify, the injury was sustained on Tuesday night –

That is incorrect; I say again, the injury was existing.

Of course, this phantom injury sustained at the hand of, we know not what..?

No need to be sarcastic, but yes, I do not know exactly when the rib in question became questionable – might have been caused through countless bumps, knocks, strains or bruises picked up over the years, or, it could have been the result of any number of high-speed bicycle tumbles.

That sounds acceptable; so again, to clarify for the jury: this existing injury was first exacerbated on Tuesday night, where, after a fitful night’s sleep the injury was, oddly, improved, by Wednesday; then to Thursday, where an apparent lack of forethought, sensibility, bodily compassion, or even a modicum of basic understanding towards the fragility of one’s aging physique, resulted in the rib going ‘pop’, resulting in the subject’s current injured state – how was that?

Yeah, sounds about right.

So, what’s on tomorrow – day of rest, perhaps?

Well, no, obviously I have to catch up on the work I missed today on account of a gammy ribcage.

Of course; so what are the chances, do we think, of seeing out the day without further aggravating the injury in question?

Couldn’t say exactly – I’ll be sure to listen for a ‘pop’.




Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gemmy Rob Cage

Photography by Inca Pacy Tatin








Tim Walker’s League

Warriors’ legend Konrad Hurrell is facing a three match suspension from the NRL for essentially, exhibiting technical prowess.

In a recent game, ball in hand, running for the line, this great man did his best to fend off an opposition tackle and, as is so often the case in the game of rugby league, somebody came away with an injury.

Personally, rugby league, love the game. I reckon it must be the most physically demanding sport currently being played in New Zealand which, incidentally, is the primary reason it enamours me so: it’s rough, it’s immensely tough and sometimes, it’s even lawless. Players are always going to be facing injuries.

The fact that Hurrell was alleged to have gone into the aforementioned physical embrace raising his knees to a dangerously high level – constituting a ‘Grade Three Careless Tackle’ no less – is simply ridiculous. He was the ball carrier, for God’s sake; shit, you don’t penalise the ball carrier for improper tackling technique.

It makes absolutely no sense – especially given that a few years back, players of the comparatively soft rugby union were being taught this very technique as a means of ‘breaking a tackle’.

Admittedly in this case, not only was the tackle broken, so was Anthony Tupou’s jaw but in a sport of this nature, as the player executing the tackle, it is your job to ensure your face does not come into contact with the harder parts of your opponent and if it does, well, welcome to rugby league, buddy.

I may be a smidgen unclear on some of the finer rules of the game but the one thing of which I am certain, it is sure as hell not the job of the ball carrier to see to it that their tackler carries out his act unscathed.

Three game suspension, what a crock. Reminiscent of the week leading up to every bloody ANZAC test, when Kiwi players all throughout the NRL are handed down one week suspensions for pitiful offences to ensure the almighty Kiwi Rugby League side is conveniently depleted…



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sean Hoppe

Photography by Joe Vagana

Tim Walker’s Novel 3

His father and he had discussed it at length and bearing in mind Kahn’s passion for all things outdoors, it made sense that his move should be to the countryside.

He saw it firstly, as a chance to take a break from life; Kahn could appreciate that he had been doing it tough for, well, for as long as he’d been in the workforce but now, having executed his master plan and achieved his major goal, this was an opportunity for a clean break. In the shade less than three years he’d been landscaping, according to the diary he started on the day his working life had commenced, Kahn had amassed a gross total of $87,435.00, which wasn’t a lot in the scheme of things, but for an entrepreneurial sole trader in the nascent stages of business development, he thought he had done admirably. Decidedly less admirable were the outgoing costs, leaving his net total at a paltry $61,131.40; nevertheless he’d broken through the 60k threshold so he was happy. Moreover it ought to have been sufficient for the next part of his plan.

Kahn Walters moved into his new home, in the rural Canterbury town of Waddington, on the 1st of November, 2013, aged twenty-one. With help from his father, they negotiated the house price to $280,000, and the $55,000 deposit Kahn proffered meant that he was able to secure an affordable repayment plan, with cash left over to cover the inevitable home ownership shortfalls. His father was overcome with emotions the first time he stepped inside his son’s very own house; he was so moved that every attribute regarding financial prowess, regarding forethought and organisational skills; every value and moral fibre that his mother and he had done their best to instil in the boy, had stuck. It made him proud as a father while reassuring him of the inherent goodness in people, and gave strength to Dave’s doctrine about the nature of a child’s mind not so much being born but rather, being developed.

Kahn turned on the TV at six o’clock that evening, excited about watching his first television show in his new house: “In our opening story on Three News tonight,” the TV blared, “it appears the quest for world peace, takes yet another hit, as North Korea continue to intimidate the masses.

“It is widely believed that, since the brutal slaying of Pyongyang’s Chief of Police, Chi Dewar, just last week, with the North Korean capital’s last bastion of incorruptibility now deceased, city, and perhaps even nation-wide, lawlessness, is sure to follow.

“Rumours have today emerged, that the General of the North Korean Army, Kodos Wanton, recently released from prison, oddly, over ten years earlier, than his sentence stipulated, initiated the hit on Dewar, while still behind bars, in nothing more, than a spiteful act, of petulant, vengeance.

“Further revelations came today, as, on returning to his post as General of the Army, Wanton openly called for, additional assassinations, throughout the Pyongyang police force, and in fact, reportedly, killing anyone, who doesn’t share his views, on global colonisation.

“And with the North Korean army continuing to swell, according to sources, with all indigenous males over the age of fourteen, facing indiscriminate conscription, the question, resonating throughout the world, must certainly be, with a megalomaniac of Wantons calibre, at large, for how much longer, are we safe?

“This has been Michael Robertson, reporting from Pyongyang, North Korea.”

The news presenter’s words left him in disbelief. What was so wrong with the world that – global colonisation..? Really? He turned off the TV in disgust and stepped outside, into his backyard. Here, on the southern border of his property, he was surrounded by a sporadic arrangement of giant macrocarpa, eucalyptus, and pinus radiata trees, standing their ground as if for no other reason than that’s where they want to be; along with vast lengths of pine tree hedges, impeccably shaped and trimmed, providing shelter for the livestock which inhabit the expanses of unadulterated grasslands, Kahn felt at peace. There was no substitute for the calming audio of, as he had named it back in Christchurch, ‘the tranquil sounds of nature’. Here, in the countryside, that audio was so much more real and not just with birdlife – there was now sheep, cows, and even horses to add to the lullaby. The best thing though, here, there was no one to tell him what to do; nobody to tell him how to live his life. Not that he would suggest his parents had ever been hard on him as such, life in the city had just felt restricting; oppressing. He took a large gulp of fresh, country air and reflected on how far he’d come since the day he’d stood in the Pyongyang City Square and listened to the address from the Pyongyang Chief of Police – who, apparently, had just been assassinated.

Seriously, he thought to himself, what is happening to the world?

He put this global plight out of his mind and focused on what he had to do. The sky was still light so he decided to do some exploring. He knew the section under his house was roughly a quarter acre, which translated to approximately a thousand square metres – two hundred square metres more than his parents’ – but looking around, it appeared so much bigger than even that; in fact everything appeared bigger: the section and the house. He concluded it must have been the fact that it was an older style design which gave it such a towering and expansive appearance – wide gardens merging into a big backyard; the house with its large eves, chunky guttering, and proudly visible gable ends – also the fact that its timber floored design meant it sat on piles, so it was already half a metre taller than modern, concrete floored, houses. Kahn swelled with pride. What a purchase. The red robin hedges around three sides – the east, the west and the north – of the property were freshly manicured, although the array of large trees to the south were overgrown and in desperate need of maintenance. Behind this copse, which he surmised had been planted as some kind of arboreal division between the house and the road, ran the main thoroughfare to the West Coast. He suspected the trees must have been doing their part in reducing noise pollution, too, as the motorised cacophony he had expected to hear emanating from such a busy road, on the day he first looked at the house, had been rather less disruptive.

Nevertheless, first job: prune trees. It made Kahn smile to think that after three years of doing it for others, the maintenance he was now doing was going towards the upkeep of his own property.

He strolled along the south boundary inspecting the gargantuan trees then around to the west face where to his delight, he could see by the distant mountainous silhouettes, if he stood at the northwest corner of his house a few hours earlier, he would actually be able to watch the sun go down. He was ecstatic about that but adding to this ecstasy, the main selling point of the house had been the conservatory located at that very corner. Now, every evening, Kahn thought, he could sit in his conservatory and just watch the sun go down, and in a month’s time, as the longest day drew nearer, it was going to be even better than it was now! A bounce in his step he walked by his garage, nestled back among the red robins in the northwest corner, then turned to walk along the north face, back down his driveway. Something piqued his attention. Around halfway down the driveway’s verge, in the longer but still trimmed grass, was something he’d overlooked during the initial house inspection. It wasn’t worrying, it was simply curious. It was a wooden trapdoor constructed from, by the look of it, pieces of metre long, four-by-two gauge timber. He took his time in assessing it. It appeared reasonably modern and by the way the lawn grass was growing over it at the sides, it didn’t look as though it was in frequent usage. He bent down and tried to wedge his fingers down the sides; to no avail. He stood and assessed it further. He tried standing on it. Nothing of interest happened. He tried jumping on it. As expected it gave the audio impression of covering something hollow. He gave up, curtailing his excitement, strolling back past the front door and over to the final perimeter fence on the east side. The red robin hedge really was quite spectacular; he walked right up to it and admired its density before lifting his gaze and viewing the narrow road that ran along that length of the property, and which was the house’s only point of access – Kahn especially liked the way his address sounded in his ears: Number one, Walkers Road, Waddington.


This is the most scared I have ever been. Something’s happening. I don’t know what it is but it seems pretty big. I’m hearing sounds I haven’t heard before, engines and that, up and down the road outside. They’re still coming through my house occasionally too, with their heavy boots. Don’t they have any bloody decency? Don’t the yellow monkeys know that its not polite to wear your heavy boots though someones house? I honestly don’t know if I can stay here for too much longer, its getting pretty hairy down here.


Still keeping the pride, K.

Tim Walker’s Immigration

Trafficking immigrants is an illegal act – or so we’re led to believe.

Whenever a boatload of asylum seekers is discovered floating aimlessly off a nation’s coast their Coastguard promptly deploys vessels to execute a ‘rescue’, transferring the stricken souls to a more seaworthy craft, ensuring the migrants are warm and dry, then taking them to the safety of the country around which they were floating.

Nice one. Asylum sought. Job done.

After experiencing such wonderful success on that trip – for instance, 2000 Libyan immigrants each having paid monstrously for the chance at a new life then successfully making landfall on Italian soil – this particular gang of people smugglers will likely make their way back to their homeland to organise the next excursion.

My point, which seems to have become lost amid an equal mix of facts and sarcasm, is while I do understand that humanity dictates these migrants are not simply left to die on the ocean, by performing ‘rescues’ of these migrant boats Samaritan nations are offering no deterrent to the people behind this exploitative act; I imagine that once the boatload has been rescued the people behind the illegal migration simply blend into the horde, thereby becoming stricken refugees themselves.

Trafficking immigrants is an illegal act, yet the world’s hopelessly compassionate stance on trafficked immigrants is doing nothing but perpetuating its viability.

Certainly don’t punish people for feeling so unsafe in their own land that they must risk everything to leave but, definitely, a different approach needs to be taken.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Si Lim Sea-Carr

Photography by Dan Imme-Gince