Monthly Archives: June 2015

Tim Walker’s Cancer III

Further to any previous examples of media-driven hysteria – surrounding excessive use of safety equipment, the right foods to eat, best cars to drive and of course, the classiest clothes to wear – is possibly the most controversially polarising topic the modern world has ever seen.

According to what media broadcasts will have you believe, Global Warming is a progressive phenomenon which has been taking place for some years now and which is caused by excess carbon dioxide thus pollution collecting under our earth’s atmosphere therefore the only way to rectify the issue is to live more ecologically friendly lifestyles…

Super. If that were true we can damn sure of one thing: the human race is boned. This truism is due to one other basic truth – the greater first world population is driven by one thing and one thing alone: currency.

For instance, there is no way that one giant corporation will become more energy efficient thereby lowering its net profit margins when the other giant corporation just down the street isn’t bothering to make an effort to reduce its emissions thereby maintaining its profits margins.

…Just for fun I would like the group of researchers responsible for bringing the people all this fabulous advice on how we should be banding together to save the world to conduct a different study – ask all the major companies across Europe, Asia, and America which among them would be willing to take a voluntary financial hit in an effort to benefit the environment, if no others were willing to do the same.

Fortunately the noxious gases coming as an immediate by-product of our hectic consumer lifestyles isn’t really the issue at all; it’s certainly a part of it, yes, but the crux of the problem is actually much more straightforward, yet decidedly more difficult to remedy than that. I don’t know what group of ecology researchers were paid to try and scare the world into lowering their respective carbon footprints by throwing around warnings of an uncomfortably warm and watery Armageddon, but either they are genuinely blind, or they’re a bunch of duplicitous wankers.

Here’s a question to which even the most uninformed among us ought to know the answer: what basic gas do people puff out?

Here’s another one for that same group: are people cold or warm-blooded?

This next one’s getting technical so don’t feel bad if you start gleaning more than you’re imparting: what is the current world population?

Same advice applies for this next one: what was the world population in 1950?

Last one: what about 1900 or earlier?

Alright, hold your breath and relax. Currently, there are around 7 billion in the world. Now look at this: in 2000 there were around 6 billion. 1950 we had half that at 3 billion. 1900, a little less at 2 billion; 1800, it was holding firm at 2 billion also, and prior to that, well, that’d be about as accurate as the shit they feed you on TV.

I told you to hold your breath before because carbon dioxide is in fact a relaxant – not the end of all that’s good in the world, a relaxant – which is why people who breathe too much are generally frantic and often prone to meltdown. Anyway, the point is that there are a great many more warm-bodied, living, breathing, carbon-dioxide-expelling people on earth than there ever has been. World population growth has fallen into a big old J Curve and right now it’s on the vertical stretch. The reasons for this are obvious: on top of the effects of exponential reproduction, of course in the good ol’ days a person’s longevity hence the overall mortality rate was composed of indeed worrisome numbers.

Between 18 and 1900 the population was more or less static – for every birth, seemingly there was a death. This makes the hypothetical outcome to the plight of Global Warming alarming simple: unless the world is able get back to a 1:1 birth/death ratio the globe will continue to heat and as always, Armageddon will be imminent.

So, who’s concerned about cancer now? Seven billion warm-blooded bodies and counting; all puffing carbon dioxide…



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Weir Boned

Photography by Pip U Leighten




Tim Walker’s Race-Card

I am utterly fed up with so called minorities claiming ‘discrimination’, ‘racism’, ‘prejudice’, and the like, when things don’t go their way.

In a recent example of the aforementioned, calamitous upheaval, a man from some foreign country (I don’t give a damn where he’s from) was denied entry to some bar (I don’t care what bar either) for refusing to remove his native turban.

Seemingly manifesting actions dictated by some religious belief (the variety of religion makes no difference), this man, after being refused entry, took his complaint to some higher authority (which particular body is unimportant) claiming he was the victim of racism

Pardon me while I spit.

…Oi, dickhead, they’re not being racist. Places like that usually have dress codes and I’m guessing a patron effectively wearing a mask is somewhat less than compliant of those regulations. I once tried to enter a bar (doesn’t matter which) attired in a singlet, stubbies, and with nothing but tar stains on my feet. That bar wouldn’t have a bar of me, either; or what about the time I was kicked out of a nightclub (which shall remain nameless) for obstinately wearing my ratty old Fedora after being told numerous times to please remove it? Yeah, turns out I should have gone to your people and complained that some small-minded New Zealand institution (I wouldn’t have said which one of course) was discriminating against slovenly white folk.

As anyone can see I don’t even see differences.

In the words of Principal Seymour Skinner: “No one is better than anyone else and everyone is the best at everything.”

The above is an example of a man beaten down by an illogically austere – one might say, ‘typical’ – form of Political Correctness.

Regarding the chap who felt he had the right to wear his country’s native garb wherever and in whatever application he desired while abroad, sir, maybe you’re the one being intolerant. How about some respect towards our traditions, our cultures; our Kiwi race.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Al Odds Ackle

Photography by Ray Schism




Tim Walker’s Conservative

Leader of New Zealand’s Conservative party, Colin Craig, has stepped down from his post.

Reportedly party members became ‘unsettled’ after witnessing their leader in a sauna-based interview with David Farrier, co-host of TV3’s new current affairs show, Newsworthy…

The only reason I can see for interviewing a member of parliament in a sauna is to perhaps revel in the joy of watching them sweat, but to expose a known vegan to such conditions – dude, have you ever tasted steamed cabbage?

…So he dignifiedly resigned. Curiously this comes at the same time a number of reputed sportspeople have also re-signed, so I don’t know what’s going on in the nation.

The question now has to be, will it make a difference to his (former) party’s popularity?


Article by Tim Walker

Edited by I Danno

Photography by Gnaw Dwigh

Tim Walker’s Cancer II

There was no way we could leave it there – cancer is killing us.

By now some will have picked up on the clever little metaphor; the aforementioned ‘Cancer’ doubles as a symbolism for the New Zealand, and indeed the world, media corporations.

I am quite certain most people will go through their lives believing that the actions they take and the choices they make are decisions they have made largely of their own volition; most people will be happy to admit to succumbing to influences resulting from the word-of-mouth of friends or family members but the notion that their lives are being more or less dictated by what they see and hear through various media forums, preposterous.

This is the ignorance of people, but in fact if not for that ignorance, media hype would likely have little effect upon our lives. That’s right, our lives; because in no way am I, or in fact anyone, impervious to this form of remote manipulation.

It’s utterly reprehensible to think that an organisation would disseminate erroneous information for the benefit of another, equally high-standing, organisation; yet that’s what appears to be happening.

Going back around ten years, my father would spend any number of hours a day standing with his 80cc, 24 inch bar chainsaw in his grasp; operating that machine at full revs as he cleared a wind-damaged shelter belt or other stand of trees. If it was winter he’d wear track-pants, a flannel shirt, and leather work-boots; in summer it’d be more like stubbies, singlet, but still with his work-boots. No eye protection other than a thick set of eyelashes, no hearing protection to speak of, and certainly no ‘hi-vis safety clothing’ which, thanks to someone deciding that hard-men ought to have uniforms too, has become so very fashionable…

Now, thanks largely to OSH or some other hyper-cautious organisation, every dick-wit out mowing his lawn on a Sunday with his ‘whisper quiet’ four stroke mower dons a pair of bloody earmuffs. This is a fine example of media propaganda. Realistically unnecessary yet that’s what we’re told to do, therefore we do it. All operators of heavy machinery must wear hi-vis clothing I guess to ensure that everybody in the office can see the figure as it steps down from its loader straight into the path of an oncoming vehicle; similarly every man on a logging site must wear a similar form of flamboyant attire so the dude swinging the logs from the skid to the trailer can be easily identified when an errant log jumps the bolsters and crushes him.

…For the record my father never sustained chainsaw-related injury and furthermore, both his hearing and eyesight are as good as ever. Generally mishaps occur when operators are neglectful in their safety conduct – I’m reminded of the Waikari digger driver who perished under a lime quarry landslide, who was likely wearing his hi-vis shirt at the time – where no amount of protective or safety equipment will alter the outcome.

Fashionable conversation, fashionable clothing; fashionable etiquette, fashionable people; fashionable music, fashionable slang; fashionable locations, fashionable pastimes; fashionable food, fashionable restaurants…

That list could continue indefinitely, in part because it’s continually changing but mainly because of the magnitude in which each and every form of modern media has a firm hold on our lives.

More probably needs to be said on this.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Mia D Ah

Photography by Con Trawl



Tim Walker’s Cancer

Keep up please, fashions are changing again.

This most recent vogue uncovered by researchers, after for a long while revelling in that fashionable ‘one glass of red wine a day is good for your heart’ crap – based on the logic that grapes have health benefits even though the only thing about grapes that are actually beneficial to one’s health is the goodness found within the seeds and how many grape seeds does anyone ever encounter in a bottle of red? – is that any alcohol is to be avoided at all costs on account of its cancer-increasing properties.

Come on, be fair. We always knew that alcohol was killing us. We just loved to hear those reasons, those grabbing-at-straws excuses that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as we all thought it was. No, come on, realistically, alcohol is poison. We know this. We still drink it because it’s so much fun to try to kill ourselves; if only a little bit at a time.

Thanks to this band of delightful researchers, health fashions are forever changing and will continue to shift depending on the nature of the product/food group that needs promoting at the time. Why, just yesterday I watched as my grandmother scraped fifty grams of butter into a pot of soon-to-be mashed potato, announcing, “Gosh, I’m so grateful fat’s not bad for you anymore.”

I smiled and started mashing, considering the implications of her words: when she was a girl fat was a staple in her family’s diet. Around the ‘80s fat became the Devil’s work and the cause of all things poor health. Few years ago that changed. Now fat is seen by many to be the Saviour; in fact moderate fat content in a person’s diet is now believed – by our beloved researchers or course – to reduce the risk of cancer.

My conclusion, which is at risk of becoming entangled amid a flurry of frustration, bitterness and even a touch of resentment, is that our media groups for years have influenced our population’s consumer antics through scare tactics. Cancer is the favourite – everybody loathes cancer – so pay a group of researchers to discover that a particular food/food group increases/lowers a person’s risk of cancer and you will consequently increase or lower demand for that product respectively; of course all this must be achieved while remaining empathetic and above all, politically correct.

Since cigarettes have taken such a hit and New Zealand’s leading cause of premature death is no longer tobacco-related illness but in fact fat-related illness, by all rights, one would now expect these media groups to shift the fashion onto vilifying ‘overweightness’, just like the way the bastards condemned the nation’s hardened smokers for years, but no. The fatties of the nation have an illness. It’s not their fault they pack into their stomachs so much food – they have a disease called ‘food-addiction’ and despite the known cancer links to carrying around much more mass than is necessary we must be sympathetic towards their plight…

Besides, they’re putting dairy-owners’ kids through college.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by My Aunt Fanny

Photography by Hippo Croat

Tim Walker’s Novel 8

The following morning he rose by 6, showered and shaved, dressed and breakfasted, then strolled outside. There was a peculiar feeling in the atmosphere. Maybe it was just him but nothing seemed as vibrant as it should have done; the air around him felt heavier, greenery appeared duller, birds didn’t sound as happy, horses weren’t frolicking across the landscape, sheep weren’t calling their young, and nor were cattle. It was odd; as if nature was aware of mankind’s impending predicament. Kahn wasn’t even sure if mankind was aware of mankind’s impending predicament.

There had been a heavy shower of southwest rain through the night so not only was his garden watered – the prevalence of southwest rain on the Canterbury plains being the inspiration for the garden’s location – but his newly mounted rainwater tank would also have been nearing capacity. Everything looked fine around the property, so he jumped in his ute and drove east. Just over an hour later, having found traffic congestion remarkably light, he pulled into his parents’ driveway. His father had the door open, an expression of glee coupled with wide-eyed relief painted on his face, even before Kahn could turn off the engine. He made his way up the garden path glancing left and right as he walked, a lone wolf preparing to fend off the onslaught from a pack of hyenas. “Place doesn’t feel right, Dad,” Kahn muttered as he stepped indoors.

“I hear you, son,” his father’s gaze lingered on the driveway entrance before closing the door.

“What’s going on, where’s Mum?” Kahn asked.

“Your mother’s not well,” was the laconic response.

“Not well, how?”

“Ah, I reckon it’s one o’ those, whaddaya call ‘em, psycho-sum-matty, or some such things?”

“What’s that?” Kahn had momentarily lost him. “Oh,” he soon caught up, “you mean psychosomatic – but why?”

“Ah, is that what they call it? Well, you can call it whatcha like, I call it excessive empathy mingled with a veritable butt-load of compassion – whatever its technical title, this North Korean conflict is really getting her down.”

“Too much time to think about stuff like that, I think,” said Kahn, “she needs something to occupy her mind.”

“True enough, and without naming names, you moving out to Waddington didn’t help matters.”

“You’re not seriously saying this is my fault?” Kahn said with annoyance, “For Christ’s sake Dad, I’m twenty-one years old, how much longer -”

“Hey, hey, son, calm down, I wasn’t laying blame … It’s just that with North Korea being such pugnacious little pricks, and with you being from North Korea -”

Technically,” Kahn interrupted with vehemence.

“Yeah, and that’s my point, son, your mother knows how strongly you feel about wanting to, I dunno, say, disavow your heritage, so she understands – or thinks she understands – what a toll this must be taking on you … In her mind, Kahn, you are battling the kinds of demons that, to be fair, I know, you’ve probably never even dreamed of, but she thinks she knows, are constantly at you … I dunno if that makes sense, got pretty tied up there…”

“No, I think I can pick up what you’ve laid down, you’re saying that Mum believes everything negative the North Korean’s do, reflects, or resonates negatively in me, and that’s what’s bringing her down..?”

“You know, for a guy whose first language isn’t even English, you got a pretty good grasp on words, son.”

“Yeah, about that, Dad, how can you consider English to not be my first tongue, when I don’t know any other tongues?”

“That’s a very good point, K.”

“You see, father, just as looking decrepit doesn’t necessarily make you an old man, being of Korean appearance doesn’t necessarily make me Korean – I’m going to see Mum.”

Kahn ducked through the hall to his parents’ bedroom. There was his mother, nestled under the covers, lying prone with her face pressed into the pillow.

“Hi Mum,” Kahn whispered.

She was unresponsive.

“Hey, Mum,” said Kahn a little louder.

The figure in the bed was still unmoving.

“Mum!” this time he didn’t hold back.

His mother jerked awake and quickly rolled over to see her darling boy.

“Don’t you know sleeping on your face ages your complexion, Mum?”

“So does sleeping while your face is still a ski-field,” she remarked with comical nonchalance, “but I did that for years, too, and I know you still think I’m beautiful,” she finished with a tired smirk.

“Don’t fish, Mum, but yes, of course, I think you’re still the prettiest lady who ever walked the planet.”

“It’s so good to see you, baby Kahn.”

“And you – I hear that life’s been getting you down.”

“No, it’s not life’s fault, it’s those darned North Koreans.”

“Yeah,” Kahn jested, “glad I have absolutely no ties to that race.”

“I know,” her face sank and suddenly his mother appeared very old, “it must be hard on you, to see them doing such horrible things to the rest of the world, and when you’re such a sweetheart.”

“Mum,” through his eyes, he wasn’t sure if it was because he had never seen her without makeup or not, but, she looked broken, “that’s not true, I don’t care what those, ‘commie pricks’, as Dad affectionately calls them, do, it doesn’t reflect on me – in fact, it doesn’t affect me at all.”

“My sweet baby Kahn,” she forced a half-smile, “thank you for coming here today – did your father ask you to?”

“No, not at all, no, I actually came today because I was hoping to gain some more intel on the bombing – still have trouble comprehending that someone bombed the US capital.”

“Yes, it is truly a disaster…” her words trailed off as she slipped into contemplation, “You could have picked up the telephone for that though Kahn.”

“Alright, you nabbed me, I wanted to see you guys,” he smiled broadly and lifted his knee onto the mattress, “now come on, get out of that damn bed.”

He went back out to the lounge in search of his father, his mother only a few metres behind. He was nowhere to be seen. Kahn turned back to his mother, looking glamorous in a full-length pink satin robe, a quizzical expression at his brow.

“He’ll be in the study,” she said, matter-of-factly, “on the computer.”

Sure enough, he was in the study, on the computer. Kahn walked confidently up to him to see what he was viewing. His mother stayed back in the doorway. His father’s face was pallid, lifeless. Kahn looked back at his mother. She had begun trembling; she could sense it. He gazed at his father, silently beseeching an explanation. Something had happened, he knew that much, but what?



I wonder how they’re explaining away the disappearances of there buddies. Maybe theres so many of them they don’t even notice. No, they’d have to notice. I’m just glad the septic tank was emptied before I moved in, because I’ve just thrown in another couple of bodies.


Tim Walker’s Service

Few weeks back, at around the mid-way point of one of my mid-week strolls, I stepped onto the forecourt of my local service station to witness a sight of destruction.

A typically small rural fuel stop our town’s servo is ordinarily equipped with two bowsers, each with two outlets. Ordinarily, those four nozzles are kept very busy indeed. On this particular day however, the fuel dispensing area lay dormant. The four fuel nozzles were nowhere to be seen; in place of the pump units were gaping holes in the concrete crudely covered with pieces of plywood and marked with fluorescent road cones.

“Huh,” I recall thought/mumbling, “who are they kidding, those road cones’ll never be able to keep up with demand…”

Inane mumblings notwithstanding I collected my post and ventured into the shop to glean some valuable intel.

Apparently, or should I say allegedly, a pair of youths, possibly intoxicated on alcohol or other drugs, were ostensibly involved in a motor vehicle incident with the aforementioned fuel pumps, then were seemingly reprimanded but given their purported age of 16 and 17 years’ respectively, were probably sent home without conviction.

Now, please bear in mind these are largely unsubstantiated findings and are based on nothing more than whispers, echoes, and a miniscule amount genuine sleuthing. That said, even in the hypothetical sense it does provide a solid foundation on which to rest my crux.

These juvenile – dare I say – delinquents, crashed their car into someone else’s property. They were likely inebriated but even if not, the point remains, I will almost guarantee that these teenagers are scarcely held responsible for their actions. Sure, they might be handed down some community work, they may be fined; they might even be forced to pay reparations for damages caused and at the going rate of $1 per week that status symbol will be earning them street cred’ for some years to come…

No, it’s the owners of the service station who will truly suffer. Their insurance policy might well cover them for loss of earnings while their bowsers are down but who’s going to pick up the losses of those customers who meantime take their business elsewhere and never return? Additionally without motorists stopping for fuel, of course shop sales will drop considerably. This deficit in shop sales will inevitably cause a reduction in workers’ allocation of hours. Now those worker’s families are the ones who suffer.

On top of that, who counts the cost of the inconvenience at having to travel to the next town to fill up?

All this upheaval of so many lives, all because a couple of idiots decided to be idiots.




Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Iddy Jut

Photography by Al Aged Lee

Tim Walker’s Tonks

I was fortunate enough to yesterday see the transcendent Stevie Tonks perform a live show for the town of Hororata.

Entering the premises to the audio of an unfamiliar female artist, things became mildly familiar/nostalgic when a few minutes later Cassie Henderson took the stage; while Cassie’s ability to handle a guitar was superb I fear if it hadn’t been for X Factor’s 2013 season, she would still be below any musical radars.

It was towards the end of Cassie’s performance that ‘Hatbeard’ made landfall, sporting his signature hearty ginger beard but, perhaps ironically, with no hat to be seen. From inside the Hororata Village Bar and Café I witnessed Mr Tonks make his way to the bar and order a drink. I wasted no time in making my introduction.

“Stevie…” I began.

As he turned to face me with his piercing eyes and broad grin, suddenly I became as nervous as a schoolgirl at a Beiber show, and words thus intelligent thought started to evade me.

“Stevie,” I said again, as if we’d been friends for years – and again, “Stevie … Tim … Hey, ah, just curious, after X factor and all that hype, where to from here, I mean, what are the plans … What’s next for Stevie Tonks?”

“Oh, big plans, mate,” he answered with a smile, “hang around today, it’s gonna be good.”

“Oh I’ll be around … So, hey, are you doing any originals – I’m pumped to see more of your own stuff, eh.”

“Yep, there’s gonna be heaps of that, hang around.”

“Nice one, dude,” I concluded, “well good luck with the show, anyway.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, the smile growing bigger still, before turning and walking away.

The inimitable Stevie Tonks took to the stage a few minutes later and he was sensational. Along with all his classic X Factor covers, just about every second track he played was, potentially, an original recording and man, they were good. They were very good.

The man possesses a kind of passion which filters through into his music making, for example, a cheesy Adele cover of Rolling in the Deep, into a beyond-belief, spectacular showcase.

Over an hour later he stepped down to massive applause and was immediately surrounded by hordes of fans. I waited for the crowd to thin before making my way over to ask the hard questions. The weather had become inhospitable yet the man they called Stevie Tonks was as gracious as ever.

“Stevie.” My ingratiation was unchanged.

A look of uncertain familiarity came over the ginger-bearded face.

“Great show man … Fantastic.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks man, yeah, I had fun.”

“Yeah, hey, I heard a lot of originals – they were good, man … So, how many do you have – do you have an album’s worth?”

The grin was as big as I’ve seen as he leaned over the electrical equipment to show me the afternoon’s playlist; indicating which of them were originals. “And that’s only about half of what I’ve got.”

“Nice one … Yeah, I liked your sound, eh – mellow, low tempo, laid back – do you have any higher tempo, or heavier songs?”

That smile continued to augment: “Yeah man, it was laid back and cruisy today ‘cause I don’t have me band with me – the album’ll be a heaps more rocky sound.”

“Oh, good to hear, I’ll be sure to be one of the first to pick it up…” that smile was getting still bigger “…you’re a legend dude, best of luck for the future.” With that I extended my arm, shook his hand then turned to leave.

“Gotta follow your passion, man,” he said catching my eye one final time.

I nodded and walked away.

Mark these words: Stevie Tonks is going to be big.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ta Debbie Kell

Photography by Wendy N Jude

Tim Walker’s Blood

Recently I made my 31st donation to the NZ Blood Service.

In fact only the first six or so were blood per se; I found that I could circumvent the painfully long, but apparently necessary for maintaining my own health, quarterly donation intervals, thereby raising my overall donor tally more quickly, by letting some plasma across the other two months – therefore for example, December: whole blood, January: plasma, February: plasma, March: whole blood, April: back to plasma, and so on.

Much as the nurses at the blood bank frowned upon this practise of mixing donation variety they did find my boundless enthusiasm and inexplicable – if not unnerving – penchant for giving up bodily fluids a difficult passion to stymie.

It was only once I was beseechingly told that, while half a litre of O-positive whole blood every three months is certainly useful, if that one month in three instead produced another 750 millilitres of plasma it would be several hundred percent better, that I became strictly a monthly plasma donor.

They don’t pay me as such – as well as treating donors to a bottomless supply of tea or coffee complemented with a superb selection of chocolate and other sugar-infused biscuits, rewards have included, a (self-promoting) key ring, a (self-promoting) water bottle, a (self-promoting) T-shirt, and the biggest one, acknowledging donation number 25, a flash as (self-promoting) umbrella – which I took home and promptly opened inside – along with the greatest reward of all…

A big old certificate assuring me that of all I’ve taken from New Zealand, I’ve given back a fair bit, too.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gav Bach

Photography by Gav Blood

Tim Walker’s Rates

I am in vehement disagreement with the method in which New Zealand councils source their funding.

In a word: rates.

If for example a particular region comprises one million citizens, of which half are home owners, yet each of those million want to use the public amenities the region has to offer such as, the municipal library, the public swimming pool, the public toilets, the parks and reserves etc, effectively, the region’s renters are getting a free ride.

It makes no sense that home owners pay for all of an area’s services when the renters are just as likely and in fact equally as entitled to use them. Take garbage collection. It’s a remarkable service that benefits everyone living in a house; yet only those who own the aforementioned abodes pay for it. What about the water supply? Another fabulous service; a practically endless flow of fresh water coming right to your kitchen sink irrespective of whether or not you’re actually the one who pays the rates bill every quarter…

In fact it’s the plight of those stricken souls of Christchurch that initially wound me up. Going back a few years the services covered by their, continually accruing, rates bill were laughable. Some roads were too damaged to drive on, let alone get a rubbish truck down; yet Christchurch home owners still paid. Their water supply was tainted by sewage and wasn’t fit for watering gardens let alone human consumption; yet Christchurch home owners still paid.

The city was in disrepair and Christchurch mayor, Lianne Dalziel, always seemed to be able to see only one way to rectify the problem which was, you guessed it, call on the humble home owner to generate some more funding – this recent plan for reconstruction of Christchurch’s Town Hall a fine example.

The other issue I have with the rates bill, it is calculated on a property’s land mass therefore, if you pay $2000 annually for your quarter acre section, what do you think a farmer with 1000 acres pays? The farmer receives no more amenities or council benefits than anybody else yet they pay an approximately proportionate increase in rates.

My original point though: everybody who uses a township’s services should pay for that township’s services. Just because a person is living in rented accommodation does not necessarily mean they’re hard up. Some choose to do so, promoting the belief that it’s a more worry-free, cost effective, financially prudent option; seeing the way rates charges in New Zealand are going, they might just be on to something, too.



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pop-Luck Sir Vice

Photography by Ray Tyke