In my ongoing quest to be the finest version of me that I can be, I have always put a great deal of pressure on myself.

According to many I put too much pressure on myself; according to others just enough to be considered adequate.

Here’s the thing about that: as much pressure as I do apply; much as I am never satisfied with my own efforts unless the results reach towards the upper echelons of greatness, and as much as I am happy to do that, fair to say it is probably killing me before my time.

It would’ve been fine, I mean I’m sure I would have been free to exert as much load on my tenuous frame and eccentric mind as I wished had I reached the age of 18 as a fit, healthy and able bodied young man; alas odds of that nature over the years have seldom gone my way.

Here I now sit as a 32-year-old, middle-aged, permanently brain-damaged, increasingly idiosyncratic man whose mind – aside from those first couple of hours in the morning, also throughout and for a few hours after exercise – constantly feels about as congested as it would under the influence of a ripping great head-cold.

Suffice to say following the early morning flourish along with the odd burst during the course, much of the day is spent with eyes closed simply, convalescing which when you think about it, is pretty lame.

I do often wonder, had things turned out differently how my ability to maintain would be currently situated; I wonder, while on account of an overactive thyroid/adrenal gland my levels of physical energy are generally nearing overflow, if my mental energy would have come with something close to the same description or if, perhaps by comparison I was always destined to have an insipid mind..?

I’m just glad it’s Friday.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Min Till Vaggar

Photography by N Scippid-Mend

After an onslaught of damning evidence against him the Chris Cairns defence team has finally called its first, and only, witness.

It was Chris Cairns himself, which must have been a bit worrying…

Mr Cairns is now, obviously under oath, being forced to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about whether he lied in the past, thus perjured himself, in the ultimate question of deception, regarding the match-fixing in which so many have claimed he was indeed complicit.

…Yet some who testified against Chris Cairns in this ongoing perjury trial are already implicated in the cargo net of deceit making their veracity, in my opinion, questionable; if movies have taught me anything it’s that a man with little to lose can be made to say almost anything against anyone.

This is undoubtedly the Defence’s angle and you know, I think they’re right. If Cairns continues to outright deny any association with match-fixing, then hearsay and conjecture notwithstanding, the Prosecution can’t prove a damn thing against him.

On the topic of outright guilty denial one just needs look at the likes of Lance Armstrong, or Oscar Pistorious, and see how well they’re doing.

Yeah, that’s it Chris: you’re already well past the point of no return so just, deny, deny, deny, you filthy rotten liar.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Ria Torn

Photography by Prack Tussed Lier

Amazing how critical judgement, in 21^st century New Zealand at least, seems to relate less to whatever shortcoming for which the judgement is being made and more, to the background or current social positioning of the person being judged.

This week’s theory therefore, pertains to the fact that this typically, guilty-until-proven-innocent nation of ours, tends to base its assessments of our peers on reputation of character, rather than sincerity of soul.

The aforementioned popularity contest, as I see it is a ridiculous and totally erroneous way of gauging a person’s genuine goodness or indeed, their likeability, but is likely the reason that so much irrational and unjust condemnation exists within New Zealand…

It ought to be noted, for the record, I am no different. Like most Generation Xers (although technically I’m three years short – 1960 to ’80 – my usual cohort was quintessentially Gen X) that’s how I was raised, schooled and ultimately, how I was taught to be. In recent years though, given how much unfair judgements and particularly, double-standards have irked me then upon realising that in fact I am little better than those people I’d grown to detest, I have endeavoured to make some amendments regarding the way I perceive the world and its people therein.

…Schoolyard judgement is one thing; cruel as it can be for some while other ostensibly similar parties are blindly revered based solely on their living situations or who their parents are, from experience, and many will surely disagree, is largely a character-building experience and in most cases I think not entirely detrimental.

It’s in later life when those idiot prepubescents are supposed to have developed some level of maturity but still carry on as though the more booze they can sink at the pub while raving about how much more of their lives they intend to waste before doing something productive then ejaculating further torrents of verbal bullshit about nothing in particular and obviously the more slovenly they can look while doing this the more respected they will be among their peers…

Just to be clear, male orientated as the above ordeal might sound, this example does definitely include women.

…These are the kinds of small-minded Generation Xers who, I believe are, perhaps partially maybe wholly, responsible for leading the world, or at least the nation, down its shadowy path of unfair judgement, double standard and essentially, negativity.

I mentioned it in a past post – one of the Maturity pieces I think – ‘…without self assessment there is no way a person can hope to improve themselves.’

This 21^st century New Zealand, this 21^st century world, I think, I believe, I hypothesize, has become so highly critical of one another based on factors that often cannot be shifted that given time, should we neglect to amend our ways, my theory states that New Zealand’s –  that planet Earth’s – people as a whole will become a very bitter people indeed.

Take a step back and look at how we’re treating each other.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Jen X/ Poppy L A Shinn

Photography by Judge Mint L Whirl

I cannot work out what such a large percentage of New Zealanders have against current All Black, Sonny Bill Williams.

Far as I can see the guy is an absolute paragon of physicality and ultimately, is one hell of a nice guy…

I understand that many consider the proud way he carries himself or the strong North Island dialect with which he articulates himself to be a show of conceit, even arrogance; I understand furthermore that many slow, lazy, overweight, under-inspired, undisciplined, undedicated and indeed slothful Kiwis find Mr Williams’ boundless enthusiasm for maintaining excellence, basically, invidious.

…I truly believe that any New Zealand citizen – and there are many – who takes delight in ragging on Sonny Bill Williams, does so shamefully and, there is no other explanation for it, out of resentment.

Mr Williams was called into Australia’s NRL as a teenager – a feat which not just the typical Kiwi kid can achieve. From there, where most other NRL stars were out drinking to excess, causing controversy and making headlines for reasons that would only bring shame to their parents, Sonny Bill had already abstained from alcohol along with any other kind of drug and, adhering to his rigorous diet to ensure optimum function and body development, from that young age had already proved that he possessed more maturity and basic sense than half the NRL players combined.

The fact that…

To me who remembers Sonny Bill Williams’ entry to the NRL, similar to Benji Marshall, when I was about 30 it felt like he must’ve already been in the competition 20 years and would have been well into his 30s, even though –

…A shade over ten years into his Rugby League career he decided he wanted a change – a challenge – should scarcely be considered anything out of the ordinary; in fact most people are beginning to tire of their career at the ten year stage, so in Mr Williams’ case what does he do?

Well, instead of going off the rails; instead of becoming alcoholic or ruining his life and career in some other way, simply, he switches codes.

Just why that pissed people off the way it did is again beyond me, although I can only assume it relates to my earlier reasoning with that ‘in’ word which some of you will probably want to check on; one can imagine then how his fleeting attempt at establishing a boxing career went down among the austere pit of judgement that is the New Zealand public…

In fairness though Sonny Bill Williams is well over six feet tall so, well, as poppies go, you know.

…So he wasn’t immediately a world class boxer, shit he still showed more balls than most of you pussies would.

I like Sonny Bill Williams. I always have. I always thought he was a genuinely good man and it pissed me off the way everyone seemed to rag on him, saying things like, “Oh, he’s so full of himself, like, the way he does his hair and that…” or, “Who calls themselves ‘Sonny Bill’ anyway?” or, “Oh yeah, he’s got it so easy, look at the way he struts around like he’s all that…” or even, “Oh nah, I can’t stand guys like that, oh yeah, he’s just one of those guys who just has everything fall in their laps”…

Bullshit. That man has worked hard for everything he has and to be everything that he currently is. He is a marvellous role-model for our younger generation and I would sure as hell rather my primary-school-age nephews were emulating Sonny Bill Williams than some of the other fat, lazy, drug-addled celebrities out there.

Lay off him, the man is a god.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Watty Mann

Photography by Jella Smuch

Select groups seem still to be invested in the fallacy that ingesting fats makes a person fat.

Seems to me about as preposterous as deciding that I’m going to take up chewing horse-tails, based on the supposition that ingesting animal hair will cause my own hairline to grow back.

That was the logic that the medical profession used to push – that animal fats and by implication all fats are what make human bodies fat – trying to scare us out of enjoying one of the most vital and indeed flavourful food groups there is; then all that suddenly changed.

For a long time natural health experts had known that fat was not to be avoided and in fact if anything, it was to be celebrated but of course, few people in the medical profession ever pay much attention to natural health – they’d much rather fix an issue with harsh manmade drugs causing all manner of side effect thereby aggravating and often prolonging the issue, than to simply ask nature for a solution – rendering exposure of this truth somewhat of a non-event.

Then finally the medical profession caught up – kind of. Short of admitting they were wrong in their outright vilification of fats, they conceded that some fats were OK. Saturated fats – animal fats and the like – according to these guys were still to be condemned on account of their purported connection with cholesterol but natural fats – found in nuts, avocados etc – could be eaten largely without guilt.

In light of this the contemptible party ceased being fat, which in fact is easily metabolised by the body, and instead became sugar which, as natural health practitioners have always known, if not properly metabolised becomes fat under a person’s skin.

Alas the medical profession, in all its wisdom and hefty salaries, were still only halfway to the ultimate truth.

This convenient ignorance was showcased the other night in the form of medical-profession-orientated nutritional advice: “Popular as coconut oil has become among consumers,” one of the aforementioned lab-coats asserted, “what these people fail to understand, is that although coconut is technically a nut, coconut oil contains a high level of saturated fat, and should therefore be avoided … When cooking, don’t use coconut oil, try substituting with Canola, or Vegetable oil…”

Remarkable stuff; these so called professional health experts are unwittingly handing down advice that, as most natural health advocates will be quite aware, is potentially fatal.

Just as those ‘professional health experts’ are only now concluding that processed and smoked meats are potentially cancer causing – knowledge that every naturopath will surely have gleaned as children – I do wonder how long it will take New Zealand’s medical profession to learn that heated oils are also cancerous.

Butter or, yes, coconut oil – which despite the name is not technically an oil at all – would be a much healthier alternative.

As for cholesterol: if you have it you have it if you don’t you don’t, is generally the rule. Cholesterol is an inherited condition essentially, originating from a combination of excess and sloth. Moderate quantities of saturated fats are not to blame, moderate quantities of eggs are definitely not to blame; immoderate quantities of indolence – along with a dysfunctional pancreas – likely has a lot to do with it.

Don’t believe everything your GP tells you and certainly, do not allow New Zealand’s band of blinkered medical ‘geniuses’ to misinform you any more than they already have.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Dr Dufus

Photography by Coco Nartoll Saul-Good

All Saints’ Day is – sorry, All Hallow Even – sorry, Hallowe’en – sorry, wrong again, this time, Halloween, is upon us.

This, the one night a year where children are not just allowed to canvass neighbourhood streets after dark knocking on strangers’ doors in the hope of obtaining sugary treats, it’s encouraged.

This, the one night a year where the phrase ‘Trick or Treat’ is quoted repetitively and indeed mindlessly, as few are actually prepared should the ‘Treat’ be refused and the ‘Trick’ option be thrown back at them.

This, the one night a year where teeth are rotted while hypocrisy rules, this is Halloween.

Enjoy it.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by S L Uti-Witch

Photography by Sal Lutty Punking

To many All Black fans tomorrow’s Rugby World Cup final will be the biggest game on record and according to the TAB at least, it’s gonna be tight.

My opinion: that New Zealand will take it over Australia is a given; by how much is the question…

For a number of players tomorrow morning is to be their final All Black match ever; after that the only place the names Conrad Smith, Ma’a Nonu, Ritchie McCaw, and Dan Carter will be recognisable in the sport of rugby union, is in the memories of us aged supporters.

…With New Zealand paying $1.35 to Australia’s $3.00, obviously, head to head isn’t where the money is to be made; New Zealand have to take it by 13…

I was just 19 years’ old when a youthful Ritche McCaw first took to the field for Canterbury as an inexperienced 23-year-old; as I recall that was around the same era rugby commentators delivered an almost mocking reception to an unwelcome newcomer of that very same Canterbury side, at the time trying to usurp Andrew Mehrtens’ number 10 jersey, by the name Daniel Carter.

…If not 13 though, I would like to see either a draw at 40 or 80 minutes (which one is really up to you although 80 does pay better), no tries scored in the game, and/or a New Zealand drop goal as the final scoring play.

I believe Conrad Smith to be one of the finest players to wear the All Black jersey; he’s right up there with the class and reliability of Leon MacDonald and will be missed terribly. Honestly, although I’m sure many consider him an asset, I never had much time for Ma’a Nonu. His ill discipline – which admittedly has improved with maturity – and overall uncontrolled style of play, I reckon used to cause me as much stress as a spectator as it did the opposition’s defensive line; nevertheless, his absence will leave a hole.

Tomorrow morning’s game will be a spectacle for all those reasons and surely a great many more.

Go the AB’s.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cham P Inn

Photography by Feer Wall

You know that feeling you get when your mind is packed so full of pointless notions and silly ideas that, perhaps ironically, little content can actually reach the fore?

No..? Well, it’s been happening to me a lot of late; so much so in fact that my typically infallible memory has been lapsing resulting in mental disarray causing my, ordinarily worrisome but never overly troubling, levels of anxiety to reach uncomfortable new heights.

Understandably from a third person perspective, at this point one could easily make some kind of boorish and wholly unfeeling assertion such as, ‘Oh yeah, sure, you have anxiety issues, like, what do you even do that could make you anxious?’

To which I would offer casual response in the vicinity of, ‘Dude, seriously..? Shit I’m sorry, I wasn’t even aware we were competing … In fairness though it probably has more to do with what I don’t do than what I do actually do.’

They, being the ignorant wonders they are would likely get right to the point: ‘Yeah alright then, tell us, what don’t ya do – I mean from where I’m standing you’ve got it pretty good – you’ve got this sweet brainpower so you can like totally churn out your novels in just over a month and like, you don’t have to worry about where you live and that ‘cause like, you’ve already got a house and that and like, you haven’t even got a wife or a girlfriend so you can pretty much do as you please and there’s no one to nag at ya all day and tell you what to do and that, and like, you can pretty much go out on your bike all day like you do and like you’ve got that jiu-jitsu thing you do and I’m pretty sure most WAGs wouldn’t stand for that and -’

Detecting a propensity for run-on sentences I imagine at this point I would jump in and lest the speaker go all day, quickly offer some affirmation, ‘You know, you’re right … The way you tell it there should be no reason for me to feel stress, anxiety, or in fact anything in the least mentally bothersome – just like the way Kurt Cobain or indeed, any multimillionaire rock star should have no reason to feel depressed.’

‘…Oh yeah, and you’ve got a drum kit in the middle of your lounge,’ they might continue as if they never stopped, ‘I mean how many people can say that?’

‘Yes,’ I might go on, amid this hypothetical intervention, ‘I see your point, but as I was saying, I believe the reason for my chronic recurring anxiety has more to do with what I don’t have, or perhaps what I’ve lost.’

At this stage I imagine this third person might look at me, an expression of bemusement at their brow, as they assess the figure before them: ‘Are you serious?’ they might ask, ‘look at yourself,’ they might say, ‘geez,’ they might stumble as real words evade them, ‘shit,’ they might go forth stumbling across that barren intellectual wasteland that is monosyllabic cuss words, ‘just,’ their face might then contort as again the inability to articulate original thoughts strikes them down, ‘I dunno,’ laying the foundation for an onslaught of hackney, ‘just pull your head in or something…’

I’m just glad it’s Friday.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ann Zie Tay

Photography by Faw Gat Folniss

Hornby fast food outlet, Wendy’s, has made a formal application to serve alcoholic beverages with meals.

Unsurprisingly this has outraged a great many public groups; especially those who like to think they know people better than people know themselves.

Riccarton Wigram Community Board chair, Mike Mora, was reported to say: “I haven’t spoken to one person who thinks this is a good idea – in fact everyone is absolutely appalled.” Christchurch’s Salvation Army is also concerned about the possible implications, along with Deputy Mayor Vicki Buck, claiming a fast food restaurant requesting a liquor licence is “a bit weird”.

In their defence though Wendy’s chief executive Danielle Lendich fired back saying the company simply wanted to give guests the opportunity to enjoy a beer with their burger, and it was a way for Wendy’s to “up its game”, which, personally, makes perfect sense.

Look at the New Zealand law surrounding sale of liquor on a public holiday, for example, which maintains the single criterion that in order for an establishment to serve booze on the aforementioned days they must be classified as a ‘restaurant’; thus must serve food.

Obviously Wendy’s does serve food. It is now asking for a licence to serve booze between the hours of 8 a.m. and 11 p.m. – hardly classic binging hours.

It frustrates me that city officials are seemingly of the impression that the public require their constant influence, as though people across New Zealand are not capable of thinking for, or more to the point taking care of, themselves.

Afford Wendy’s Hornby a liquor licence and see what happens – a sudden increase in alcohol-induced workplace injury or pre 9 a.m. traffic incidents; or teenage drunkenness on what will surely be horrifically overpriced bottles of beer?

Not likely.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Boo Sin-Burger

Photography by Wendy Yum

It was while having a, comparatively coordinated, slap on my drums that the other day I was struck with a thought.

This thought, or theory if you will, related, or pertained if you like, to the number of existing drum beats in the world, versus the potential number of drum beats in the world; because logically, it is a finite number.

Sticking with rock music – really the only remaining genre with proper drum beats anyway – a basic drum kit comprises one bass drum, three toms, one snare, and two or three cymbals, including the hi-hat, crash, and the splash cymbals.

That’s seven or eight music-making components within a basic kit; let’s say it’s seven. Now, using a standard, four-beat chord, given that 4 by 7 by 7 is 196, if you were the most boring drummer in the world who only ever beat one of seven drums four times within each chord, there would be a maximum of 196 different beats that you could create.

If however, you were a typical drummer who thrived on making the most creative, mind-blowing beats imaginable, you might wish to introduce into your standard four-beat chord the odd half-beat, drum-roll or, and this is getting pretty technical – particularly for the most boring drummer in the world – a sound overlap or audio-amalgamation, where drums are struck more or less concurrently to produce a blended, or elongated sound.

This kind of irregularity makes my arithmetic suddenly very difficult as timing now becomes a factor; for example, that standard seven component drum kit playing that standard four-beat chord – 4 by 7 by 7 – now becomes 4 by 7 by 7 by as many as 16 (I’m not going to explain that one; you’ll just have to trust me).

Nevertheless that still equals a finite number; a big finite number (and I actually think I should’ve gone 4 by 7 by 7 by 16 then by 16 again, which would have made an even bigger number and anyway, given that I don’t have a calculating device handy hence am doing all this arithmetic in my head as I sit writing this, perhaps you shouldn’t have trusted me after all and instead should have pushed for that explanation) yes, but still a finite number.

That’s the point; that’s the theory. In this world of rock music there in fact is, or are, a finite number of potential drum beats. While I am certain that that number has yet to be reached – it is pretty big after all – I am just as certain that drum beat plagiarism does already exist in the world of rock music.

Curious then that I can claim to have developed, or created – on my standard seven component drum kit no less – as many as five original drum beats.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Fie Knight

Photography by Audie O Beet