You say goodbye as you stand to leave, you say goodbye as you depart the house, you say goodbye as you board your vehicle…

This week’s theory therefore, obviously, pertains to the idiot compulsion of many, to recklessly activate their car horns, sometimes all the way down the Goddamn street, with flagrant disregard towards homeowners’ desire for neighbourhood peace, after visiting then upon leaving somebody’s residence.

…Why must you say goodbye again as you drive away?

Car horns, technically, are warning devices. They are to be sounded to alert other motorists of danger. Legally, this is the only reason anyone should be sounding their horn.

I witnessed recently a motorist being pulled over by Police for excessive use of car horn, and rightly so, I recall thought/mumbling. If there is no imminent danger; if an idiot motorist is simply leaning on their horn out of frustration because another car pulled out within ten metres of them and snapped them out of their idiot lull, or some other make believe traffic incident, it is my belief they ought to be prosecuted…

There is nothing more unnerving in my opinion, than the sound of an unexpected car horn and while driving, particularly in the city, the one thing I most try to avoid, is unnerving situations. All a blaring horn ever achieves is to make every other driver in the vicinity look around guiltily as they wonder which driver is pissed off, if they are in the wrong and if so, is it even their fault?

…Recidivist road-rage tooters: calm your fiery temperaments and stop being dicks; your noise punishes everyone and in fact, probably least of all the person who has actually wronged you. As for recidivist goodbye tooters – such an act of mindlessness you perhaps aren’t even aware who you are – you also need to cut it out. There is no need for it. Just think. You’ve already said goodbye, probably multiple times; now just stop it.

Crap, my theory.

Alright: my theory is that those who use car horns as anything other than a warning of immediate danger are dicks.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tui Mene Tuce

Photography by Near V Driver

 

It has been revealed, somewhat tragically, that upon his death Jonah Lomu’s financial situation was less than solvent…

This doesn’t surprise me terribly. I recall in the days after his death speaking to my grandmother about this very topic; in fact it was regarding the payouts all Lomu’s hangers-on might now be expecting. I believe I used the quote, “I guarantee, that with all Jonah Lomu’s multimillion dollar endorsements, promotions, sponsorship deals and the like, given the numerous wives and children, also his propensity for frivolous expenditure – word is he bought a Maserati sports car with his first ever paycheque – I guarantee, Grandma, he will be worth one hell of a lot less than people expect.”

…This revelation has come as a shock to many – many who I’m sure were hoping to cash in on Jonah Lomu’s untimely death.

You can’t spend it when you’re dead, eh Lomu..?

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Hannah Orn

Photography by Pi Utt

During the thunderstorm a week ago, there was one particular flash of lightning hence one particular boom of thunder, that was more damaging than the rest.

This lightning, via peripheral vision and through a window, was sufficiently scintillating to have me spinning in shock; the ensuing thunder, even from inside the house, produced greater volume than is surely acceptable in early evening in a residential area.

Suffice to say the electricity supply to my street was immediately cut, following a presumed overloaded system or fried transformer, or something to that effect – not being an electrician I’m hardly qualified to speculate.

When a little under two hours later – also two phone calls to the utility company as they seemed unaware that this small rural Mid Canterbury town was even in existence, let alone experiencing electricity woes – the power was restored, I resumed watching television and thought nothing more of it…

The thunderstorm was over, the grass was wet for the first time in months, and I went to bed feeling more at peace than I had for some time.

…Until the next morning. First thing, as always, I flicked on the computer. I then ducked through to the kitchen to carry out my morning routine. Minutes later I arrived back at the computer, gave a couple of clicks and ducked away again. Moments after that, I returned, gave a few more clicks and again hurried away. A little later I returned with a bowl of porridge, and finally sat down. Placing my breakfast on a tray to my left I was immediately faced with a predicament.

‘Web Page Not Available’ stared back at me. I confusedly clicked through my other pages; same thing. I tried refreshing them; of course this yielded nothing. Only then did it occur to me; glancing across the desk to my modem – displaying three lights rather than four – I uttered one or two obscene words before calling the Telecom – sorry – the Spark help desk, in the Philippines.

I spoke with Filipino Rick who, while having already been made aware of my town’s issue and even being able to inform me that there was no signal leaving the local exchange, first ensured that I had undergone Spark’s classic ‘troubleshooting schedule’ – wherein all devices are turned off for ten seconds then turned on again – a number of times before conceding, a technician would need to be sent to remedy the fault.

That was Monday. Soon after terminating that phone call I received a text message from Spark informing me that a serviceman would be sent to my area ‘between now and 3 p.m.’.

“Alright,” I recall thought/mumbling, “there’s one day lost.”

Next morning my four lights were still only three. I made another phone call to the Philippines. This time I spoke with Filipino Sven. “Have I gone though the troubleshooting schedule?” he wanted to know.

“I have,” I assured him, “several times, in fact” – but as I knew, as they knew, I told Sven, the fault was with the exchange.

Sven took my cellular number, despite my assurances that my Spark cellular telecommunications device struggles for coverage in my area, and told me to await a call from the technician.

That afternoon I received confirmation from Chorus, via my landline, that the issue at the exchange had been sorted. I glanced at my modem; still with three instead of four.

“It doesn’t appear fixed at my end,” I said.

“Well,” replied the technician with a decided South African flavour, “it’s definitely fixed at our end, so it might be your modem that has the problem – have you tried a different modem?”

“No,” I answered with a hint of exasperation, “I’m actually fresh out of spare modems, but hey, if you’re confident that you’ve done your job, I’m confident that I can get it working.”

This was an extremely optimistic approach and I wasn’t terribly surprised when I failed to get anything working that afternoon.

That had been Tuesday. Wednesday, such was my annoyance at the situation, perhaps ignorantly, I didn’t even attempt to rectify my Internet issue in the morning, instead working on writing and editing short stories. Not until the afternoon did I take steps to elicit the text message informing me the problem would be fixed ‘between now and 7 p.m.’.

Thursday morning I was still a light down, so I was back into it. I gave the Philippines a call and spoke to Filipina Vela. She told me the reason I had not been contacted by the technician yesterday was because they did not have a cellular contact number. We spent some time ‘troubleshooting’, before summoning a technician. I received a text message telling me that the problem would be rectified ‘between now and 3 p.m.’.

My landline rang that afternoon to tell me that they had checked the exchange – again – and there was no fault; perhaps the fault was with my modem..?

“Yes,” I explained, “perhaps it is, but the problem with that is that I have no way of testing it…”

The Chorus technician then suggested that I try one of my neighbours’ modems..?

“Yes,” I explained, “that is indeed a possibility but, well, as far as I know, the whole street is experiencing the same issue – I have actually been trying to get one of you guys to drop by and test it for me..?”

The Chorus technician grunted something and was gone.

Friday came; I didn’t need to check to know there were three lights instead of four. I called the Philippines. Evidently Friday is their busiest day; I was on hold for almost two hours before eventually speaking to Filipino Dave. I explained; we troubleshot. I explained further; we troubleshot some more. I became exasperated; I was told a technician would be sent.

“No!” I yelled before he could hang up. “For Christ’s sake, stop sending technicians to the exchange – there is nothing wrong with the exchange!” I took a breath, calmed down and explained again the same point I had been trying to convey for the past three days; “Dave, look, as I keep saying, technicians have been to the exchange and found no issue, so what I need, is a technician to visit me at my address, to check my system … Do you understand me, Dave?”

Dave assured me “a technician would be sent” and hung up the phone before I had a chance to clarify.

Moments later, I received a text message informing me that the problem would be rectified ‘between now and 3 p.m.’. I almost cried. I didn’t though, instead busying myself with writing the beginnings of this article. An hour later my landline rang. It was that South African Chorus dude telling me the exchange was still fixed, and perhaps the problem was with my modem..?

“Yes,” I said, swallowing my frustrations and doing my best to keep sarcasm out of my tone, “I believe it is … The problem I am facing, sir, is locating a technician with the time, or more to the point, the inclination, to come by and confirm that suspicion.”

“Oh, well,” said the South African Chorus dude, “that shouldn’t be a problem, I’m just a few minutes away…”           He confirmed my address and hung up. Ten minutes later he called back, having entered a driveway a few houses down from mine and requiring further guidance.

To my relief he arrived some minutes later. I showed him through to my work area. He plugged in his machine to my modem. He confirmed it was fried, and left.

I then consulted a phonebook for a Spark number that could both assist me and not put me through to the Philippines. My first three attempts failed; each new number ending up in Southeast Asia. I decided to keep clear of 0800 numbers and instead tried going direct. I called a Spark office in Christchurch, which didn’t appear to even bear a relationship to the ‘Spark faults line’, and spoke to Anthea. Never have I been so relieved to hear a Kiwi accent.

I quickly explained what had happened, how I felt like a fool for allowing the problem to go on so long but how it was now rather urgent that I fixed it, and how, given that for so long I had been a ‘loyal’ customer of theirs – momentarily I forgot what to call them – I hoped they could fix me up with a modem which – I didn’t mention per se that I expected it free of charge – looking at the old one, I went on, they didn’t look all that expensive…

“Yes,” Anthea said, “we can courier out a replacement modem … That should arrive in one to three days – longer for rural delivery.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, “that’s great,” still not knowing if she was giving it to me free or if she intended to tack it onto my bill, “but ideally, I’d have it today – is there any way I can come in and pick it up?”

“No, I’m sorry, there’s not – it should be with you Monday – longer for rural delivery.”

“Yeah, Monday, it’s just that, well, I’ve not checked my emails for a week, you know, so I really would like to do it before Monday – do you guys not have a base in Christchurch?”

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t.”

I considered this. “What if, Anthea, you quickly couriered it to your store in the Hub, Hornby, and I pick it up from there?”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s not protocol.”

“Right, so, Monday then.”

 

Next morning, before 8 I hit the road for a long haul cycling excursion; God knows I needed it. Around 2 p.m. I coasted into my local servo and leaned my bike against the wall. I ducked into the Post Box bank and checked my post. Among the envelopes and local papers I was more than a little shocked to see a yellow ‘you’ve got mail’ ticket.

Perspiration still dripping from my face rendering me periodically without vision, I stumbled into the shop and handed over the ticket. The girl handed back a large package, along with a modern-day etch-a-sketch and the requirement of a signature. Struggling with the tiny ersatz pencil, with sweat still proving a baneful excretion, I scrawled something akin to a hatful of spiders, looked up, smiled then just as a line of perspiration trickled over my lips, sprayed my thanks and left.

I couldn’t believe it: firstly that my modem had turned up and secondly, what modems have become – they’re huge now, and they stand up.

By 9 p.m. that Saturday night I had cleared my emails, and basically caught up on what fortunately, turned out to have been a comparatively slow week.

I must apologise for missing my 22nd Theory slot but be assured it’ll be up this Wednesday, as usual.

So thank you Spark – for whom I previously harboured a fair amount of detestation – but thank you moreover to the lovely and mysterious Anthea – towards whom I was previously indifferent – for overseeing an expeditious courier delivery.

Nice one, Spark.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Phil O Peno

Photography by Con Fu John

 

 

Auckland protesters have taken another personal day to complain about the fact that New Zealand’s National Government is not doing enough for its impoverished.

This begs the question: what exactly should John Key and his moderately paid team of Government lackeys be doing – handing out stronger work ethics?

Employment is out there for those who want it; the problem is that many feel they are above stocking supermarket shelves or scrubbing toilet floors at minimum wage but the reality is, it’s paid work and even minimum wage pays better than the dole.

Is it our Prime Minister’s responsibility to then ensure that welfare cheques are reserved for necessities rather than luxuries, or that starving children are nourished before obese cousins?

No, it’s not: the issue here, indeed one would assume the reason these people are bitching and moaning so, is that, as everybody already knows, the cost of living, in Auckland at least, is too high…

It is therefore the incumbent Government’s duty to ensure that inflation – which ironically is controlled largely by the monetary aggregate of hire-purchase, credit card and in general, debt across the nation, of which Auckland’s destitute control a large portion – does not get out of control; of course the reason these people cannot afford to repay said debt relates directly to the fact that they do in fact comprise New Zealand’s impoverished, but then they wouldn’t be so impoverished if the cost of living wasn’t so damned exorbitant in the first place so, you know, I don’t know.

…The logical solution in this case would be to move – to anywhere but Auckland – but for some, for some reason, this is not an option.

Curious given that, in Invercargill at least, houses cost under a quarter of what they do up there, and the supermarkets are always hiring.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Kerr U Lass

Photography by Ach Linder

 

You know that feeling you get when stuff keeps happening and you don’t want it to happen but it happens anyway so then you wish it hadn’t happened?

Yeah, that’s been happening a bit of late.

I’m just glad it’s Friday.

This week’s theory pertains to the question of awareness.

Which is to say, for this, the twenty-first Theory, I hypothesize, if I go for one week without presenting a theory, no one will actually notice.

The page exists, the heading is present, it’s only the Theory itself that is lacking; so will anyone notice?

I theorise not.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pru V Mia-Wong

Photography by Noah Thea Rae

Regular visitors to this site – I’m certain there’s a paradox tied up within those five words – will have noticed my apparent lowering in productivity of late…

Indeed, one would be correct in asserting that my sudden increase from one, two, or three, to six weekly articles without fail, has taken a hit.

…That’s all it is though, an apparent reduction, so get off my case. It’s a bit like saying: ‘Apparently when they built the Leaning Tower of Pisa it was at perfect right angles to the horizon but shit, I mean look at it now, I dunno…’

Actually it’s nothing like that at all but still, please, off my case. I’ve been doing what I do occasionally when not writing/editing/working myself into a ball of stress regarding the ‘Pride Series’ – that’s the cute title I’ve allocated my recent two-but-soon-to-be-three novel sequence. (I use the term ‘recent’ because, believe it or don’t, I’ve been in this position before, with other novel sequences I mean, just that they were never as good as I believe my ‘Pride Series’ to be; nor had they been allocated such a cute collective title.)

In fact I’ve been trying to write short stories.

I used to be good at short stories – says me – then I started writing novels and became all full of myself with arrogance and conceit and delusions of how transcendent my own writing ability was…

What I find most comical about the above sentence is how, in one brief line I’ve managed to perfectly depict Brian Griffon of Family Guy.

…In truth that never happened; probably I made people uncomfortable in the early days with claims of having written the greatest novel the world had ever seen in Shapeshifter – my third attempt – which was only really half true because while I still believe it to be a reasonable novel, in reality the world will likely never see Shapeshifter at all.

Now and again, through the email of a writers’ group I once attended, I come upon an entry into an official short story competition and in fairness, the prize money is usually pretty appealing. The problem is that every other entry I’ve put forward has been either a rapidly adjusted excerpt from some other, decidedly longer story, or if I do write it especially, it’s generally thrown together so quickly that I never hold out much hope of doing any good…

The issue here that I seem to forget is while I consider my own abilities brilliant, most other applicants will be equally passionate, more experienced, better educated, more highly skilled thus better writers than I am.

…Therefore I’m never terribly surprised when I don’t.

Given my current abundance of free time though, fried brain notwithstanding, I decided to put a little effort into this one; the theme ‘A Convincing Lie’ I feel could have been better selected but no, I’m going to give it a nudge anyway.

So that’s what I’ve been doing, I’ve already written one, I feel it was pretty good, I’m going for a second, it’s been hellish, I’ve just been through a classic springtime cold, my brain feels numb, but you know me, that’s how I roll.

Shit I’m just glad it’s Friday.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Shaz Torey

Photography by Lemme Lone

 

 

 

 

Holding the position of Leader of the Opposition for more than six months seems to have done to Andrew Little what it did to Phil Goff all those years ago.

His desire to elevate and distinguish the Labour party from rivals National, is seeing frequent displays of blind and often illogical dissention, then sometimes, in order to promote and embellish his point, outright lying…

For the record, I omitted David Cunliffe from the paragraph one example because it didn’t take six months in power, Cunfille was always a twat.

…As mentioned in past posts, regarding the youth of New Zealand, Andrew Little’s claims that he has ‘spoken to’ or ‘heard from’ and ‘understands the position of’ after ‘having a sit-down with’, can only be, patently untrue.

I make the aforementioned judgement unequivocally because I happen to know that the majority of ‘New Zealand’s younger generation’ as he affectionately calls them – as though they’re his buddies – dislike the man; the likelihood then of Mr Little ‘sitting alongside’, ‘talking out the issues’, and ‘having a heart-to-heart with’ his beloved ‘younger generation’ (implying many rather than few), ranks on a similar level to Colin Craig spending a sunny afternoon chatting about tablecloth crochet with Black Power.

Andrew Little, in the beginning, much as I wanted to dislike the man, was reasonably likeable; now though, similar to Phil Goff shortly after he came to power, he tries so very hard to condemn his rivals that he ends up coming off desperate and, heaven forbid, needy.

Little recently mocked John Key for admitting that New Zealand did in fact have a number of ‘terror suspects under 24 hour surveillance’; Mr Little maintained that our Prime Minister was ‘scaremongering’ and that this ‘must have been false’ because, regarding New Zealand’s terror alert, as far as he was aware ‘nothing has changed’…

Just quietly, because I am aware of how easily people are offended by this topic and how despite it now being a part of world history I realise that to use it in an example or any kind of comparison might be seen by those who are given to affront as disrespectful but here we go anyway, I wonder how much ‘changed’ in the US on September 7^th, 8^th, 9^th, and 10^th..?

…My point, sir, being Leader of the Opposition party is all well and good and yes, you will have to act like a child with poop in your pants once in a while but come on man, surely, it is not your job to disparage everything that your rival says and does – how are you supposed to know even half the facts about National Security when you’re not in power, anyway?

Come on Andrew Little, you can’t be a piss-ant all your life.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tahrea A Tuck

Photography by N E Thyme

 

Driving through town during a recent ‘Christchurch rush hour’, the scene I witnessed was more than enough to eliminate the final skerrick of doubt from a theory that I have been promoting now for some time.

Given that this evidence was not gleaned under official circumstances however, or indeed, through the proper channels thus with correct allowance of unforeseen variables also an objectively comparable constant and all those other pointless statistician-related factors such as a formal study having to involve an overpaid horde of impassive lab-coats or it cannot be considered a study at all, the only thing the aforementioned findings will likely be good for is packing out the next few pages with this lot: the twentieth half-arsed Theory to date.

As so often I seem to do, having neglected to allow the additional quarter hour for an en route fuel stop, I was running perilously close to being late for jiu-jitsu class; then with a half tank of high-octane fuel and a right foot that seemed to have increased in heft by a factor of seven, pulling out with reckless proximity to an oncoming vehicle then reaching an aurally pleasing 6750 rpm in an effort to not antagonise the driver in my rear view, I rejoined the eastward-heading queue of traffic.

Mindful of the 80 kph limit through Rolleston and mindful furthermore that I was at risk of breaching 90, I released acceleration and was overjoyed to burst through the first set of lights after two seconds of orange. This joy was short-lived as, braking heavily, the second set of lights placed one hundred metres after the first, which just happen to change in concurrence with the first, was already red.

It’s fine. Typically nervy and anxious as I admittedly am, I’m not the kind of person to believe there is something to be gained from winding oneself up over languid traffic lights, or even over that ironic force that ensures they’re always the wrong colour, particularly when one has good reason to need them to be the right colour.

It’s odd but some evenings when I’ve headed into town I’ve managed to catch all but two of a possible eight lights; these are ordinarily the occasions when I have time to spare. I’ve already missed one light and, glancing at my watch, time is decidedly not on my side.

Back into it, the drive to Templeton is uneventful. The inexorable snake motors sedately through Templeton’s residential area then cruises right through to the Halswell Junction traffic lights, southwest of Hornby. The line of traffic preceding my car is now immense; around eight cars rest between the lights and me. I glance at my watch. The lights turn green. Far ahead of me I watch the first car move off. I watch the second car do the same. I watch the third car move. The fourth car goes then the fifth and the sixth, and only now do I start moving. The Halswell Junction lights return to red and there’s still one car in front of me.

Eventually we make it into Hornby; I catch the first light but of course, miss the next. The queue before me now is longer than I’ve seen at this Carmen Road intersection. I see the light go green then what seems like five seconds later back to red. Five seconds after that I move up. The light turns green again, and again, it’s back to red before I’ve moved.

Finally I’m through and ambling towards the next one. I approach the Springs Road corner at exactly 60 kph and, holding my breath, willing the light to stay green, breeze through. Onto and around the Sockburn roundabout, as I indicate onto Blenheim Road I check my watch again. “I’m doing alright,” I recall thought/mumbling, “if I can catch Curletts Road I should be good.”

When the Curletts Road lights come into view, to my immense chagrin they’re already green. At this point I’m five hundred metres back with a virtually solid line of cars between the intersection and me; historically if the lights are green when I first sight them, I can be damn sure they’ll be red by the time I reach them.

The traffic seems to be still picking up speed leading to my deduction that the lights have just turned. I stare intently at those Curletts Road traffic lights, as if doing so will hold them in place, and release acceleration; at 45 kph falling in behind the middle line of cars. At this point I’m driving with peripherals, still staring at the green traffic light, expecting it will change at any instant, willing the car in front of me to go faster, expecting the lights to change but pleading they don’t, knowing if we stop here it’ll be another five minutes before we’re moving again, only a hundred metres off now, beginning to feel the elation building inside me, thinking I’m going to make it, thinking that now even if it goes orange I’ll make it through until finally, I am through, and on a green light too.

I check my watch; I reckon I can still make it. I glance in the rear view; over five seconds after passing Curletts Road the lights have finally changed. I can now see my turn-off in the distance; I can see Annex Road. I’m not at all surprised to see the Hanson Lane lights have tripped us up; the Hanson Lane lights have a habit of doing that. I’m not perturbed. They’ll change quickly enough.

Sure enough they’re soon green, I can see cars moving but, on account of the massive queue ahead of me, I’m not. The lights go red. I feel frustration building inside me; now I’m pissed off. If people only moved the instant they could, I’d be through by now.

When I do get through and veer right, in the direction of the green traffic arrow of Annex Road, again, my attempts at a speedy passage are thwarted; there has been a queue of five or six cars waiting to turn down Annex Road but once they have been awarded their arrow, they’ve each taken a half to an entire second to react, meaning that by the time I arrive, the final car has only just begun plodding around the corner…

This week’s theory therefore, relates directly to traffic congestion. If every car moved as soon as they were able then made an effort to travel at the limit – no, not ten Ks over, at the limit – there would be no, or at least hugely reduced, traffic congestion. Think of it: ten cars at a red light, light goes green, first driver takes at least half a second to get moving, the car behind him takes another extended half second, the car behind him another until the eleventh car is waiting stationary for well over five seconds after the light has gone green. The problem as I see it, many people lack the necessary skills of focus and anticipation while driving – I see it at roundabouts all the time where, realistically, if a driver is looking ahead and their approach is properly timed, within reason, there should be no need to ever even stop – it bothers me that these people cannot seem to remain adequately tuned in to their surroundings where, instead of waiting for the car ahead of them to move then delaying their own movements by an additional half second, they could be moving with the preceding vehicle. It’s not dangerous, it’s practical; I’m not about promoting hectic driving habits, simply efficient ones.

…For the record by the time I pulled into the Axis carpark, I was terribly late – only three minutes, yes, but then in my opinion, any late is ‘terribly’ late.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Anne Tisha Pate

Photography by Terry Bleu-Lute

Regarding Prime Minister John Key’s remarks – “…if Labour want to support rapists and murderers…” – leader of the Opposition, Andrew Little is now claiming, “…I’ve spoken to New Zealand’s younger generation and they’ve had enough – they won’t stand for these kinds of remarks…”…

            I always thought that in order for a politician to say that something happened, in the spirit of duelling surely, it needs to have actually happened.

…I mean, I’m not calling Andrew Little a dirty rotten liar per se, but there is no way New Zealand’s younger generation said a thing like that; I am sufficiently familiar with our younger generation to know that while they might well have ‘had enough’ of politics in general in this country, there is absolutely zero chance they were quite so aghast as those idiot politicians are trying to make the public believe they were by our Prime Minister’s adlib candour.

Shit I doubt New Zealand’s younger generation would even take the time to speak to a piss-ant like Mr Little, let alone join in the derision of his number one adversary.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Skell A Ross

Photography by Keer Full Jonky