I assist people throughout the day yet can be the cause of much distress.

I am generally quiet yet I do sometimes cause alarm.

I come in a variety of colours but black or white are the favourites.

I am ordinarily circular yet my shape changes according to interior fashion.

I hang around in the same place all day yet contain a number of moving parts.

I take my vigour from an external source but ration it out very slowly.

I have in recent years undergone a change in the way my insides function.

I am probably the most looked at yet least admired entity in the area.

I have a fulcrum harbouring three yet go up to four times that.

I am numbered up to over ten yet have five times that many ticks.

WHAT AM I?

Last week’s Fustigator: Currency

For a long while New Zealand dairy farmers have been enduring continuous drops in the value of their milk products yet are pleased to hear their employer, Fonterra, announce a well over 100% profit on its last year’s earnings.

On account of this happy revelation Fonterra is prepared to fund a generous dividend payout to dairy farmers for their respective stakes in the company…

It seems no one has yet asked the obvious question: How, when the value of our milk products has been steadily dropping for the last few years, can you, the company who pays for our milk products, claim to have over doubled your profits in the last twelve months?

…As if this will make up for years of falling dairy prices; as if a sole dividend payment will account for those farmers who have already been forced to walk off their land.

Nevertheless Fonterra is now being celebrated and even praised by farmers for its goodwill towards them; although not so much by those farmers who couldn’t handle the strain of working for pittance and who have already declared bankruptcy, but certainly the others who are still struggling under Fonterra’s meagre milk price.

It’s like when a bank or utility company announces a ‘record profit’ – all this effectively means is that they’ve been overcharging their customers, because while it might warm a consumer’s heart to hear that their bank or electricity provider is doing so very well, as the consumer paying for that record profit margin, although the company CEO’s salary might go from $800 grand to a cool million, you will likely see no benefit at all.

Similar to our national sport, where we once excelled but are now nothing remarkable, the rest of the world has caught up and just as I predicted in a former post – Fieldays – the dairy boom in New Zealand never was going to last.

Well, clearly it is lasting for Fonterra, just not for the farmers who work so hard to ensure this company’s future prosperity.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ria Core Pruffet

Photography by Fawcy O Celery

Interesting how many individuals seem to think, as if climatic behaviour is dictated by man and not the other way around, that the turn of the season – 1^st March, 1st June, 1^st September, 1^st December – must invariably and immediately present the weather changes its name indicates.

This week’s Theory therefore pertains to the erroneous yet surprisingly commonplace belief that seasonal behaviour ought to relate directly and unequivocally to how we as the people have prescribed it should.

Further to that, many people in New Zealand seem to believe that once the South rolls past that 1^st December spring cut-off anything less than mid-twenty degree temperatures, similarly a chilly burst of substantial rainfall, should be considered a ‘freak weather phenomenon’; these same querulous pillocks maintain that any pleasant day or warmth in general past the end of February is ‘unseasonable’.

Nothing annoys me more than to hear a weather presenter, for example on December 15^th following a period of particularly icy southerly rainfall, inquiring with disingenuous disbelief, “Where’s summer gone?”, “What happened to summer?” or, “I thought this was supposed to be summer..?”

In fact no, something does annoy me more than that: it’s when naïve Auckland-based weather presenters, who likely do their best to avoid ever stepping outside the temperate safety of their own air conditioned television studio and whose closest experience with actual weather is the information provided via a shimmering computer screen by MetService, refer to sunshine thus heat as an invariable positive, and rainfall hence lower temperatures as an indubitable negative…

Just to be clear there is nothing negative, Canterbury Plains midsummer, about a few days of cooler temperatures and overcast drizzle, following a week of stifling heat and desiccating nor’ west wind; yet at anything less than a prediction of unadulterated sunshine and scorching temperatures – particularly if a public holiday is in sight – from these idiot city-dwellers with no idea of anything much outside their favourite café on the outskirts of their own bloody Super City, we hear pleas of “Where’s summer gone?”, “What happened to summer?” – “I thought this was supposed to be summer..?”

…I would like everybody across this nation to realise that, firstly, nowadays anyway, a season’s technical beginning does not guarantee the sudden arrival of the weather associated with that particular climatic event, and secondly, (as I write this I become aware of my northward glance and its accompanying look of contempt) high temperatures and dry conditions, while they may be desirous for some, are certainly not conducive to everybody’s good time.

My theory therefore, because I did assure you it was in here and I don’t make a habit of laying down false assurances, is that, despite equinoxes and solstices altering slightly every year, many people appear to genuinely believe that the world’s seasons hence weather patterns are beholden to follow a schedule prescribed by man, and any deviation from the aforementioned regime is totally unexpected, wholly inconvenient, thus undoubtedly warrants that trendy title of modern man, ‘freak weather phenomenon’.

My theory can be simplified to assert that, simply, we Kiwis have become a terribly precious people.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Clemmy Attic/D V Ashon

Photography by Prash S P Pole

Prime Minister John Key is refusing to apologise for pointing out the truth that cameraman Bradley Ambrose is a devious and typically lawless member of the paparazzi.

Going back to the months surrounding New Zealand’s last election, Ambrose ‘mistakenly’ left a recording device on a café table near where Mr Key was engaged in a private discussion with contemporary John Banks.

I don’t feel it’s unreasonable that the nation’s Prime Minister should be allowed his privacy; to breach this unspoken etiquette through the devious channels implemented by Bradley Ambrose is utterly reprehensible.

Of course at the time of this ‘mistake’ the aforementioned recorder just happened to have been switched on, thus recorded an entire dull, political conversation.

The truth came out, John Key was understandably furious, he said some things of a defamatory nature; our Prime Minister was then sued by a smug Mr Ambrose.

Years later the case is wrapping up; John Key is settling out of court and using taxpayer money to fund the lawsuit.

I am surprised that the target of people’s indignation seems to be our Prime Minister for using public funds to cover costs, rather than that devious cameraman for his audacity; it’s not John Key’s fault that Bradley Ambrose is a lying, cheating quisling intent on effectively swindling the nation of New Zealand.

It’s not right that someone can end up paying for pointing out a truth, while another can come out better off for acting like a shithead.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by A R Saul

Photography by T Bagger

The pugnacious delinquents who last night made national News by flaunting their excesses of testosterone and conversely similar deficits in mental capacity, left me in a state of incensed disbelief.

This is the 21^st century, yes? We are an evolved race, yes? We consider ourselves a civilised people, yes? This is a time of speed dating and Internet hook-ups, yes? We long ago passed the point of needing to physically battle our counterparts in the quest for a mate, did we not?

Right, that was what I thought. Yet I believe it was these very discrepancies that caused me such unease last night: I could not believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t a typical drunken slugfest, wasn’t just a drunken haymaker or two this was a premeditated, if not organised, street brawl. This was disgusting.

4 a.m. Sunday, in an otherwise deserted Auckland street, a small group of drunken male youths decide to have a go at one another. A similar number of female spectators are in attendance, screaming and yelling, making feeble attempts to stop the fight, or perhaps just enjoying the attention, who really knows?

These males’ territorial pissing contest becomes intense when one of the beaten goes down, failing to resurface for a number of minutes…

‘Oh no,’ is a thought that just might have crossed one of these idiot’s minds, ‘maybe we hurt him – maybe we hurt him bad … But we didn’t mean to hurt him too bad, you know, just wanted to make him bleed a bit, you know, wanted to impress the girls, you know, wanted to look like a big man, you know, because girls are impressed by that kind of stuff, you know.’

…The fallen figure then shows signs of life, so several more kicks are delivered to his head and body.

What these drunken pillocks can’t seem to appreciate is the potential magnitude of their actions: these apparent displays of manliness, these territorial pissings – one decent punch coupled with one solid kerb under one falling man’s head – one mishap and things can quickly escalate to a homicide charge.

Police were heard to say that they would be checking into the bars the idiots had been attending to make sure none of the aforementioned premises had been ‘serving intoxicated patrons’, as if the standard for being drunk in a bar is a clear limit and no mildly drunk person has ever been removed or refused service while the guy a few metres away struggles to stand…

This entire escapade makes me think of the documentary I watched just prior to the News, on how female scorpions go about selecting which suitor they will allow to mate with them; performing a dance of sorts before settling on the fittest, strongest, most agile therefore the finest male, and only then accepting his insemination. Huh, if only people were so discerning.

…Come on, we all saw the CCTV footage – shit I’ve seen higher levels of intoxication at a young mothers’ book club – so no, I don’t believe this was so much about the booze as it was about the people doing the boozing.

In other words, it’s not what we’re drinking, it’s not even how we’re drinking – it’s who we are allowing to do the drinking.

Everybody needs to be made to secure a licence to imbibe and simply, if you’re a dickhead, you’ll soon lose yours.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Duncan D Kheds

Photography by Trop Keek

New Zealand health advocates have made clear their desire to follow the UK’s lead and impose a tax on high-sugar food and drink.

Personally, there is no more logical step the NZ Government could take: if 80% of the cost of cigarettes is currently taxation to cover the cost of the myriad diseases smoking causes, also alcohol tax to cover the sclerosis boozing causes, oh and, of course an exorbitant fuel tax to cover the ACC payouts that motoring causes, then surely somebody needs to be accumulating some sort of nest egg for twenty years down the track when half of every Kiwi suffers diabetes caused by excess sugar consumption…

The National Health Board is against the aforementioned levy, claiming ‘You increase the price of their sugary drinks, low income families are going to have to find an alternative…’

…A fine alternative to sweetened beverages is of course, water. Here in New Zealand we are lucky enough to have an abundant supply of fresh water; furthermore unlike some other countries where drinking water must be purchased in convenient plastic bottles, New Zealanders don’t need to pay for refreshment…

One silly woman claimed, “You can’t put up the price of our soft drink – it’s a bit of a treat for the kids when they’re good and it’s harmless enough.”

…Can anybody say ADHD? What about childhood obesity..? What about my very own nephews who, while not typically troublesome to get into bed at night, when slipped a late afternoon can of Coke by an awesome uncle, become abuzz with excitement and so much fun to be around – until half an hour past bedtime once the uncle’s gone home and the sugar-high’s worn off, the good-humour dissipates then along comes several hours of tantrum.

Sugar is currently accepted as a food to be avoided; in fact like cigarettes before it, courtesy of so much disdainful opinion, in this modern era sugar has been outright vilified.

Why then, unlike cigarettes before it, is it still being marketed and sold to our youth with such gusto?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Mark Atting

Photography by Dar Bill Stan-Deared

I am seen to take a variety of forms yet all are ultimately the same thing.

I am a challenge to obtain and people are often reluctant to let me go.

I am said to have an uplifting odour yet to ingest me would be unpleasant.

I am a most sought after prize yet am the cause of much unhappiness.

I like to be kept secure yet am renowned for inspiring foolishness.

I am most important yet most avoid talking about me.

I am a great traveller yet I seldom see the sights.

I am under Government command yet am often complicit in illicit acts.

I was more commonly seen twenty years ago than I am today.

I am a compelling force yet have no physical strength.

I can display a multitude of colours but my biggest is red.

I am born in a place with the same name as an aromatic herb.

I contain no blood yet my travels are known as circulation.

I have a name which begins similarly to the right now or kind of a grape.

WHAT AM I?

Last week’s Fustigator: Cobweb

Located approximately 150 million kilometres from Earth is our closest star; we call this fiery behemoth, Sun.

According to my own schoolboy knowledge Earth’s Sun is composed primarily of hydrogen gas – sources go on to say it is exactly 73.46% hydrogen – and (explanation for knowing the precise consistency of such a far off entity notwithstanding) if there’s one thing we ought to remember about hydrogen through the Hindenburg calamity or, more to the point schoolboy chemistry experiments, it’s that hydrogen gas is mightily flammable, or inflammable, I forget.

This explains the heat but there is one area that while the majority appear to be in acceptance, I am certain there are still a great many people who have posed the question: who is stoking the fire; how is it being stoked? Who, in God’s name, is keeping up the fuel supply to this seemingly insatiable inferno?

This week’s theory therefore pertains to the total opposite of what readers surely expected I was going assert: I do not believe, even with its apparent shortage of winter stock in the woodshed, that the Sun, our Sun, will ever burn out.

While it is a fact that this star is essentially aflame without its fuel source ever needing replenishing, this does not mean that one day it will simply run out of combustible material.

The issue with our feeble human minds is, in a word, comprehension. Most of us will struggle to comprehend something as infinitely expansive as the Universe simply because we have never needed to visualise anything so utterly vast; even to comprehend the sheer mass of one of the stars inhabiting that Universe, while of course some of us probably think we can, for our tiny human brains, is somewhere close to impossible…

As mentioned in a previous post – I think Theory III – given that our Universe comprises millions of Suns all with the potential to propagate life on other planets, of which there must be millions more in orbit of each of those Suns, the chances of life existing somewhere other than planet Earth are in fact extremely likely. (I feel that digression was just about as pointless as it was entertaining.)

…The fact that our Sun burns around four billion kilograms of mass per second is, oddly, inconsequential – although when we cast our minds back to Einstein’s E=mc2 formula and realise that Energy is directly related to Mass multiplied by the Constant speed of light inside a vacuum squared, we understand that to burn so much mass is to indubitably create a whole lot of energy – in that this is an entity of such unimaginable hugeness that to burn even the aforementioned amount of mass actually has no noticeable effect on either its size, its gravitational pull or thankfully, its ability to further produce energy.

Even with nothing to top up its reserves, at its current rate of ‘evaporation’ our Sun would take an estimated fourteen trillion years to burn through its stores; now if we consider that the Universe is said to be only twelve billion years old…

Take into account furthermore that people have only been aware of the Sun’s existence for a shade over two thousand years – the revelation that we orbit it rather than it orbiting us coming even more recently – and we see that this is a mere iota of its projected lifespan.

…Fear not, good people: I therefore theorise that the human race will annihilate itself long before our Sun gives up on us.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sonny Day

Photography by Dee Ark Knight

I am very clingy yet am extremely fragile.

I cause frustration to those who contact me.

I am not overly big yet I am very strong.

I am difficult to remove once I have made my presence felt.

I consider it important to have stability around me.

I prefer older locations but really am not fussy.

I contain a feature that strikes fear into the hearts of many.

I am high maintenance yet highly attractive.

I am the gatherer of a hunter-gatherer combo.

I provide a home for a single occupant yet we frequently have company.

I do what I can to ensure those who stop by never leave.

I am one thing yet my name is compound.

I have been called two names yet both end in the description of a lie.

WHAT AM I?

Last week’s Fustigator: Sea Lettuce

As I endure the nor’ west gales that first made their presence known at 6 a.m., I am not surprised to hear the melancholy drone of fire sirens.

The town fire siren was first heard at around 10 but given that the fire truck and tanker have been occupied for practically every minute since then, heroically fighting fires up and down the countryside, just a single blip has been heard from the town’s siren with each new fire alert, coming every hour or two.

It’s a nor’ west day, I recall thinking, that’s the way it goes.

By 5 p.m. the wind is at its most fierce – forecasters promised winds of up to 140 kph but I dunno. Let’s call it 120.

I estimate the wind will die back soon so step outside and start making rectifications: broken branches need tidying, garden archways need straightening, rubbish bins need locating; deck furniture also needs collecting from wherever it has ended up.

I can see a thick haze of smoke in the sky to the east. I am surprised at how thickly widespread the fug appears. I can even smell it which, given the wind direction, makes no sense. I turn and peer westward. Sure enough, the air that way has become hazy also. I can’t help feeling a little unnerved: blazes to the east, blazes to the west; me in the middle. I gaze at the clear north sky for reassurance.

I then hear something which makes me angry to a level that even the irritation of a galeforce nor’ west wind cannot achieve.

In the radio’s 5:30 news broadcast it comes as no surprise that ‘bushfires on the Canterbury Plains’ are leading news; the reasons for the fires however, ‘authorised burn-offs’, make me insane with rage.

Authorised burn-offs..? On a day where galeforce north westerly winds were predicted..? Who would be stupid enough to do anything fire-related on a galeforce nor’ west day? Are you serious? Shit, just plough your bloody stubble back into the ground and be done with it.

No, the farmers responsible for those out-of-control fires ought to be shot – volunteer fire crews from throughout Canterbury were pulled out of their day-jobs to risk their lives and douse your idiocy.

Dickhead.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by A Dick-Ede

Photography by Paul Ureddin