I often find myself considering the consequences of a world overrun with technology.

There is no doubt that scientists will continue to develop their understanding of all things digital transmission, harnessing that ability to utilise open space to our benefit by cramming it with digital signals until, well, until our breath begins to take on a horrid metallic aftertaste or something.

Seriously, technology has gone forward in the last ten years with more alacrity than I think it had in the fifty years prior to that, and while I might foresee no end to this brutish technology juggernaut, fair to say that when it comes to the advent of digitally enhanced progress, I have never foreseen much of anything anyway, so, yeah.

There have been a number of movies and other highly imaginative, thought-provoking productions created where technology – specifically robots/androids intended to benefit the human marathon – have been constructed with such highly functioning ersatz minds that they soon develop the ability to think, therefore learn, for themselves and subsequently, start vying for domination over their soft-fleshed counterparts.

At first whisper it sounds far out, incredible; unbelievable even – but how far off is it really?

Seems to me that those people paid to develop and push technology as far as it can go are already most of the way there; they have already created devices so very lifelike that people (the soft-fleshed kind) struggle to distinguish their thought-processes from those of an actual (soft-fleshed) human…

So how much longer do you realistically think it will be before there are manmade creations (not the soft-fleshed kind though) walking among us (the soft-fleshed people)?

…Hang about; how do we know there’s not already?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tak Nolo Gee

Photography by Wyatt A Monnet

Shamefully, ruefully, regrettably, it’s official: New Zealand’s propensity for self-obsession is costing it.

The self-directed camera shot, or ‘selfie’, according to the Collins International Word Bank, became a legitimate thing towards the end of last decade and since then, the desire to photograph oneself, with or without accompanying cohort, has become compelling to the point of insanity.

Insane perhaps, yet the lengths to which these people will go to capture their selfies is not just mad anymore, it has become downright burdensome; the reported ACC cost of selfie related injury has surpassed $900 thousand and at a loss of twelve lives…

I’ve said it before and by God I’ll say it again: people are dicks. Honestly, some of these idiots have been known to take massive risks – free-climbing buildings, towers, or reaching other great heights just to photograph themselves then post it online, and for what – to gain popularity on Facebook – for other like-minded idiots to swoop in and offer their affirmation – so the rest of the world can share in your overt narcissism – so you can feel good about yourself..?

…Come on, for Christ’s sake, shit man, this inane pastime, this idiotic plea for recognition is more bloody deadly than shark attacks; yet being ravaged by a shark is something over which we largely don’t have control.

Understandably should a selfie related calamity befall any one of the aforementioned idiots, well, you can be damned sure that Accident Compensation would be among the first Corporation to receive an update and of course be expected to provide support.

Carrying out an reckless act for the sole purpose of photographing yourself in the hope that it will afford you up to fifteen minutes of fame is tantamount to waking up one morning and discharging a 12 gauge into your stomach then quickly snapping a pic of the results; it’s ill-planned, it’s impulsive, stupid and deadly, but then I guess, a large part of ACC’s support plan has to be looking out for the nation’s idiots.

New Zealand, seriously, take a decent look at yourself and for once, not though the lens of a bloody smartphone camera.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sal Fe Stack

Photography by Lou D Chryst

Come a particular Sunday in the month of October, each year petrol heads across the world strap themselves in for Australia’s biggest day of motor racing – the Great Race.

For about as long as I can remember in my household Bathurst has always graced the television screen; I remember it so well because it was the only day of the year when Three News had to battle to maintain its timeslot.

With the duration of the Great Race spanning practically an entire working day, understandably many less dedicated people choose to create their own virtual highlight reel: watching the beginning of the race, along with the first few laps; the end of the race, along with the last few laps; with a few periodic updates thrown in along the way.

Since having my own place thus total control of the television, from as far back as 2004, I have fond memories of dedicating this entire Sunday to the Great Race; in the early days, despite the race itself not being underway until 1 p.m., I recall flicking on the TV at 10 and catching all the preliminary racing hype…

Three years ago I did just that. Two years ago, around 11 a.m. I flicked on 55 inches of Sony Bravia LCD (first of its size to go on sale in New Zealand, now over five years old, possibly outdated but still awesome), and watched in delight as the Porsches, the Formula Fords, the Suzuki Swifts and all the other classes of racecar flew around the famous Mount Panorama racetrack at Bathurst. I recall seeing the spectators, seeing all the the enthusiasts; seeing those who only saw the race between foraging for cans of beer amid the depths of their Eskis, and those who appeared too drunk to see much of anything. I saw Bathurst. I saw the sensational television coverage, I saw so many different camera angles and viewpoints; I saw the camera-equipped helicopter all day flying up and down Conrod Straight just to secure that birds’ eye vantage point. I saw Bathurst.

…Suffice to say, two years ago, the Great Race was a reasonably big day on my calendar.

One year ago I flicked on the TV at 10 with Bathurst preliminaries in mind, to see some cheesy daytime television show. On consulting my television page I saw that someone had made a terrible mistake. What were the television editors at Sunday News doing, I asked myself, with that uneasy feeling of foreboding collecting at the base of my neck. One year ago I knew something was wrong. Perhaps they were just not screening Bathurst this year until the main race..? But why, I wondered; that wouldn’t be very fair on the Suzuki Swift supporters. This wasn’t right, something was up; where was the racing – where was Bathurst?

Finally I realised what I realised I had known all along. Bathurst is no longer a free-to-air production. One year ago, on that realisation, I vomited in my mouth just a little bit.

Speaking to my father later that evening one year ago I was surprised to find him similarly bemused; he after all, pays for the honour of viewing television. He asked me, “Where was Bathurst today?”

I responded, “I think it was in Australia, think it’ll be there tomorrow, too.”

“Don’t be a smart-arse,” he said, one year ago, “I mean why wasn’t it on TV?”

“That’s a good point,” I said, “I would’ve expected it would have been a part of your deluxe programming…”

“Well I couldn’t find it,” he concluded in disbelief.

This year, having clean forgotten about last year’s debacle, I was again excited about Bathurst. Having bought my paper containing the TV page then checking the TV page, the memories of last year’s horror show came flooding in. I recall thought/mumbling several profane utterances before having a half-arsed slap on my drums then stomping dejectedly outside.

I came back in minutes later to fetch my (Holden Racing Team) bucket hat and saw the paper where I had left it. I wonder where Bathurst is screening, I thought to myself, riffling through pages of All Black support until finally coming upon one Bathurst-dedicated page. Scott McLaughlin was taking readers through the Mount Panorama racetrack which, fetching my glasses and taking a seat, I read with some interest. Minutes later, feeling as though I could have driven that track just as well as he did, I remembered what I was originally seeking.

Sure enough, in small print at the bottom of that page were the words, ‘Coverage on Sky Sport 4 from Noon’.

Sky Sport 4? Shit I had no idea there was even a Sky Sport 3.

As per last year, guess I’ll be catching the Bathurst highlights on Three News tonight.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pete L Vision

Photography by Beth Hurst

I have had just about enough of these idiot rugby fanatics who claim to be able to gauge the All Blacks’ future performance based on a few recent games against decidedly weaker teams.

“Oh, nah, we’re not playin’ good enough, eh,” I have heard, “nah, we shoulda put eighty points on Nam – on Nami – on Nabimia…”

”Oh yeah,” was another, “shit at this rate they’ll get knocked out by ‘stralia in the quarters…”

“Nah man, we’re not as good as last time eh,” was the last opinion I bothered retaining, “last time’s team was so much better than this one…”

Stop it right there. I dispute any drunken rugby speculator who claims to have clear recollection of the last game the All Blacks played, let alone a 2011 Rugby World Cup match…

You’re likely the same bunch of lack-witted numb-skulls who showed such blind adulation for Stephen Donald after he – according to sources – kicked the penalty to secure New Zealand the 2011 Rugby World Cup, seemingly forgetting that up until that moment you had loathed and mocked the abilities of that very same man for, despite winning us the 2011 World Cup final against France, being responsible for losing us the Tri-Nations trophy earlier that same year by, in the dying seconds of the game with New Zealand ahead by just a few points and a deft boot into touch being all that was required to seal the win, kicking the ball straight back to Australia then watching in dismay as they skirted our defences and dotted down to score the winning points.

That’s the Stephen Donald I remember – the very same Stephen Donald who ruined what was to be the All Blacks’ longest ever unbeaten record; heading for 16 consecutive, all we ended up achieving was merely equalling the record total with a relatively mediocre 15…

Sorry, back on track. You mindless idiots are acting just as the media expect you will: they’re feeding you propaganda about how poorly the All Blacks are playing; you’re lapping it up and even reinforcing it with your ‘memories’ of past instances.

Here’s the fact, guys: this is exactly what the media did four years ago, only then it was worse because the tournament was in New Zealand, and in fact this is the very same thing the media do with every world cup in the intention of causing exactly what they have – doubt.

With doubt comes talk, with talk comes ratings.

In reality, any team in any sport struggles to play at their best when their opponent lacks the competency to perform at the level at which the aforementioned side has been practising; in other words, it’s tough to do your best when they’re not playing your game.

It’s a fairly worn-out adage but in this case, I think it does actually hold some truth – a team only ever plays as good as its opposition.

Dude, they’ll do fine.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by A B Wiry

Photography by Noah Kneed Fwit

Occupying one of those ‘ergonomic’ chairs that make a user feel about as stable as they might if they were sitting on a tightrope, I glanced leftward at the expectant face of the woman for whom I was quickly developing a fondness.

“I was seventeen when they released me from hospital then for the next five or so years, I was so deep in rehabilitation that I had no desire to, I guess, indulge in life’s carnal pleasures, and you could be damn sure no girl wanted to hit me up about it anyway … It wasn’t, I guess, until I was, say, twenty-four that I felt able to re-enter that scene, but I always seemed to screw it up.”

“Screw it up, how?”

“Oh, my nerves’d get the better of me and I’d either pussy out and just not do anything, or if I did muster the gumption to capitalise, I’d end up making a big ugly hash of things – I’m talkin’ heads bumpin’, teeth clashin’, all the shit.”

“Nice – painting quite the picture over here.”

“I know, it’s shit but like I was saying, all the years of my own screw-ups coupled with the constant stream of rejection I’ve faced in latter years, basically, has left some pretty massive scars.”

“You say ‘constant rejection’ but that can’t be right – sounds like you did alright..?”

“That was in the early years, before I had been raped of my self-belief.”

“Nice – what happened there?”

“See,” I laughed out loud for some reason; perhaps it was the returning feeling of hopelessness, “in the years immediately following my honourable discharge from hospital, it was brilliant, everything was brilliant – I thought I was great … Looking at life through the eyes of a recently head-injured patient, in the beginning, is tantamount to deluding yourself – you are great, everyone loves you and nothing could be better…”

“But I thought brain trauma went hand in hand with depression..?”

“Yeah, that comes later, once you realise just how shitty your life has become, and how there’s a huge part of your old life that, try as you might, simply, you will never be able to recapture…”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, and then you start to realise that people lie, too – start to realise that all the shit you’ve been fed you about how amazing you are and about how everyone loves you so much because you’re such an awesome person and all the respect that people claim to have for you on account of the shit that you’ve endured, is all largely crap – that’s when the depression sets in.”

“O-K … So, did this happen to you, like, did you actually realise this, or is this you talking about how other people feel?”

“Yeah, far as I can tell, Jenny, I think it’s more of a, a third person kind of insight, you know.”

“Right.”

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rip Upshelf-Steam

Photography by P Paul-Lye

Terrorist groups are taking over the world.

Or so it might seem; to look around New Zealand at the moment the threat of terror is an undeniable and indeed, an ominous presence – from unidentified bags in public places to threatening phone calls in Government offices as well as online threats, in whatever form it seems, terrorism has reached the far south.

It all began soon after the turn of the 21^st century, 9-11 2001, with hitherto unknown-to-the-rest-of-the-world terrorists initiating destruction of some of the USA’s most recognisable structures; thus began the War on Terror.

Following the US attack came a number of less substantial, more targeted attacks throughout northern Africa, along with the horrific 2005 attack on London’s underground train system, among others. More recently Australia has found itself the target of numerous terror sieges including the 2014 Sydney attacks, along with Australian Police’s uncovering and thwarting of a number of further terror plots.

This most recent scare at Otago University was merely an example of how easily the threat of terror can be introduced into the lives of unassuming Kiwis – an online threat which only a few years ago might have been dismissed as farcical is now means for concern.

Taliban, Al-Qaeda, Al-Shabaab, Boko Haram, ISIS, BIFF, are just some of the world’s known terror groups – all fighting for a cause, all who believe they’re serving their god; yet none with any real sense of humanity.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Low-Jack

Photography by Terry Hist

I don’t agree with the age-old belief that genetics are the reason obese parents generally have obese children.

My theory is that it is the lessons passed down, the perceptions inherited and moreover, the habits instilled that truly influence the way a growing child deals with life.

Really there are only two habits an obese parent needs to halt in order to break this cycle: eating habits and exercise habits.

Generally a larger-than-life person will possess horrendous examples of both the aforementioned life skills. Regarding eating habits, I disagree with the belief that it is necessary to rigorously regulate the kinds of food going in; dieting is shit. Eat everything, just eat it in moderation and above all, don’t eat more than you need. That is the key. Coupled with good exercise habits – around half an hour of activity a day – breaking that hereditary cycle of fatness shouldn’t be too difficult.

The problem I believe is that children see their obese parents feeding themselves chocolates, biscuits, cakes and the like, and of course, that’s the image they perceive to be acceptable; hence the cycle continues.

There is no dispute that some are born with better constitutions, faster metabolisms thus superior abilities to burn fat before it adheres to their muscles than others; those with sluggish metabolisms simply require less food than their frantic counterparts. Why is there any confusion with that; for God’s sake, why would anyone eat unless they were hungry?

Oh that’s right; larger people typically eat for pleasure while smaller people eat for sustenance.

That is genetics, yes; tell me then, how is it that a relatively slim mother and father who have seemingly adhered to a life of good eating/exercise habits, can propagate a morbidly obese daughter?

Individually adopted eating habits, that’s how. This girl eats like you would not believe. I have watched her and she must put away as many calories in one meal as I would ingest over an entire day and given my various physical endeavours, I tend to require a rather high calorie count. This girl does nothing particularly energetic. This is why, and only why, she is currently twice the size that she would otherwise be.

Genetics do play a part in our progeny’s body shape, but I believe it is far from a defining factor; it has to do with the habits, that’s all.

This week’s theory therefore can be concluded in one snappy line: good eating and exercise habits will always supersede genetics.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by B Queath-Body

Photography by E Ting/X Scyze Hubbice

For as long as I can recall the fable of the Bermuda Triangle and its supposed ability to vanish objects, has been among the world’s best.

Contributing to this intrigue, recently a cargo ship with 33 passengers did just that.

There was a hurricane involved so this disappearance wasn’t entirely the Triangle’s doing, nevertheless when El Faro sailed into Joaquin, just off Crooked Island in the Bahamas, she failed to sail out again.

Flotsam from the 240 metre cargo ship has been found scattered across more than 300 square kilometres, but no sign of the vessel herself.

Prompts the questions: did Joaquin blow El Faro so far off course that her crew lost contact with land and if so, where are they now?

Did Joaquin capsize and scuttle El Faro, where the ocean-going behemoth along with her crew and cargo is now resting on the ocean floor?

Or, like the myriad other vessels and aircraft which have over time been lost amid this mythical setting, are El Faro and her 33-man crew now simply, gone?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wynn D Day

Photography by Gunn Burger

So who’s gonna win the cup do ya reckon?

The Webb Ellis Trophy, you mean..?

Yeah, the World Cup – who’s gonna win?

Well not England, anyway.

Oh yeah, they lost.

Twice – to Wales and to Australia.

Yeah, and apparently they’re the only team to be hosting it and then to be out of it before even the quarters…

Yes, similar to how Jonah Lomu is the only player to have ever scored fifteen tries in a Rugby World Cup.

Oh yeah, and he scored the most points too…

Really, I had a feeling that was Jonny Wilkinson..?

Oh yeah, yeah but Lomu went the furtherest.

Ah … Yes, alright, Jonah Lomu does hold the record for the most metres covered in a Rugby World Cup –

Yeah, told ya, he went the furtherest.

Dude, either he went the furthest or he went the farthest, he did not go the furtherest, alright?

Oh … He went pretty far though, like, over a kilometre – it’s pretty far.

Very far, hence farthest … Hey, I might be asking the wrong person here but don’t you find it idiotic the way these Rugby World Cup tournament organisers/promoters/media commentators seem to find stats on practically anything?

What, you mean like who won?

No, I would consider that quite a reasonably statistic, no I mean more pointless and obscure stats such as … Well that one you said about England being the first host team to be eliminated before the quarter finals – do you not find that asinine?

Ah, I dunno.

Well it’s like, I’m hearing a lot of these stats and just thinking, ‘Yeah but so what?’ I mean, you’d have to agree that many of these figures and game stats they put across are trivial..?

Ah, I dunno.

It’s as if the commentators feel they need more to talk about, more comparisons to make and such, so they’ve come up with these pointless little factoids like, ‘If New Zealand win this Rugby World Cup they’ll be the first nation to win it in consecutive years’, which in my opinion is an utterly pointless stat but of course they couldn’t say ‘…the first team to win it twice’, because that was Australia in ’91 then again in ’99, but if Australia had won it in ’91 and ’95, thus back to back, that silly fact-finding team would have had to dig up something else like, perhaps, ‘If New Zealand win this Rugby World Cup they’ll be the first team to have won it twice while playing both times with the current most capped player in international rugby’, or something equally long-winded and daft.

Ah, yeah, prob’ly.

Yeah, I might go and talk to someone else.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Bic T Bach

Photography by Stupe Ed Stass

New Zealand enjoys a rich culture of hunting game – pigs, deer, ourselves…

Even with all the publicity regarding firearm safety, each year, a number of hunters are still being shot by members of their own parties; then with every occurrence of the aforementioned mishap we hear pleas from bereaved family and friends about how easily avoidable such an incident would have been and how proper target identification is paramount in the sport of hunting or worse, how every hunter who enters the bush already knows this very fact.

…Whatever a hunter calls it – adrenalin rush, stag fever, itchy finger – realistically, it’s this overwhelming compulsion to discharge a weapon upon an apparent target that kills people.

As the patch of contrasting texture/colour/movement takes its place within the rifleman’s sights all other thoughts are expunged. The excitement of anticipation has caused the brain to become drunk on adrenalin, and as the trigger is squeezed myriad endorphins contribute to this ecstasy.

It’s here, now, that the trouble begins. The gunman can tell by the sound that the bullet has entered flesh. He knows his target has gone down but the one thing, now the adrenalin has subsided, he’s now querying – exactly what did he just shoot?

That’s the fact of it. No matter how much gun safety a hunter learns; no matter how sensible he usually is with a gun, when it comes to that briefest of moments, the heartbeat between life and death, any amount of training amounts to nothing.

Hunting is a dangerous sport. A group or, taking into account possible poachers or other trespassers, groups of excitable huntsmen stealthily making their way through largely unknown territory, often with nobody truly knowing how many people fill the surrounding area; sometimes not even knowing the location of your own party…

Hunting is a dangerous sport. Hunters are aware of this. When they embark on a hunt they do so knowing the risk. They do it anyway. They do it for the love of it; fair to say hunting is to sport what forestry is to employment.

…It’s deadly.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Dee R Death

Photography by Manny Hunter