Child Youth and Family are lobbying to have the age raised at which criminal offenders are tried as adults.

CYF believe that trying 17-year-olds as adults will cause debilitation to the long-term development of that supposedly youthful offender…

This cry for leniency comes around the same time that dozens of New Zealand dairies and liquor stores have undergone recent break-and-entries by these very groups of teenage boys or girls, which in fact have left a number of the aforementioned proprietors suffering life-threatening injuries.

…In an attempt at explaining away the seriousness of these offenders’ actions: ‘Some people’s frontal cortexes aren’t actually fully developed until they are twenty-five years of age, so…’ …

Whether the logic centres of those behind New Zealand’s influx of petty robberies are or are not fully developed, the fact remains: most of the victims of these shameful criminal acts have families; many of these family members are left emotionally scarred by the mistreatment they witness upon their loved one, at the hands of these brutish thugs.

…The Sensible Sentencing Trust doesn’t appear overly concerned with frontal lobe development either: ‘The fact that these kids lack the understanding to fully appreciate that there will be consequences to their actions, doesn’t mean they should be given a free pass.’

The issue seems to be that the deterrent presented to these aspiring thugs is not deterrent enough; while the teens behind these crimes might indeed be deficient in logic they are far from stupid – in many cases the sole reason a youth has been delegated to commit said criminal act is because they are aware that, such is the disarray of the New Zealand legal system, there will be no serious reprimand even if they are apprehended.

The wife of one such Auckland dairy owner, who witnessed her husband being beaten by a group of teenage boys and girls trying to rob their family’s livelihood, has professed to a feeling of constant unsettlement and the inability to feel safe in her own home.

Imagine then, stunting the development of a group of adolescents who are only ever destined for a life of criminal activity anyway, in favour of the mental stability of the productive members of our collapsing society.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cece Otty

Photography by San K Teetee

 

 

I am rather attractive yet will deteriorate quickly.

I am intricate by nature yet do not require breath.

I am in fact two things yet both are of similar kind.

I am quite fragile yet lived alongside the pyramids.

I am often seen at the door yet I will never go in.

I am well known in my ring yet inside I am hollow.

I am an accessory yet seldom get ahead nowadays.

I am big on Caesar yet never ate any of his salad.

I am leaving for flowers yet I will get around to it.

I am named like the cat yet I finish on an expanse.

I am ending the cigar landing starting about now.

 

WHAT AM I?

 

 

 

 

 

Last edition’s Fustigator: Woman

When a species of animal is said to be ‘protected’ it means they cannot be harmed in any way by hunters, poachers or indeed, man in general.

Rendering the above statement downright contradictory is the fact that over the past while there have been a number of instances where these supposedly protected creatures have been gunned down, not by hunters or poachers, by the very people who were in charge of overseeing their protection.

There was a case not so long ago of a man who came to danger on the inside of a lions’ enclosure; not in any immediate peril zoo staff attempted to tranquilise the animal. The tranquiliser missed its target, instead hitting the man. Whether the zoo staff then panicked or just ran out of ideas, a proud lion died that day.

There have been other, less memorable instances but one which occurred recently, in which a young boy managed to enter the habitat of one of the world’s most endangered creatures, a silverback gorilla, is a fine example of modern man’s idiocy.

A boy finds his way into a silverback gorilla enclosure presumably to have a closer inspection. The gorilla quickly befriends and starts playing with the boy. Of course onlookers are horrified and start calling for the gorilla to be slain. Suddenly a captive creature becomes the villain of this manmade fairytale. It is decided that because tranquilisers will be too delayed in their effect the only option is to kill the great primate. This majestic gorilla which was captured by humans then put on display by humans for humans, now dies at the hands of humans.

Regarding the above story, some maintain the belief that zoo enclosures should be utterly impenetrable to both animals and humans; I believe as long as they contain whatever beast lies beyond the fence they ought to be fine – any human who wants to push through does so at their own risk.

Others are claiming the mother of the boy should be held liable for any damages, including one irreplaceable, dead silverback gorilla – of course she’s liable – if not for her inattention a highly endangered, captive gorilla would still be alive today.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by N Deign Jarring

Photography by P Pull

 

I am without fault yet not so to my counterpart.

I am typically soprano yet sometimes I just sing.

I am usually graceful yet only rarely a full grace.

I am given power at polls yet am not a power pole.

I am considered fair yet I am not necessarily just.

I am akin to a fairy yet can be unimaginably strong.

I am controller of life yet life will not always agree.

I am said to be tempestuous despite calm weather.

I am a lover of finery yet an adorer of chivalry.

I am the bearer of youth yet can carry only a few.

I am named like my other yet coupled without.

 

WHAT AM I?

 

 

 

 

Last edition’s Fustigator: Stiletto

Cigarette packets in New Zealand are being stripped of their insignia meaning that smokers will no longer be able to spend their days staring adoringly at world tobacco’s branding.

Reportedly Australia has already taken the same measures to de-brand their cigarette packets resulting in an overall reduction in cigarettes sales…

One person who is happy about this ruling though is Maori party spokeswoman and renowned former smoker, Dame Tariana Turia who, after publicly struggling to kick the habit herself some years ago, can now sit back and quietly observe the disharmony caused by so many aggrieved Kiwi smokers, with all the smug condescension of a reformed smoker who knows first-hand how vicious the nicotine battle can be yet feels that because she won that particular stoush, it’s none of her concern anymore.

…The one party which is genuinely aggrieved by this movement however, perhaps obviously, is the tobacco companies themselves; these corporations pay millions of dollars each year in advertising costs and for them cigarette packaging must be a large part of that…

While there is no reason for smokers themselves to be terribly put out by a plain cigarette packet, given that the contents are largely the same, totally understandable is the tobacco companies’ indignation at the move – how would Griffin’s feel if their branding was stripped then had a pack of Budget chocolate chip cookies passed off as their product?

…Therefore with zero distinction anymore between a pack of Pall Mall, Winfield, B&H or, heaven forbid, Holiday twenties, but with the person smoking the cigarette having merely glanced at the packet before withdrawing a smoke then sliding the box back into their pocket, this might well turn out to be more of a battle for recognition between worldwide tobacco companies than it will a means of lowering New Zealand’s smoking frequency.

Regardless, word is Uncle John’s past move to raise the cost of cigarettes was racist in that it disproportionately penalised Maori people but hang on, that can’t be right, I mean Dame Turia seems pretty stoked with the whole deal so, you know, I don’t know.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Aver Ty Zing

Photography by P Layne Peck

The price of cigarettes has increased and according to those with the power, ‘will continue to increase until they are simply, unaffordable’.

This is an interesting choice of words because for many New Zealand citizens the Government made cigarettes unaffordable a number of years ago yet, after a lifetime of partaking in what is still a totally legal and in fact what used to be considered normal practice, these destitute taxpayers are unable to break the addiction that comes with heavy tobacco consumption…

Therefore what the New Zealand Government is effectively doing with its ‘continual cigarette price-hikes’, is penalising the good, honest and hard-working sector of the Kiwi population whose only real mistake was to stumble into tobacco’s reassuring embrace at a young age and where now, 50 or perhaps 60 years on, those clutches are so firmly embedded in these good, honest taxpayers’ way of life that, impoverished as cigarettes might well be rendering them, the compulsion of tobacco addiction has greater sway.

…Meaning that the few remaining hardy smokers in the land – tradesmen, healthcare professionals, even war veterans – despite playing a vital role in the prosperity of this great nation, will end up paying a significantly larger tax bill than the rest and for what gain – essentially for the right to do as they please..?

What began as an effort to make New Zealand cleaner, greener and ultimately more smoke free than ever has, I believe, become an easy way for our Government to reap tax revenue…

As per so many television advertisements, people are now driving more lawfully, using electricity more wisely, boozing more responsibly and of course, buying cigarettes more reluctantly than ever so it makes sense that, as predicted in past post, Future of Smoking, the New Zealand Government is realising that its tax-giving cash-cows are drying up, and taking evasive measures…

It wouldn’t surprise me if, recent ACC surplus notwithstanding, the Government soon re-evaluated and re-elevated the cost of car licensing to cover that shortfall, too.

…It’s been said by many: ‘if the Government is that much against smoking they ought to just illegalise it outright’ – but of course they can’t do that, not yet anyway.

There’s still a generation or two of smoking-related illness to come in yet.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tex Raven-Yoo

Photography by Hal Thacker

 

 

I am known as several yet both come to a point.

I am an attractive piece and slender regardless.

I am tall and thin yet concerned not with dieting.

I am sexy in one sense yet deadly in the other.

I am admired by both sexes yet for differing reasons.

I am walked and looked down on or gripped forcefully.

I am proud to be flaunted yet am sometimes concealed.

I am handheld or a footstep yet I always cast a shadow.

I am accessory to some yet to others I am weaponry.

I am still in a grotto yet will take some additional work.

I am a knife and a shoe yet neither of these is truly me.

 

WHAT AM I?

 

 

 

 

 

Last edition’s Fustigator: Man

The Lower Hutt council is enforcing a prohibition of smoking in heavily populated public areas.

“It’s not about persecuting smokers,” maintained one such councillor (which, ironically, seems to be exactly what it’s about), “it’s about clean air, and our goal to be a smoke-free New Zealand by 2025.”

While this new ruling – not law, it’s just a rule – might be beneficial for a group of bedraggled bus shelter dwellers shielding themselves from the rain while waiting for the bus, who will now not have to put up with the inconsiderate smoker beside them demonstrating his attempt at consideration by blowing smoke upwards into the air but which simply collects in the shelter roof before drifting back down on everyone, for others, it is a decided imposition…

I wonder what makes a New Zealand local council think it has the right to instruct New Zealanders how to act in places other than local council buildings?

…Indeed one Lower Hutt bar owner is predicting this new ruling will cost him over half his business, as the section of his clientele who once would congregate on the footpath outside the bar in his ‘designated smoking area’ is now told they are no longer welcome to smoke their cigarettes on the street…

It’s this bloody ‘smoke free by 2025’ mantra that’s causing all the fuss and which I am certain when it was coined by the Right Honourable Uncle John a few years back was ’…2050’, but seems to have since been given a hurry along.

…These patrons will likely now do their socialising elsewhere because if there is one thing I learned during my almost 15 years as a smoker, smokers like to be able to smoke.

Prohibiting cigarettes inside bars was one thing: that was intended to protect the wellbeing of other people, but banning people’s beloved cancer-sticks inside their own little worlds – officials in Lower Hutt are clearly overstepping their authority and this is likely an attempt to gain favour with some other, perhaps less official, groups…

Smoking in cars, although not currently illegal, is certainly a frowned upon practise; just as it is supposedly ‘prohibited’ to smoke on footpaths outside hospital grounds, but surely, it is our right as people of the free world to do and act largely as we please.

…What’s next then – is someone going to try and ban smokers from lighting up in front of their own TV, in their own lounge?

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pru Hibby-Ushon

Photography by Stapp Tufar

 

I am frequently a pronoun yet am not always professional.

I am short in the name yet typically long in the tongue.

I am known for stoic pretence yet can be more akin to a pansy.

I am hunter-gatherer of the land yet do not always manage to pray.

I am hunter-gatherer of sea yet not always the bearer of muscles.

I am a failure of the multitask yet claim more proficiency than she.

I am the suffix of many titles even when they scarcely concern me.

I am named like the last part of the collective name for myself.

I am believed to be the alpha yet my own spelling is often lacking.

I am good at being forward yet behind me is always a good woman.

I am the first mammal to wear pants yet the fly came much earlier.

I am similar to a young boy yet I am much older than he.

 

WHAT AM I?

 

 

 

 

 

Last edition’s Fustigator: Paper

“So how’d you end up here tonight?”

“I was originally over the road, started losing, so I thought I’d cut those losses and come here – problem is now I’m spending more money here than I was there, anyway.”

“Ha, nice … So do you come here a lot?”

“In fact, no, first time.”

“Oh, well, you have a good night then, won’t you?”

 

“Oh wow, how’d you get that massive scar?”

“Ah, car crash, few years back, broke that elbow – dislocated the other.”

“Oh yeah, you said … So like, were you wearing a seat belt?”

“Backseat passenger in a 1984 Honda CRX – don’t know how familiar you are with those particular back seats..?

“Ah, ha, not very..?”

“Yeah, well, suffice to say, I mean not that I can recall, but, probably safe to assume, I wasn’t.”

“Oh wow, so like, how many bones ya break?”

“Just that one – I think – wouldn’t really know … By the time I woke up they’d taken care of everything.”

“Oh nice, so how long were you in hospital?”

“Few months I think.”

“Oh wow, and how old were you?”

“I was seventeen at the time, but already had my life pretty well underway.”

“Oh, how horrible … Then I suppose you got out of hospital and it would’ve been like, everything had changed around you, and you had to find some place to kind of, you know, re-fit in..?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s life, isn’t it?”

“Guess it is, yeah…”

“Well take your situation for example – I mean, is this how you planned your life?”

“Actually, so far, yeah … Ha, actually, it is, pretty much.”

“Oh, really? Well, shit, I guess, I am impressed, I mean, shit, if this is what you’re into, then that’s great.”

“Yeah, I love it eh.”

“My God, that is brilliant, especially after so many people – particularly woman – condemn it as a legitimate career choice, maintaining the women who do it are broken, or hollow, or soulless, or something else decidedly less than wonderful…

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re soulless at all, I think most of us who do it do it because we want to do it, ‘cause we enjoy it, we do it because we know we can – I think those girls who talk shit about us are envious, that’s all.”

“Well said – very well said … So what did you do before this then?”

“Before this..? Ah, nothing … I left school, fucked around for a year or two then came here…”

“And you’ve been here ever since..?”

“Yeah buddy, as I said, I love it.”

“Shit man that is awesome – so this is really all you ever aspired to do..?

“As I said honey, I fuckin’ love it.”

“And you seem to be very good at it…”

 

“Hey, you’re still here!”

“Sure, nowhere else to be…”

“Hmm … Have a drink with me..?

“Nice one.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise, that’s difficult for you, isn’t it?”

“Well yeah, although after so many years of practice, it was supposed to be seamless kind of difficulty.”

“Ha, well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure it would be seamless to most, it’s just that I know what to look for.”

“Interesting … Although I must ask, why the hell would you be particularly looking for spasmodic limbs?”

“Ha, around here, honey, you’d be surprised how many, let’s just say, differently endowed, people we see … And let me tell you, that’s nothing.”

“That’s probably because what you just saw was nothing – just wait until you see something.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Yeah, if I were you, I probably wouldn’t be.”

“Like I said honey, it’s nothing … Things like that don’t matter to me – it shouldn’t matter to anyone.”

 

“My God, you’re brilliant … So, can I ask, how old are you?”

“Technically, no, you can’t ask, but between you and me, I’m twenty-three.”

“Oh, no way…”

“Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint – what were you expecting?”

“No, well, it’s just that, shit man, I mean, you speak so well – so far above your years … Twenty-three – seriously..?”

“Ha-ha, oh, you’re funny … You’re not going to start treating me like a kid now, are you?”

“Well, I suppose I should and on that note, Little Miss twenty-three-year-old, it’s almost three a.m. and I feel as though someone of your apparent delinquency ought to be tucked up in bed.”

“My ‘apparent delinquency’ – seriously..? Alright Mr I-don’t-know-how-old-you-are but you look about thirty-four…”

“I’ll just assume those extra couple of years you’ve added there are on account of the ungodly hour and my, oh-so-aged requirement for sleep.”

“I thought oh-so-ancient people didn’t need so much sleep..?”

“I said aged, not ancient, although I can see the confusion – taking into account also my typically lacking enunciation…”

“Hmm, I’m up soon, see ya in a bit.”

 

“How was I?”

“You were spectacular.”

“Oh, thank you honey … How much longer do you plan on staying around?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess as long as you’re around to reciprocate scintillating conversation, there’s really no reason for me to leave.”

“Nice, I’ll be around for a bit – might have to duck away every now and again though…”

“That’s fine, I’m sure I’d end up bored with you if you were here constantly anyway – you want another drink?”

“That’d be nice, thanks.”

“Medium white..?”

“Yeah, but make sure they fill the glass this time.”

 

“I did used to – used to love the shit out of it – stopped a few years back.”

“Oh, well I still do – I still love the shit out of it – so I’m gonna have one now.”

“Nice one – I’ll join you if you don’t mind…”

“You just said you gave up..?”

“I did say that, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving the smell.”

“So you’ve gone from being addicted to first-hand smoke, to being addicted to second-hand smoke..?”

“I wouldn’t say addicted as such, let’s just say I do enjoy a spot of passive-aggressive smoking.”

“Passive-aggressive..?”

“Yeah, guess you could say, I’m subtly forceful about my second-hand smoking.”

“Forceful, how?”

“Forceful in that I force a smoker not to bogart their second-hand smoke.”

“Ha, nice, come on then.”

 

“So who picks your stage names?”

“We do.”

“Really? But yours doesn’t even suit you.”

“I know, it sucks eh.”

“Well no, I mean it’s a lovely name ‘nall, but you’d be better suited to, I dunno, Storm, or something like that….”

“Hey yeah … Storm’s good eh … Yeah I might change it.”

“…Or what about your real name, that’d be a great stage name..?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t really want random sleaze-bags knowing my real name, you know?”

“Yes, random sleaze-bags like me – oh wait, but you just told me you real name..?”

“Yeah, but you’re not a sleaze-bag.”

“You don’t know that…”

“Trust me, I know people, you’re not.”

“Oh…”

“Ha-ha, don’t be too disappointed! Wow I just told you you were a nice guy and you looked all sad!”

“Ah, being a ‘nice guy’s overrated – nice guys invariably finish last.”

“Not always – I like nice guys.”

“You’d consider your boyfriend a ‘nice guy’ then..?”

“If I had one he’d be nice – why would I go out with a guy who wasn’t nice?”

“Because in my experience, like I said, your beloved ‘nice guys’ indubitably finish last – or at least well behind the shitheads.”

“Hmm, that’s because girls love guys who are confident.”

“’Arrogant’ might be the better term.”

“Sure, that too – if a guy acts like he can get any girl, pretty much, he will.”

“Right … But you’re still single … No shitheads in your midst..?”

“Nah, I don’t see the point in having a boyfriend until I’m ready to get married eh.”

 

“Tell me some more about your accident..?”

“The car I was in accidentally crashed into the side of a parked bus, at speed.”

“Oh wow, so what happened – to you, I mean?”

“Nothing really – in that I don’t seem to have been launched from any windscreens or died and collapsed over anyone else -”

“So there were others in the car..?”

“There were, the driver and front passenger.”

“And you were in the back..?”

“Yes, and from my backseat perch, as I mentioned, I don’t believe my head actually came into contact with anything … I just suffered extensive whiplash to the extent that my head almost came off my shoulders and my brain smashed into the side of my skull, seemingly killing a bunch of hair follicles, resulting in this bald-er patch here, see?”

“Oh wow…”

“Yeah, I’m just pissed we don’t live in Summer Bay, or on Shortland Street, or have good Neighbours – after all, soap opera brain trauma only lasts a month or two before being totally forgotten.”

“Hey, well, like you said, I am still young, and you do look kind of restless…”

“Oh, come on, seriously..? There is no way that you are twenty-three years old – twenty-three-year-old girls, firstly, are much too young to know about horrible soaps like ‘The Young and the Restless’ and secondly, plain and simple, they are not that Goddamned witty … My God, you are brilliant!”

“No I grew up on ‘The Young and the Restless’ – I really am twenty-three though – my Mum used to have stacks of tapes of it that she’d watch during the day, from when she was working shifts…

“Woah, tapes, nice one, now you are really showing your age.”

“Hey, shut up, just ‘cause I’s born last century…”

“Yes, in the nineties – if you can call that last century.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m still young and beautiful, it’s just how – just how my Mum and Dad made me.”

“Ha, you’re young and beautiful, I’m old and restless, and nice one on avoiding a corny religious reference there.”

“Did I? Oh … Aren’t I wonderful?”

“Yes … Yes, you are.”

“Thanks, but guess what? This wonderful young lady has to get going now – sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry – do what you have to do.”

“OK, thank you for the company tonight, and for the – what was it? – scintillating conversation … So will I see ya back here?”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, well, have a good life then, and enjoy your tomorrow!”

“Yes, tomorrow, he mumbles, glancing at his watch to see the sunrise can’t be far off…”

“Yeah, huh, you do get used to having your days all messed up, eh.”

“Can’t imagine I would but hey, it was a pleasure.”

“See ya!”

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Nat Seoul-List

Photography by Karl Lander-Grill