New Zealand’s ‘Plus Sized Movement’ is releasing a calendar celebrating The Plus-Sized Woman…

This unsettling and, in my opinion, repugnant publication intends to flaunt pictures of attractive women of size 14 or above (mostly above) in provocative (ghastly) poses, while adorned in seductive lingerie (can’t fault the underwear, but).

…If these nice women were to just stop deluding themselves for a moment or two they might realise that what they’re actually celebrating is the carefree liberty afforded to them by their life of sloth or, more accurately, over-eating and under-exercising.

The story of “Plus Sized women” who are “happy in their skins” celebrating their “sexy and healthy Plus Sized bodies” and who refuse to “waste their time counting calories” must be among the biggest crocks of shit I have ever seen: they are clearly not happy with themselves or they would have no reason to continually make such a big fuss; while they might be ‘sexy’ to their obese husbands their frightfully exalted Body Mass Indexes will assuredly be anything but healthy; as for ‘counting calories’, where in the ‘80s this might have been a fashionable pastime, nowadays I don’t know anyone who is particularly concerned with their calorie intake per se – like most people of 30 of 40 years, if my pants start tightening, rather than bitching and moaning about the genetic composition of the slim girl down the street (also the unrealistic standards she’s setting and how all her selfies must surely be photo-shopped), simply, I eat less and exercise more.

At a time where diabetes is one of New Zealand’s biggest killers, promoting the Plus-Sized body is unequivocal hypocrisy; thus rather than blindly pushing the ‘be happy with your body shape no matter how far above standard it has become’ doctrine, perhaps we ought to be spending more time promoting rudimentary ‘healthy living’.

A Plus Sized advocate claimed that by releasing the aforementioned calendar they are hoping to “overcome the stigma that comes with being plus sized” – stigma indeed; one needs only to witness the cruelty and scathing insults these big girls have been heard handing down to regular fashion models, who incidentally they sometimes like to refer to as “those disgusting human skeletons”, and one might say that stigma is largely self-imposed.

The irony of the above slander is that those ‘human skeleton’ fashion models likely have the very same sized skeletons as the Plus Sized girls.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by B Haim-Moth

Photography by Purdy Lon-Jury

The average cost of renting a dwelling in Auckland has surpassed the $500 mark.

This is up 9% on last year which, incidentally, is up 7% on the previous year’s 2% rise in rental cost. Understandably renters are outraged; particularly when one takes into account that house prices have risen around 17%…

Theoretically a house’s rental price – established by the landlord, the owner of the premises – is relative to the total price paid for the house thus covering outgoing costs such as general upkeep, periodic maintenance, also mortgage repayments which need to be continually paid.

…So that’s almost 10% of potential rental fee increase that is seemingly being absorbed by the landlord.

Hard to believe then that Auckland’s renters are harbouring such indignation towards the aforementioned property owners; it’s scarcely their fault property prices are always on the rise.

It’s almost as though these impoverished families-of-seven-or-eight currently renting Auckland accommodation should have stopped living for the day back when they still had a choice, and instead put some thought into their futures…

Given how much I detest repetition I’ll only say this once more: education is the key to prosperity – teach people how to be fiscally responsible and who knows, they might just succeed in life.

…Shit it sounds easier just to blame the Government.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ren Talcust

Photography by Reid Ock Ulyss

It was while occupying a slot along a Blackjack table at Christchurch’s casino this recent New Year’s Eve that I made an interesting observation.

Indeed the Christchurch Casino comprises a number of Blackjack tables, some with slightly differing rules – frustrating adaptations of the game I’m sure are intended to victimise novice gamblers whose attention lapsed some hours prior – also with each one offering a different ‘minimum bet allowance’, so I guess a punter feels he has some control over the speed at which he is rendered impecunious.

This however, notable revelation notwithstanding, was not so much the focus of the above observation.

As I stood rigidly amid a line of seated punters – throwing the occasional glance over my shoulder to the rabble of T-shirt-and-jeans wearing louts, each with beer in hand as they seemed continually to weave their way through the gaming tables as if with a destination in mind, leading to my mild feeling of overdressedness as I brushed an errant hair from the lapel of my suit jacket then leaned back to glimpse on a shiny surface the reflection of my chic black ensemble – my already compromised attention was further split as an attractive drinks lady demanded our attention to ask if anyone required refreshment.

My eyes flicked between the table – having just been dealt a 10 and a 5 in what I have been known to refer to as ‘ugly numbers’ and which tends to prompt an inaudible cuss word or two, then giving a quick tap on the felt to reveal a 7 which elicited several more still below-volume but slightly more audible cuss words – and the drinks lady who I heard repeating the order of the drunkard to my right and the ebullient Irishman to my left…

At this point while I had $80 worth of $5 chips stacked neatly before me, I noticed the chap to my right had a veritable heap of $25 chips piled in front of him; I noticed also that most every bet he was making – ostensibly unaware at this point of what was going on in front of him to the extent that he was ‘hitting’ on 18 or ‘standing’ on 13 – he was losing. On the other side I had observed this happy Irishman over my left shoulder for some time watching the game unfold, before finally sliding a wad of cash toward the croupier and embarking on his ‘$15 minimum’ Blackjack quest.

…I noted that both men had ordered alcoholic beverages. Given however that the majority of my day had been spent basking in the sun drinking scotch, also that I was now seeking as much clarity as could be salvaged from the residual effects of the aforementioned boozing session, along with a severely sun-kissed face, I ordered a lemonade – “also, if it’s not too much trouble,” I added routinely, “could I have a straw with that?”

Midnight came and went in the discord of a band of bagpipes, which seemed only to incite cringing among revellers. A short time later the pile of $25 chips in front of the drunkard to my right had dwindled to a mere scattering; the Irishman to my left, having initially put across $100 which he’d then followed up with some unfathomably reckless betting, had departed as smoothly as he’d come. Further to my left were the other three members of my ‘family’, as we’d become known to one another; alas their onset of poverty appeared to be moving in perfect proportion to their increasing drunkenness.

My cache, as always having begun with $60, had risen to $95 before dropping sharply to $30 then steadily accruing once more; at that point I was on $120 and waiting for a loss to give me reason to step down.

As it turned out the loss didn’t come until I had accumulated $180 worth of $5 chips and, slurping down the last of my fourth glass of lemonade and directing my jaded eyes along the table to what remained of my family, with hopelessly jittering hands I pushed my haul towards the fourth dealer we’d had to endure in however many hours I’d been enduring, half-heartedly claiming, “I don’t trust my luck anymore.” As the croupier returned the simplified version of thirty-six chips along with a perfunctory chuckle at my remark I hastily mumbled, “Thank you Nicole,” then for no other reason than the intoxication, the exultation of victory, added, “you’re beautiful.”

I stumbled across to the cashier, clasping in a sweaty palm the fruits of a night’s labour and thinking, somewhat lamentably, about a family torn, broken apart by alcohol; because that was exactly what had happened – that was the reason, you see – I truly believe that alcohol was the downfall of my gaming brothers and sisters on the Blackjack table that night.

Gambling or, specifically, Blackjack, is a game of judgement. Admittedly, while a large portion does rely on chance, much of what comprises the game is discerning the most prudent option. The impulsiveness and indeed, the recklessness associated with alcohol consumption are simply not conducive to proficient gambling.

It wasn’t that I was luckier than my counterparts that particular evening, or even, I wouldn’t think, that I am a terribly better gambler than they; nay, I truly believe, thus this week’s Theory shall state, imbibing alcohol is to the unequivocal detriment of gamblers.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cass E Know

Photography by B Tia DeHuss

We all know the phrase and I can’t be the only one who’s fed up with hearing it.

Merry Christmas..?

So come on to all you hackneyed idiom deniers, all you free-thinking convention defiers; come blaze a trail with me. Sure, it’ll be a little more of a mouthful and it will probably even require a touch of brainpower to recollect in the early stages, but nothing worth changing is ever simple – just look at the new flag design and how easy that’s been to implement – so come on and say it with me now…

(For the benefit of simplicity I’ve cut it down, so it ought to roll right off the tongue.)

…Splendiferous Christmas and a Gay New Year, folks.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sven Duff Ross

Photography by Chris T Moss

A decision has finally been made about this potential restoration of the Christchurch Cathedral.

What’s curious is that I could have sworn we’d already decided what was going to happen…

Think back around five years to when the church in question was reduced to ruins; now come forward a year or two and remember the $5 million cardboard monstrosity that the Christian community decided would be a useful temporary replacement – a location for them to worship their saviour while they decided what was going to happen to their other church.

…I was sure that everyone – Christchurch’s City Council, Christchurch’s band of religious zealots, also Christchurch’s remaining taxpayers who I believe were expected to foot the portion of the bill not covered by insurance after so much of that insurance payout was wasted on litigation costs discussing this very subject – was in agreement that either the insurance money was to be spent on this temporary place of cardboard worship, or, it was to be used, as initially planned, to rebuild the cathedral.

Typical though of zealots, fanatics, radicals, idiots or whatever one calls them; however one perceives them, rationality or indeed logic of any variety, is not a prominent feature of their world…

Five years of deliberation; five years of time wasting, money and resource wasting, and now, it seems we’ve gone full circle. Once deemed damaged beyond repair only to be reassessed as fixable then again, later, irreparable, now, most assuredly, they’re going to fix it once and for all.

…Forget the fact that an entirely new, modern, plush, heated and air conditioned cathedral could be built for less than half the cost of the restoration bill of this existing edifice – estimates are varied but somewhere between $100 and $200 million ought to cover it – these pious devotees want their old cathedral back.

Right, so they’ll likely talk some more, make some more decisions, then work should be underway somewhere around April next year.

All you atheistic ratepayers better get saving.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gob Body-Riz

Photography by Wepae Fua Yhu

The phrase ‘…victim was killed execution style…’ has always made me chuckle…

This week’s Theory therefore pertains to usage of the aforementioned phrase.

…Fair call, probably not an ideal ‘chuckling’ situation but hear me out: I have seen a line of kneeling refugees ‘executed’ via bullets to the back of the head, I have seen ISIS radicals similarly ‘executing’ people with bullets to the foreheads; I have seen other ‘executions’ which have left a hole in the temple, and I have heard of further ‘execution style killings’ which have manifested either a bullet in the back, a bullet in the chest or even, a slit throat.

If you’re still wondering where I find the humour in that, yeah, you’re probably never going to get it.

My theory is that the statement, ‘killed execution style’, other than confirming somebody’s death – also the fact that they didn’t have the life arbitrarily beaten out of them – while certainly commanding an audience’s attention, actually tells them nothing.

Time to sign off, execution style.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by X E Cushion

Photography by Kay Ling

The problem with living in a democratic nation whose people enjoy freedoms of almost every kind and which is not stricken by war, famine, pandemic or other mortal hardship, to the point where everyone can practically guarantee their family and they will wake each morning, is that triviality seems to constantly gain recognition.

When a few days ago Prime Minister John Key was lured into Auckland’s Mediaworks Studios – as he has been numerous times this year – to show his lighter side and perhaps to even provide some comic relief to Rock radio audiences throughout New Zealand; then when he was forced to make some adlib remarks regarding a farcical incarceration put together by Rock DJs and, when he uttered a couple of ribald lines that I actually heard at the time (imagine my surprise when I even found myself chuckling at our Prime Minister’s ability to make/take a joke) and, when that was then followed by my dismay when I learned that idiot New Zealanders were again being idiots…

It should be known that, much as my latent misanthropy might dictate it, I don’t actually consider all New Zealanders idiots; just the ones who seem to sit in wait for that fleeting moment where perhaps, where just maybe, they can possibly find a way to find a reason to find something offensive.

…According to sources, despite having forgotten the moment myself although as the memory returned experiencing the warmth of that Prime Ministerial quip, not just some groups, nay, many groups have taken offence at our humbly bumbling John Key.

I have to wonder, for example, if it had been me who had dropped those remarks about ‘being behind bars’, ‘bending down’, ‘picking up’ and, ‘slimy soap’; if it had been anyone but our beloved scapegoat of a PM who had publicly said something so potentially provocative, honestly, would New Zealand’s White Ribbon Foundation – would anyone – have cared?

Once again it’s reading between the lines, hearing what wasn’t said but what they expect was implied that is, as usual, resulting in poor old Uncle John’s persecution.

Guess now he knows how the Jews felt.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Unky Jonky

Photography by N Z De Ked

How many times can someone mindlessly utter two words before they are forced to take a breath and actually think about what they are saying?

Merry Christmas..?

Is it a requirement? With no pronouns it’s difficult to know. So is it a recommendation? The lack of imperatives makes that one tough to swallow as well. What about an inquiry? If so the question would then become, are we asking them if having a Merry Christmas is an acceptable way to spend the year’s final week, or are they asking us?

In fairness to what is possibly the most scintillating cliché the world has ever known, in full the statement should read: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, which in fact does little to shed light on the above query.

Irrespective though, of what part of speech it maintains, I refuse to be a part of such unashamed hackney. Of course there will be those of you who find my inability to follow the leader blindly and without question ignorant thus, I have an alternative…

We’ll see how long this takes to catch on and to perhaps become the new perfunctory Christmas phrase that people around the world find themselves quoting reflexively rather than intentionally, obligatorily rather than wilfully; vacuously rather than thoughtfully.

…I Wish for You All a Splendiferous Christmas and a Gay New Year.

Defiance by Tim Walker

Indignation by Christian Holly-Day

Irascibility by T Grince

It’s been a big week.

After successfully re-establishing my Internet connection in the weekend a hectic Monday ensued before seamlessly merging into a moderately paced Tuesday, where I was then able to reinvigorate at jiu-jitsu class that night.

Alas Wednesday’s trip to town with Grandma sapped me of much of that vigour then Thursday night’s class – last night – despite coming away with the makings of a black eye courtesy of a novice’s flailing elbow and a bloody nose thanks to a veteran’s errant knee, largely re-instilled that zest. Today though, stiff and achy as my body feels and probably, as beaten up as I do appear, I am excited about Saturday.

With a fortnightly plasma donation later this morning, tomorrow is to be my first ever jiu-jitsu grading day. After fewer than twelve months at the sport I don’t expect to make any significant leaps although I am keen to learn how my progress – if at all – is being perceived by those with the vision…

Oh and also, I’ve been spending the week accustoming myself to a new eyewear prescription which, visually, is tantamount to mild inebriation.

…I’ve never in the past done anything jiu-jitsu related on a Saturday, and in fact the reason my apheresis donation day is always Friday is so I am generally free from physical exertion thereafter but yeah, I dunno, we’ll see how it goes; I don’t think anyone will notice my bodily fluids are 750 millilitres depleted.

I’m just glad it’s Friday.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ley King

Photography by Bodie Frueds

The following writing pertains to yesterday’s 22^nd Theory which, if I recall, pertained to reckless tooters.

I took my 86-year-old grandmother into town yesterday on a belated birthday treat, following posting of the above Theory, to purchase some essential items. During our return, having successfully picked up the half metre of matching fabric for her dressing gown, it was while approaching a roundabout in Rolleston that I momentarily confused myself as to which direction I was supposed to be going, messed up my hand placement on the steering wheel then in a flurry of misdirection quickly replaced my hands which, shock horror, resulted in a prolonged blast of the horn.

This mishap wouldn’t have been so serious, only at the time there was another vehicle driving through the roundabout, directly in front of me.

I recall seeing the driver turn his head sharply as I released my apparent stream of audio indignation, I saw his face contort into an expression of guilty confusion; alas my hand misplacement was so severe that I was unable to even raise it apologetically to allay his worries as he passed.

Honestly, I felt like a prick. That man’s woeful countenance will undoubtedly haunt me for months.

Sorry about that, bud.

Article by Tim Walker

Photography by Witter Prick

Edited by Han Misp Lace-Mint