Having attempted to draw the young woman off track with a brilliant non sequitur, and failing, the question remained: Why had I gone through life without a least one prolonged interlude with the fairer sex?

“Alright, in the beginning, after school but before now I mean, from the ages of, say, eighteen to twenty-four, for whatever reason, and as much as they appeared to love being my friend, simply, they didn’t want a bar of me in the intimate or, romantic sense.”

“What – why not?”

“Gosh, well, you’d have to ask them, Jenny.”

“Nah, seriously, you’re a good looking guy, there’s no reason I can see why anyone wouldn’t want to go out with you.”

“I appreciate that but like I said, you can’t base everything on outward appearances.”

“Yeah but that’s exactly what you do do for a first date..?”

“Yes, that’s a good point,” I conceded “I guess then, I dunno, must be that everyone around where I live already know me thus knows of my shit, and those I meet by chance, for whatever reason, don’t seem willing to give me a chance.”

“So, what,” she said with a smirk “are you an absolute shithead – is that why no one likes you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said reciprocating the half-grin, “I think it’s more that people are put off by what I am.”

“So what are you – a fucking weirdo?” the smirk grew to a full size grin.

“Perhaps – as I mentioned before, I am the result of some pretty severe brain trauma.”

“Oh-h,” a look of relief came over her face, “that’s right … Is that all though – like, I thought it was gonna something big like a lopsided nut-sack or something.”

“Shit … Is that classed as big?”

“I dunno, how big are they?”

“Oh, you’re brilliant,” I said, releasing an overdue burst of laughter, “although in fairness, the injury was reasonably big.”

“Like, how big?”

“Like, nine days in a coma big, fourteen in ICU big, few months in hospital big…”

“So pretty big then?”

“Yeah, as I mentioned, it messed up my nervous system pretty bad.”

“But apart from that you’re alright..?”

“Apart from spasmodic limbs that never act quite the same for two days running, shit man, I’m fucking fantastic.”

“So why don’t girls like you?”

“You’re one of them, you tell me.”

“I dunno, I mean, you are pretty intense, like, you’re direct, you know, you’re…”

“I don’t fuck around and I say what I mean?”

“Yeah, that … I guess that could be intimidating.”

“Are you intimidated by me?”

“No, but I haven’t known you that long – I’m still withholding judgement.”

“Good point – you know, we’re into some pretty deep shit for two people who only recently met each other.”

“True dat.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What – why not?”

“Because it’s daft.”

“What, you mean like still using the word ‘daft’?”

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Chance Mei Ting

Photography by Daft Punk

New Zealand’s District Health Boards have decided to take some medical advice and ban sugary drinks.

It seems the logical step after revelations that today’s children are fatter than ever and the adults who supposedly provide the direction, well, they’re little better.

Most soft drinks on sale in New Zealand contain an inordinate sugar content and while some manufacturers attempt to circumvent this truth with claims of ‘energy drinks’, in most cases nobody, particularly children, need that much extra sugar in their diets.

Childhood obesity and in fact obesity in general would soon be eradicated if instead of the high sugar, highly processed diets of the Western world, we followed a diet plan more akin to the humble Panda; which might just be the selling point behind Prime Minister John Key’s decision to pay $20 million to bring a few of the aforementioned critters to New Zealand’s shores.

Reportedly he’s only paying half that though; the council thus ratepayer is said to be footing the rest of that bill, so give me a minute…

That’s a terrible lot of money exchanging hands for an enterprise about which you just know the people have had little say.

…$20 mill for pandas plus $25 mill for flag plus the cost of 32 new BMWs – how much is that?

It’s alright though because the Department of Internal Affairs – the recipients of the BMWs – have ensured that they’re eco-friendly, so that’s something, and have decided also that it will be more cost effective to lease rather than to purchase the cars outright, because as we all know, ten years down the road the leased vehicles will have a much better resale..?

You’ve lost me.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Lucious Sweet

Photography by Pon De Leese

This week’s theory pertains to cognitive function; specifically my cognitive function.

 I have found that when it comes to writing these theories, where initially I had thought I possessed a practically endless cache of intriguing beliefs, projections, suppositions and the like, it was at around week six that I discovered many of the aforementioned notions are either so perplexing they are simply ineffable or, and this one annoyed me, where I had thought I had multiple theories on various topics, on closer inspection many of them basically merged in to one another making their individual essence something of a mystery but worse still, when it came to the attempt at documenting this monstrous amalgamated projection, when dredging my otherwise insipid mind for insight, all I discovered were a haphazard assortment of 1s and 0s, so I don’t know…

This led me to perform some, shall we say, impromptu theorising. In other words, come Wednesday morning, I found myself sitting before a piece of technology that I don’t believe I will ever entirely understand, and wracking (or racking, depending where you’re from) my brain for a future concept or indeed an existing design with a foundation of which, ultimately, I perceive differently than the masses.

…Computer speak notwithstanding when I peered beyond what I had expected to be pre-engineered theories but turned out to be one big mess of ill-meaning controversy, in what I am just now labelling my ‘ad-lib hypothesise’ I found it wasn’t a terribly forceful push to develop a range of new and exciting theories.

The highly organised and invariably well-meaning among you will no doubt be thinking: why doesn’t he (I) simply prepare these intriguing suppositions of quirk in advance (hence prepare), therefore come time for Wednesday’s Theory instalment, leaving him (me) with a theory or two on hand to slam in the face of ye old Internet?

Thank you, the well-meaning among you, for that unequivocally uninspired and downright banal query. Do you recall me recall me mentioning that it was ‘around week six that I (me) discovered … insipid mind … no theories left…’? Yeah, now cast your eye to the top of the page. For those of you well-meaning-wonders who still have difficulty with Roman numerals, ‘XII’ means twelve. (Also, ‘around week six’ was actually exactly week six.) That’s six weeks I have struggled with impromptu theorising and ad-lib hypothesise which in fact turns out to have been a rather fortuitous battle as it has unknowingly equipped me for this particular Theory instalment.

All week, in the past, in between my other literal endeavours of course, my mind’s eye continuously flicks into the portion of my brain that entertains the doubt thus is responsible for conjuring the alternate explanations to many of the nation/world’s more questionable areas.

All week, generally, I come up with nothing of substance.

As I drive home from jiu-jitsu class on Tuesday night therefore, tomorrow’s Theory is on my mind: what disparity do I maintain about something that is a different kind of disparity to what the rest of the nation thinks, accepts or agrees upon, and what would be the most effective way to document that? (And they reckon cell phones are distracting.)

I go to bed that night thinking that very question and seldom come up with much. It’s not until shortly after 7 a.m. while seated before that humming contraption of mystery with a steaming bowl of porridge to my left, green tea steeping to my right and with 9 a.m. looming in the distance that the challenge, the pressure of accomplishing my impending feat, seems to always squeeze out something.

This week’s Theory therefore, relates to the way brainpower – maybe just mine but I think as a general rule – kicks up a notch when the heat comes on. Call it adrenalin, call it anxiety, hell, you can call it fear of failure if you like.

Whatever it is it serves me alright.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Fiar E Voce

Photography by Mia Theory

Contemporary R&B artist Chris Brown is potentially being denied entry to New Zealand, meaning his upcoming concert might be cancelled.

Brown’s passage has come under question following a history of domestic abuse; most famously he beat pop star Rihanna into an unrecognisable state.

So providing Mr Brown doesn’t take a Kiwi girl as his girlfriend while he’s in New Zealand, we should be fine.

He’s clearly an angry man and while beating women is far from an admirable way of venting one’s rage, perhaps he ought to have stay in Mount Eden Prison where inmates are impressed by the ability to beat each other senseless.

Yesterday in Manawatu Prison an inmate broke a window then used the glass to attack the head and neck of a prison guard. This inmate then managed to injure two more guards who were trying to subdue him. Turns out this inmate has a history of stabbing people. Sounds like New Zealand have located the ideal buddy for Chris Brown.

Let the gutless wonder into the country, let him speak his tuneless rhymes to his legions of fans; then introduce the idiot to some genuinely violent people and see how he likes having his arse handed to him.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Brown I Dicklas

Photography by Woe Mann Beeter

The recent Rugby World Cup match between Wales and England presented the competition with yet another major upset…

So why are you wailing – did you want England to win?

In fact no, I’m a big supporter of those other, supposedly lesser, British teams – particularly Ireland.

…Therefore, given the way Japan was victorious over South Africa in the first round, fair to say the Webb Ellis cup could be taken by anyone.

So why were you wailing?

I wasn’t wailing.

But you said…

No no, you assumed that because I used the term ‘wails’ a few times, I must have been ‘wailing’.

So you’re not, wailing I mean..?

No.

But somebody must have been wailing about England losing, or you wouldn’t have been saying about all the ‘wails’ all the time.

What are you … Oh, God.

What?

Well, I mean, how do you know I wasn’t saying ‘whales’, and perhaps referring to the Japanese whaling in the Atlantic?

What..?

Dude, I was not wailing, nor was I whaling; I guess though, there will be a fair few English rugby supporters who are wailing on account of their defeat to Wales.

Oh yeah, they won.

They won the game, yes, they beat England.

And you weren’t wailing about it..?

No, as I said, I’m a big fan of those other British teams.

Oh my God, so was it Wales that you picked to win the World Cup in that Punt for a Million thing?

Wales? No.

So who’d ya pick?

You’ll see.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ruby Whurl Coop

Photography by Tu Wei Binter

I was once told that running with the bulls in Spain was dangerous; seemingly this annual pilgrimage in Mecca, Saudi Arabia is worse.

I don’t know how many fatalities each year are caused by rampant bulls running through streets but it’s sure as hell not 720…

Over two million devout Saudis partook in the religious ritual, Hajj, which involves this unimaginably vast throng of worshippers swarming between various locations, performing acts of faith, love and devotion at each.

…I can’t imagine what went wrong; this classically Muslim act just appeared so well organised, orchestrated and executed, yet it seems somewhere within the seething horde of worship, a number of fellow devotees were trampled and killed.

Obviously none of the people are at fault though; God clearly has a plan.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by D Vute/Miss Lamb

Photography by Jesus H Christ

A young woman I met recently was having a hard time believing, or perhaps more to the point understanding, the fact that I have never technically had a girlfriend.

As she stood before me in disbelief she did her best to come to terms with firstly, what I was claiming and secondly, the reality that what someone overtly displays is often far from what they truly are.

“What do you mean, ‘you’d be surprised’?” she inquired.

“Just that the first impression I gave you – the first impressions in fact that anyone gives anyone – is generally more of a cover-up than a revelation.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a show of curious exuberance.

“Really..?” I asked tiredly.

“Yeah, I wanna know – what do you mean when you say your first impression is a cover-up?”

“I mean, generally, I believe, the reason that the tender embrace of a woman has evaded me for so long, has to do largely with the effects of a rather, insidious condition, coupled with, I guess, the devastating, belittling and massively self-esteem-crushing way, in which that condition has affected me.”

“What condition?”

I sighed inwardly, not wanting the conversation to have ended up here but knowing that since it had, from this point on I was going to be able to predict practically all of her responses – same old shit, different orchestrator. On the other hand, I could try to draw her off topic with one of my cleverly placed non sequiturs: “One thing you must understand, Jenny, is that, when it comes to relationships and the like, things out country are a little different to what you’ll be used to growing up in the city.”

“You country bumpkins can’t be that different – I’m sure boy still meets girl, boy goes out with girl, boy fucks girl, boy cheats on girl, boy and girl break up and life goes on…”

Non sequitur: success. “Yeah, about that, not quite … See, in Christchurch, the opportunity to live out your aforementioned, life of romantic bliss, is about one hundred and thirty-seven times magnified to what it is in the countryside.”

“So, what, are there sheep involved?”

“Only on Sundays … Seriously, Jenny, out country we can’t afford to be quite so flippant with relationships as city folk can, it’s like, generally, the first girl you profess to love, will chances are, be the girl you’re waking up next to for the rest of your life.”

“Sounds serious … So, you never said, why aren’t you waking up next to the first call you professed to love?”

Non sequitur: fail.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Professor Love

Photography by Nan C Qatar

My God people are dicks.

I am certain the only reason this outcast ‘Red Peak’ flag design won so much support in a recent petition/poll/whatever-the-hell to subsequently earn itself a spot on the ‘new flag shortlist’, is because the people of New Zealand are so damned intent on defying Prime Minister John Key for forcing us to change our flag in the first place.

It is a fact that the majority of Kiwis don’t want a flag change but if we’re having one anyway, shit, it might as well be a good one; yet it seems these anti-flaggers have decided they are going to cause as big a fuss and make the selecting of a new flag as challenging, thereby wasting as much of the nation’s money, as possible.

That is so typical of the Kiwi mentality – obstinate for the sake of obstinate, contrary for the sake of contrary, difficult for the sake of difficult; pig-headed for the sake of being a dick-wad.

Granted there is some apparent Maori symbolism somewhere within this Red Peak flag design and although all I see is a piece of material which looks as though it was designed by a budding architecture student mastering the art of using a straight-edge, given the amount of publicity the Red Peak flag has garnered over past months, come the deciding vote – which is going ahead regardless of how many of you complaining Kiwis try to stymie it – I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was the one design which through this mindless controversy has been continuously forced into the public eye, the Red Peak design, that won it on the day.

Yes, that would be a fine win for defiance across New Zealand.

Forget the fact that the Red Peak is devoid of any current meaning – the Union Jack; symbolising the monarchy of which New Zealand is a part, or the Southern Cross; symbolising a constellation exclusive to our part of the world – it also looks juvenile, uninspired and dull.

Come on New Zealand, don’t be a dick.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Anne T Flug

Photography by Stu Pad Flug

For this week’s theory, I’ve decided to go less controversial and more good-old-fashioned thought-provoking.

Trust me, this will provoke the shit out of your thoughts.

Looking around New Zealand, and in fact the entire world, I see a multitude of differing races. Some of these people are purely one race, others are mixed race. Let’s be fair though, in New Zealand at least, a high percentage of our population are of a mixed nationality.

The last of the pure-bred Maoris has since died and I believe it would be fair to assume that, given the ease with which people can now communicate and indeed interact with other people from around the world – also the human propensity for cross-breeding – there will one day, quite soon I would postulate, be no pure-blood nationalities left in the world.

Currently the population of planet Earth can be separated into three major races: Caucasian – generally white-skinned or European people; Mongolian – comprising Asian, Polynesian, Inuit, and American Indian; Negroid – which are the African and Australian Aboriginal races. Of these three main races only a relatively small portion remain unadulterated.

My theory submits that over the next few generations – providing of course the planet doesn’t die in the meantime – the world’s nationalities will become less distinctive, less distinguishable, less different until one day, there will be only one people.

In the future every person on the planet will have become a mixture of the aforementioned races and although we will all still be different, it is my belief that all people will share approximately the same skin tone and facial structure.

It is my theory that given time, ‘exotic’ will become a thing of the past.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cam Bind Ray-Cis

Photography by Noah Des Tinque-Chon

The story of the Hamilton zookeeper who was mauled to death by a Sumatran tiger headlined a few days ago.

A few days ago I was not surprised to hear some of the people involved were considering whether they should, as retribution I expect, kill this majestic tiger.

The day after the incident it was reported the zoo had decided not to kill the tiger because apparently males of that variety are too rare. Other than that of course, if it hadn’t been so damned endangered that is, well, it’s an eye for an eye – a life for a life…

This is the idiocy of the human race. We claim to be a civilised, logical, judicious and even, get this, a compassionate people; yet when people capture a wild animal and put it on display at a people-controlled zoo, when they remove this wild animal from its natural habitat with the intention of it working in with their people-related business aspirations, when these people then suddenly expect that this wild animal will relinquish its natural instincts and miraculously conform to the people-imposed regulations of zoo etiquette – but it doesn’t – these people are surprised.

…We are a terribly vindictive people. Despite people being to blame for the fact that the wild animal even had the chance to maim or kill one of their own, it seems our sense of arrogance that we can control everything easily overpowers our common sense. Ordinarily if a wild animal acted naturally in a zoo and killed its keeper other people would not hesitate in ending that wild animal’s life.

I am reminded of that old cliché of two wrongs not making a right and such – guess it doesn’t apply to grownups though.

As I see it this is one of the bigger injustices in the world but because wild animals struggle to articulate along the same channels as people, of course, they have no voice.

People trap wild animals, people put wild animals on display; people kill wild animals when they act like wild animals.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by T Rapt Felign

Photography by Pussy Lover