Two-year-old baby boy, William Burton has been left deaf, blind, and brain damaged after suffering an undiagnosed case of meningitis.

Wellington Hospital staff have understandably come under heavy criticism for this apparent lapse in diagnostic care.

Makes me wonder if people ever stop to consider the massive amount of care these facilities are obliged to undertake every day. The case of William Burton is a tragedy, about that there is no doubt; but what about all the cases of deadly illness they do diagnose – the countless lives they do save.

The question was long ago raised regarding adequate funding of New Zealand’s Public Health sector; take into account the frequency of serious illness – including paediatrics – that is pushed through public hospitals on a daily basis and one might not be so surprised that a single case of meningococcal is overlooked…

Going back a few years the same kind of oversight took place at Christchurch Public Hospital; a ‘misdiagnosis’ resulted in the death of my best friend. This twenty-five-year-old, giant of a man was suffering excruciating back pain. Doctors were quick to pass it off as a slipped disc, gave him painkillers and sent him away. A simple blood test would have diagnosed the presence of spinal sepsis, but as is typical of a public hospital, they were overrun and presumably, understaffed.

…I soon learned it is unreasonable to blame the hospital for such a mishap. Many inflammatory words were thrown around at the time of my friend’s death – negligence, incompetence, misdiagnosis – as I am certain William’s parents are doing. It doesn’t make a difference. Accept that this is a terrible tragedy for all involved and leave it at that.

Since Dean’s death in April 2007 I have come to realise that as much faith as we place in the doctors and nurses of New Zealand’s Public Health sector, as much reliance and expectation as we load onto their shoulders, these people are only human.

They do so much good for the nation that I think it’s unfair to blame them for the miniscule amount of bad that sometimes befalls them.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by William Burton

Photography by Rip Dean Carroll

There’s nothing us Kiwis love more than bragging about how humble we are.

“Oh, she’ll be right, heh heh, bit o’ the ol’ Kiwi ingenuity, you know, that number eight wire mentality, heh heh, that’s how we Kiwis roll you know, no big deal…”

For the record, your beloved ‘number eight wire’ hasn’t been in usage for the better part of half a century and my God, have you ever tried working with the shit? It is the thickest, stiffest, most awful fencing component there is, was or ever has been; sensible people long ago dropped it for ten, or in some cases, twelve gauge, much more pliable and indeed practical alternative.

Please, don’t misunderstand me, I am a proud Kiwi but the shit some of us say, the claims we make are just unbelievable. Kiwifruit..? You mean the Chinese gooseberry, and what of all this crap about (cue violins) Australia stealing all our stuff? The band Crowded House is composed of New Zealanders and Australians; ownership is therefore divided. Same can be said for Split Enz, Dragon, and in fact many classic ‘Kiwi’ bands. Hell, a few years back we claimed the band I Am Giant as our own, despite the only Kiwi tie at the time being the drummer, Sheldon Woolright; on top of that, going back a few years was the amazing ‘Kiwi’ band Atlas, which in fact sampled members from all around the world, also the band King Cannons which turned out to be, yes, primarily Australian.

Although it doesn’t particularly interest me I believe the racehorse Phar Lap has a similar story of joint national heritage and for God’s sake, who gives a damn where Pavlova was first made – the cake is utter shit.

If you’ll recall some years ago, world renowned actor Russell Crowe was disowned by New Zealand for his outlandish, reckless and according to us, his downright shameful behaviour; yet now he’s become such a massive hit, despite being adopted by Australia all those years ago and New Zealand being glad to see the back of him, now we’re all pissed off because ‘Australia stole him from us’. Seriously, people..? Are our memories so frightfully stunted that we forget what we’ve said immediately after saying it – do we actually think that our pathetic, whinging, snivelling behaviour will earn us the respect of the rest of the world?

Perhaps the ‘typical Kiwi bloke’s’ biggest claim to fame that never was though, is the humble jandal. See, Australia were clever, they changed the name to resemble a seductive piece of lingerie but us idiot New Zealanders with our compulsive ownership and tantrum-like behaviour when someone tries to tell us otherwise…

Huh. It just occurred to me; as a nation we are very much tantamount to an ill-mannered three-year-old.

…Carried on calling that horrendously impractical piece of flaccid footwear ‘jandals’; we even had the audacity to crap on about how very ‘Kiwi’ those horrible floppy rubber flaps of disaster-waiting-to-happen were. Are we stupid? One of them is called a jandal. Come on, people. Jandal. Rhymes with sandal. Jandal.

Japanese sandal, jandal.

No big deal, we pack a shit when other nations lay claim to our heritage, yet appear to have no problem doing the very same thing in the faces of those other countries.

We’re not just superb in the field of shit-packing though, oh no, we chop down anyone who begins to excel in life because seemingly we cannot tolerate the idea that anybody should develop any significant level of self worth, pride or, heaven forbid, self esteem. It’s as if as a people we are essentially against other people’s happiness. We seem to detest the notion that anybody else might be doing well for themselves, I guess, just in case they are doing better than we are.

It’s no secret that New Zealand’s suicide rate is disproportionately high, leading to my assessment that as a nation, I fear we just might have one big collective mental illness.

Humble as.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ham Bull

Photography by Poppy Show-Par

I don’t reckon I could handle seeing even one more news article about Connor bloody Morris, as if his death was some kind of terrible loss to New Zealand society…

As the boyfriend of Millie Elder-Holmes it was likely this man’s bad-boy image that ingratiated him to her in the first place yet ironically, it was seemingly that same ‘bad-boy’ image that wound up getting the guy killed.

…Mr Morris was a common thug. As a member of one of New Zealand’s more notorious motorcycle gangs, realistically, little good would have ever come from the life of this Headhunter.

That’s the thing that winds me up about these so called gangs – Mongrel Mob, Hell’s Angels, Headhunters, Black Power, also to a lesser extent I guess the Harris Gang – generally speaking their members do nothing to benefit society, instead pervading a sense of fear and unrest among those people who are genuinely contributing.

Connor Morris is said to have died trying to protect one of his friends, which all sounds very innocent and one might be forgiven for feeling sympathetic towards the deceased, but here’s the utter bullshit of the situation. This friend he was trying to protect; indeed the entire sense of vitriol fuelling this altercation in the first place, was likely gang-related.

Once a person becomes involved with gang lifestyle violence and discord invariably follow them everywhere. There’s nothing additionally ‘safe’ or ‘secure’ about being part of a gang and in fact the only reason a gang member might require the backing of his gang-mates, is to shelter himself from the deluge of national antipathy brought about by being in a gang.

Also, to those gang members who believe they don’t pose any chance of disharmonious feeling to the country, you might want to consider altering your gang’s name to something a little less negative, intimidating and just plain boorish.

May you Rest in Peace, Connor Morris – something the lives of the people tormented by your gang will never be able to do until the day they die.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gong Warf Heir

Photography by So-Si E T Drayne

Splendiferous as the vision of my highly polished engine was, more importantly, of the two traps I had set, neither was visible.

As I approached the engine bay my unassisted vision noted that thankfully, no plug leads had been chewed. Over the back, between the engine and the firewall I located my first trap. Not surprisingly it’s been set off but has captured nothing; as for its counterpart, search as I did with my six-lamp, three-triple-A-battery, LED powered flashlight in hand, up, down and all around the area, the second trap, along with perhaps the first rodent, was nowhere to be seen.

As I was down on my hands and knees searching for the trap I put together some theories. The trap I did retrieve appeared to have been the one that had been covering the number one plug; the lost trap was the one over the number four, or previously damaged plug. What I presumed therefore, was that said rodent had come along entertaining projections of gorging himself upon my juicy spark plug leads, sniffed some three-year-old Pam’s peanut butter, thought ‘better yet’, attempted to scoop up the stale spread with its paw, suddenly ‘ping’ goes the old-school timber-and-wire constructed trap, it comes away with a hell of a start, also perhaps a fractured limb and/or hefty attachment, leaps in the air, sets off the other trap which topples downwards, where the rodent then, presumably three-leggedly, dashes away to seek cover.

Also while I’m down there searching away with my LED light on hands and knees like a common peasant, clucking from the adjacent property offers a timely reminder that hens produce eggs. It’s an odd thought to have jump into one’s head, admittedly, but from there I was able to make the association that rats in fact rather enjoy the smooth flavour of poultry placenta or, more to the point, the yolk that lies within. Thus given that my neighbour’s chicken coop abuts the rear of my garage, I think it’s likely that these ‘Rat’ yarns might just become increasingly abundant.

Anyway, those were my theories and at the time I thought them pretty damned feasible; maybe even good enough to qualify for Wednesday’s ‘Theory’ slot; I don’t know, you tell me.

Oh and, one more thing, the following Tuesday evening, which is incidentally, yesterday in real time, I had just driven two or three hundred metres down the road, hit a bump – which with performance suspension is most everything on the road surface – and heard a clatter. I knew instantly what it was so performed a pleasantly erratic U-turn and went back. Even with prescribed vision I couldn’t see anything, least of all a dead rodent in a mouse trap.

So there I am, jogging along the roadside wearing a navy puffer jacket over my, predictably convivial red, NZ Blood Service T-shirt above a pair of Napisan-white jiu-jitsu pants, which on account of the length look as though they are about five years too small for me, also sneakers with broken elastic laces, and a car flies past. I hear a clatter. I run towards the sound, still not seeing anything amid the fading light, just running towards the sound. The little daub of peanut butter gives it away.

Something’s life has ended but it was sure as hell not that bloody rodent.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Roe Dant

Photography by Rip Muss-Trapp

What reason could a 36-year-old male with past criminal convictions possibly have to stow himself away with an attractive 15-year-old girl?

According to messages posted on the girl’s Facebook page this ordeal ought to be treated as a kidnapping, thus many are worried that Dean Whakatau has violent intentions…

Admittedly not a great deal of information has been released about the girl they’re calling LA; even so I think it’s safe to assume that, in the hearts of most young, fatherless Maori girls, there is something decidedly exciting about the notion of being forced to run away with an older man. More exciting still of course is the prospect of defying Mother’s wishes.

…Mr Whakatau’s mother has assured the public that her son, repeat offender and all around ignominious character he might be, would never harm a sweet 15-year-old girl.

Police have admitted to not knowing of the pair’s whereabouts but ‘are fearful for LA’s safety’. Yeah, I’d be more concerned about her being returned with a baby in the oven.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Don T Ruster

Photography by T N Aisher

Ironically, a typical website’s array of ‘Frequently Asked Questions’, or as I prefer to call them, Far Qs, are usually the most illogical, inane line of questioning any normal person could imagine.

This leads me to pose the question: Frequently Asked Questions – I ask you, frequently asked, by whom? This week’s theory therefore relates to retailed products, the problems people inevitably face with those products but moreover, exactly why those producers don’t allow us mere consumers to be able to remedy our products’ faults…

The reality is that on the odd occasion I have delved into a website with the intention of putting to rest a nagging query I have only ever come away still wanting; the only questions thus answers provided by FAQs (remember, pronounced Far Qs) allude either to the type of inquiry a two-year-old might ask – despite the aforementioned’s rather lacking ability in the field of interpreting literature at all – or relates to something so technical that as a layman, you would have no business even troubleshooting that variety of task to begin with.

…Producers don’t want consumers to be able to fix their own products’ faults, oh no, they would much rather you sent your malfunctioning product to a qualified repair shop for assistance; that way everybody’s getting a slice of the action (by ‘action’ of course, I refer to money).

I understand that to many, all that I have so far written may just be coming across as a disgruntled consumer, pissed off by his own inability to handle even the smallest issue, now writing a misdirected rant at those literary geniuses who compose the FAQ sections of products.

As that ignorant consumer I ask, before you judge, hear my example.

I recently came into ownership of an electric chainsaw. I don’t currently have a great deal of use for it, other than running through the kind of oversized firewood shied away from by my faithful axe. The other day, whizzing through some metre lengths of four by two I’d pulled from under my property’s perimeter fence, earmuffs on because this thing is about as loud as I imagine the volume of standing beside a 747 at take-off, also safety glasses lest the earmuffs should look out of place, and suddenly it undergoes a significant change in tone. It sounds as if it’s jammed but given that it’s cutting twenty-year-old lengths of pinus four by twos, I understand this to be an impossibility. I withdraw the saw and one by one squeeze the assortment of safety triggers to make it go again. It throws back the same sound. I unplug it and dismantle the chain guard to see if there’s an obstruction; there is not. I check the chain tension; it feels fine. I manually rotate the chain on the bar; it spins with surprising ease. I plug it in and squeeze the medley of triggers to make it work once more; it responds with that same awful slipping sound.

I then dig up the instruction manual and take some time in tearing off the plastic wrapper. I quickly skim through it. I quickly skim through it again, this time somewhat more thoroughly. ‘Setting up Your Saw’; no. ‘Lubricating Your Saw’; perhaps but no. ‘Saw Operation’; maybe but again, no. Here we go: ‘Troubleshooting’. I quickly skim read the passage. I quickly skim read the passage again; this time somewhat more thoroughly. Even when on the third run through I take my time to read it slowly and properly I am left dismayed. The calibre of ‘Troubleshooting’ problems and the related solutions aren’t extensive.

For instance, Problem: ‘My saw is not going.’

Solution: ‘Make sure saw it is plugged in at the wall.’

Problem: ‘My chain won’t turn’ – “Oh,” I thought/mumbled, “this could be good.”

Solution: ‘Check that chain brake is off’ – “Of course.”

Problem: ‘Chain still won’t turn’ – “Here we go,” I thought/mumbled.

Solution: ‘Remove chain guard and clear impediment’ – “Well what if I’ve removed the cunting chain guard,” I thought/mumbled, “but what if there was no cunting impediment? What then?”

What then indeed. Most Troubleshooting or, as it were, FAQ pages, simply, don’t have contingencies for what must be the rarest of occurrences when those people asking the questions haven’t asked frequently enough the very question that is plighting you, thus the corresponding query is not forthcoming.

Imagine that.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Freya Quaint-Lee

Photography by Mia R Seoul

Yesterday I put the final full stop in my latest novel, Pride in the Land.

Those of you who have been following the progression will know that this is the sequel to Pride in the Name. I have been up editing since 5 a.m. and will hopefully manage to get it to HarperCollins before they have had a chance to officially reject the first; any potential plot holes or story weaknesses are plugged and packed out respectively by reading the sequel.

That said the sequence still really needs one more to be complete – Pride in the Face..?

In this recent sequel the reader is allowed an insight into the deranged mind of Kodos Wanton which is pretty awesome, and where the first story took place over a lifetime, the sequel spans a decidedly more curtailed timeframe.

Should be good.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tim Walker

Photography by Tim Walker

Winston Peters has been heard saying that corrections minister, Sam Lotu-Liga, is qualified to fill his position because he’s Polynesian and, given that the majority of New Zealand inmates are also Polynesian, this just makes sense.

Now he’s being called a racist.

Gosh, here’s me thinking that racism was a form of race-based slander – scurrilous comments, defamatory insults, mocking effrontery and so forth – but it turns out the term has been opened right up; now racism is any kind of speech, factual or otherwise, relating to race, creed, or personal preference…

I’ve said it before – quite recently in fact – but it looks as though it needs to be said again: people’s ability to take offence has become so ridiculously petty that I just don’t think we are going to survive out there.

…It should be said, I don’t much care for Winston Peters but in this case, all the man did was state a fact; yet the instant that he was seen to be ‘classifying’ races – calling a Nigerian ‘Black’ or an Englishman ‘White’, or in a few years’ time I guess claiming charcoal is black or cotton wool is white – some idiot decides to throw around the ‘racist’ call.

John Key ran into a similar predicament at Waiuku College, joking that if Maori language week was extended to an entire month people might get bored, and is now being vilified in a similar manner because a 16-year-old girl started crying.

Are we honestly supposed to believe that Key’s comment was the cause of her tears? His awkward presence under the guise of humour, perhaps.

As a predominantly European nation (have I been racist yet?), the majority of New Zealanders are English speaking (dude, that sounds pretty racist); admittedly a section of our population do speak Te Reo Maori (oh my God, that so has to be racist) but proportionately, I mean unless the density of Maori speakers is more than 1 in 52 (racist), it’s simply impractical to draw it out for any longer than a week, given that other people have lives to live, too (bigotry, xenophobia, intolerance, hate crime!).

I see what he was saying.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cotton Wahl

Photography by Lang Wedge Weak