I was fortunate enough to yesterday see the transcendent Stevie Tonks perform a live show for the town of Hororata.

Entering the premises to the audio of an unfamiliar female artist, things became mildly familiar/nostalgic when a few minutes later Cassie Henderson took the stage; while Cassie’s ability to handle a guitar was superb I fear if it hadn’t been for X Factor’s 2013 season, she would still be below any musical radars.

It was towards the end of Cassie’s performance that ‘Hatbeard’ made landfall, sporting his signature hearty ginger beard but, perhaps ironically, with no hat to be seen. From inside the Hororata Village Bar and Café I witnessed Mr Tonks make his way to the bar and order a drink. I wasted no time in making my introduction.

“Stevie…” I began.

As he turned to face me with his piercing eyes and broad grin, suddenly I became as nervous as a schoolgirl at a Beiber show, and words thus intelligent thought started to evade me.

“Stevie,” I said again, as if we’d been friends for years – and again, “Stevie … Tim … Hey, ah, just curious, after X factor and all that hype, where to from here, I mean, what are the plans … What’s next for Stevie Tonks?”

“Oh, big plans, mate,” he answered with a smile, “hang around today, it’s gonna be good.”

“Oh I’ll be around … So, hey, are you doing any originals – I’m pumped to see more of your own stuff, eh.”

“Yep, there’s gonna be heaps of that, hang around.”

“Nice one, dude,” I concluded, “well good luck with the show, anyway.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, the smile growing bigger still, before turning and walking away.

The inimitable Stevie Tonks took to the stage a few minutes later and he was sensational. Along with all his classic X Factor covers, just about every second track he played was, potentially, an original recording and man, they were good. They were very good.

The man possesses a kind of passion which filters through into his music making, for example, a cheesy Adele cover of Rolling in the Deep, into a beyond-belief, spectacular showcase.

Over an hour later he stepped down to massive applause and was immediately surrounded by hordes of fans. I waited for the crowd to thin before making my way over to ask the hard questions. The weather had become inhospitable yet the man they called Stevie Tonks was as gracious as ever.

“Stevie.” My ingratiation was unchanged.

A look of uncertain familiarity came over the ginger-bearded face.

“Great show man … Fantastic.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks man, yeah, I had fun.”

“Yeah, hey, I heard a lot of originals – they were good, man … So, how many do you have – do you have an album’s worth?”

The grin was as big as I’ve seen as he leaned over the electrical equipment to show me the afternoon’s playlist; indicating which of them were originals. “And that’s only about half of what I’ve got.”

“Nice one … Yeah, I liked your sound, eh – mellow, low tempo, laid back – do you have any higher tempo, or heavier songs?”

That smile continued to augment: “Yeah man, it was laid back and cruisy today ‘cause I don’t have me band with me – the album’ll be a heaps more rocky sound.”

“Oh, good to hear, I’ll be sure to be one of the first to pick it up…” that smile was getting still bigger “…you’re a legend dude, best of luck for the future.” With that I extended my arm, shook his hand then turned to leave.

“Gotta follow your passion, man,” he said catching my eye one final time.

I nodded and walked away.

Mark these words: Stevie Tonks is going to be big.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ta Debbie Kell

Photography by Wendy N Jude

Recently I made my 31^st donation to the NZ Blood Service.

In fact only the first six or so were blood per se; I found that I could circumvent the painfully long, but apparently necessary for maintaining my own health, quarterly donation intervals, thereby raising my overall donor tally more quickly, by letting some plasma across the other two months – therefore for example, December: whole blood, January: plasma, February: plasma, March: whole blood, April: back to plasma, and so on.

Much as the nurses at the blood bank frowned upon this practise of mixing donation variety they did find my boundless enthusiasm and inexplicable – if not unnerving – penchant for giving up bodily fluids a difficult passion to stymie.

It was only once I was beseechingly told that, while half a litre of O-positive whole blood every three months is certainly useful, if that one month in three instead produced another 750 millilitres of plasma it would be several hundred percent better, that I became strictly a monthly plasma donor.

They don’t pay me as such – as well as treating donors to a bottomless supply of tea or coffee complemented with a superb selection of chocolate and other sugar-infused biscuits, rewards have included, a (self-promoting) key ring, a (self-promoting) water bottle, a (self-promoting) T-shirt, and the biggest one, acknowledging donation number 25, a flash as (self-promoting) umbrella – which I took home and promptly opened inside – along with the greatest reward of all…

A big old certificate assuring me that of all I’ve taken from New Zealand, I’ve given back a fair bit, too.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Gav Bach

Photography by Gav Blood

I am in vehement disagreement with the method in which New Zealand councils source their funding.

In a word: rates.

If for example a particular region comprises one million citizens, of which half are home owners, yet each of those million want to use the public amenities the region has to offer such as, the municipal library, the public swimming pool, the public toilets, the parks and reserves etc, effectively, the region’s renters are getting a free ride.

It makes no sense that home owners pay for all of an area’s services when the renters are just as likely and in fact equally as entitled to use them. Take garbage collection. It’s a remarkable service that benefits everyone living in a house; yet only those who own the aforementioned abodes pay for it. What about the water supply? Another fabulous service; a practically endless flow of fresh water coming right to your kitchen sink irrespective of whether or not you’re actually the one who pays the rates bill every quarter…

In fact it’s the plight of those stricken souls of Christchurch that initially wound me up. Going back a few years the services covered by their, continually accruing, rates bill were laughable. Some roads were too damaged to drive on, let alone get a rubbish truck down; yet Christchurch home owners still paid. Their water supply was tainted by sewage and wasn’t fit for watering gardens let alone human consumption; yet Christchurch home owners still paid.

The city was in disrepair and Christchurch mayor, Lianne Dalziel, always seemed to be able to see only one way to rectify the problem which was, you guessed it, call on the humble home owner to generate some more funding – this recent plan for reconstruction of Christchurch’s Town Hall a fine example.

The other issue I have with the rates bill, it is calculated on a property’s land mass therefore, if you pay $2000 annually for your quarter acre section, what do you think a farmer with 1000 acres pays? The farmer receives no more amenities or council benefits than anybody else yet they pay an approximately proportionate increase in rates.

My original point though: everybody who uses a township’s services should pay for that township’s services. Just because a person is living in rented accommodation does not necessarily mean they’re hard up. Some choose to do so, promoting the belief that it’s a more worry-free, cost effective, financially prudent option; seeing the way rates charges in New Zealand are going, they might just be on to something, too.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Pop-Luck Sir Vice

Photography by Ray Tyke

The overwhelming focus of this year’s Mystery Creek Fieldays seems to be money-saving techniques for dairy farmers.

Unsurprising given that about ten years’ ago, back around the time where most every sheep or crop farm in Mid Canterbury was having all its trees uprooted, every fence pulled out and being ultimately levelled to make way for a dairy conversion, I recall posing the query to one of the aforementioned farmers: “Do you guys reckon you know what you’re doing – I mean, do you honestly reckon there’s always going to be this much demand for dairy?” It was at that point I recall losing confidence in my line of questioning and wrapping it up with a few choice key words such as ‘potential market overstimulation’, ‘massive commodity overproduction’, ‘flooded market’ and so forth.

The response, coming from behind one of the thickest hand-rolled cigarettes I’d ever seen was an unyielding: “Progress, Timbo, it’s all just a big ol’ bucket of progress.”

Yeah, well, evidently, your ‘bucket of progress’ had some holes in it. After peaking a few years back, dairy farmer’s payouts have been dwindling ever since. Now Fonterra are taking steps to cut their own overheads in a, supposed, effort to better treat the farmers/shareholders/owners who provide the company’s lifeblood…

Fieldays. It’s the most ridiculous fusion of words I have ever seen. ‘Field’ might be a legitimate word, but ‘ays’ certainly isn’t; conversely ‘days’ is fine, it’s ‘Fiel’ in that case that doesn’t sit right with me. ‘Fielddays’ would be acceptable but then of course you’d be compelled to hyphenate the double-d thus, ‘Field-days’ – which, funnily enough, is the only version that the computer doesn’t underline.

…Then there’s my father who, incidentally, while everyone else was undergoing their beloved dairy conversions, all jumping aboard the milk-product train which in their opinions was going to carry on forever but which in reality was set to derail a decade or so down the track, quietly went about maintaining his sheep and crop farm. Everyone around him did the dairy thing; he maintained sheep and crop. Their farms are barren; he still has trees on his land.

Dairy Farming in New Zealand, in my opinion, the way so many tired and fed up farmers hurried to board the bandwagon all those years ago based around the promise of hard work coupled with high returns, also the way this extensive style of farming is doing its best to ruin the land and tributaries, was always destined for failure.

As predicted, flooding of the dairy market was inevitable and now, out of respect for the fallen, any ‘crying over spilt milk’ puns shall be avoided.

Thank you.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Dear Ray Firmer

Photography by Deidry Cow

He spent much of that morning on the telephone to his parents, gleaning information through his father, becoming irritated with his mother. He was twenty-one years’ old, yet she treated him as if he were eighteen less than that; Kahn understood she only had his best interests and overall well-being at heart but sometimes, she drove him utterly insane. After the phone marathon he moved into his conservatory to consider what he knew. Despite cloud cover taking out the sun the heat inside the little glass room was intense. Kahn gazed out at his vegetable garden and tried to forget about scornful Koreans and threats of war, and just tried to enjoy his place in the world. The air was so fresh; God, he loved it out here. He opened the small sliding door on the west side of the glass enclosure and stepped onto his green – not yellow like some in the city but vibrant green – lawn. Turning to the right he smoothed a patch of soil in his garden which had been ripped up by birds looking for insects, checked that all the seedlings were flourishing, realised that the area the birds had cultivated was in fact his row of carrot seed, cursed their thrashing beaks, and just as the night before, took a stroll around the property. It was becoming something of a habit, he thought mirthfully, appreciating that as habits went, he could do a lot worse. As he walked Kahn pondered the potential for paid work in this area: he supposed that if he advertised in a local paper the chances of picking up some odd landscaping jobs shouldn’t have been too narrow but for now, with just under 10k remaining in his bank, the issue was far from urgent – although how long would ten thousand dollars last with regular outgoings such as mortgage, rates, electricity and phone bills? He had no idea. He was new to this game.

That night he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the six o’clock news report, nevertheless the TV went on, as usual, at 5.58. After enduring advertisements for a few vacuous American sitcoms, the ominous music signifying the News programme began. Kahn found himself wrestling with a mild case of nervousness, until he saw the melancholic expression of the typically impassive lead anchor, where a mild case of nerves became fully fledged anxiety.

“On Three News tonight, our main story relates to the North Korean attempt, at global domination, and colonisation.

“We cross live now to member of the UN Security Council, Carol Hives, good evening, Carol..?”

“Yes Michael, good evening.”

“Now, Carol, I’m sure I am not the only person who wants to know … Simply … Can North Korea, do this?”

“Yes, that’s a very good question, Michael, and you’re right, you won’t be the only one wanting to know this … The answer, from a legal standpoint anyway, is, no, they can’t.”

“Right, Carol, thank you, so, can you maybe shed some light, on, firstly, why, they are doing this, and, secondly, how, are they getting away with it?”

“Well, Michael, the why, comes down to a matter of necessity, do they need the vast expanse of land, for which they are asking? And the answer, after taking into account current, and potential, population, et cetera, is a resounding, no … And I think, or should I say, the UN thinks, this high level of agitation, we are seeing, from North Korea, goes far past any necessities, goes past any logical reasoning, no Michael, this was most definitely, a vengeance-fuelled attack, although vengeance for what, we are, as yet, in the dark.”

“OK, and the how, Carol?”

“And as for the how, well, let me tell you, Michael, they are not getting away with it, not legally, at least…”

“Alright, so if not legally, how about practically?”

“Well, that’s the interesting thing, Michael, after two monumental world wars, throughout history, it would now seem, that the world, or at least, the world leaders, have more or less, learned their lesson, which is to say, the entire world, appear so terrified of embarking on another world war, that even for those typically belligerent nations, Iraq, Russia et cetera, common sense does seem to be prevailing and thus, they are holding back any physical retaliation.”

“And Carol, you believe this uncharacteristic non-belligerence is, in the hopes of, sparing the world, from another war?”

“That is the UN’s belief, yes.”

“Also Carol, if I could quote you, you mentioned earlier that North Korea are ‘not getting away with it, not legally at least’…

“And I maintain that … Korean leaders will soon be standing trial for wartime atrocities against -”

“But from what I hear, Carol, they’ve already launched, an air attack on Washington DC, and are still, in the process of, making demands, so please tell me, Carol, how is this to be considered, ‘not getting away with it’?”

“Yes, fair question, Michael, but let me assure you, we are not taking this unprovoked attack on the world’s, most powerful nation, lightly.”

“Alright, Carol, and what, if anything, are the United States, doing about this, ‘unprovoked attack’?”

“Well, given the calibre, and volatile nature, of this skirmish, they have been advised to refrain from any potential retaliation, for fear that to return fire on North Korea, who, for the record, Michael, have since been formally credited for the attack, would be as good as throwing down a declaration of war – of world war, for that matter, which, as previously mentioned, is something everybody, is keen to avoid.”

“’World war’, though Carol, isn’t that jumping the gun, so to speak?”

“I don’t think so, Michael, not when one looks at global feeling towards, North Korea.”

“So, just how strong is, North Korea’s military?”

“Right, they were recently, officially, assessed as being the fourth largest in the world, but of course, as we have all heard, have since collaborated with the Chinese military, who were also said to be among the top, five, big guns, but even before this amalgamation of powers, it was discovered, that North Korea had amassed far greater numbers, thanks to a largely indiscriminate conscription programme, than we previously had knowledge of, and therefore, through sheer numbers alone, may have already ranked somewhere in the top two … But it really is hard to say, Michael.”

“But you are confident, Carol, that with the Chinese military merger, they are definitely, number one?”

“I don’t know if I would consider a nation’s military strength, reason to hand about rankings of ‘number one’ and so forth, but yes, Michael, they are now, without a doubt, the world’s greatest military power.”

“That was Carol Hives, of the UN Security Council, with her, somewhat disturbing, views on the recent North Korean conflict – thank you Carol.”

“Thank you Michael, goodnight.”

Reckon I must be the only person over the age of twelve who still regularly drinks Milo.

Had one yesterday. Let me tell you, I was aghast. There was absolutely no difference in flavour to how it always tastes. Now, this might be on account of the fact that the Milo I used was scooped from a two kilogram tin of the stuff purchased several years earlier, I don’t know.

Lecretia Seales is dead. She died a few days back of ‘natural causes’ – in other words, she was given a larger dose of morphine than her heart could handle. That’s beautiful. All she really wanted to do was make a statement, and she did just that. The problem remains, the legislation of assisted death/suicide still appears on course to be denied, which is bollocks, so I don’t know.

As New Zealand citizens we ought to be so proud of our children – the precocious scamps are embarking on life so young these days. Girls are now having babies at fifteen, boys having sex at fourteen and the most impressive thing, we’re producing murderers by fourteen and, yes, even thirteen years’ old. Spectacular. Kiwis ought to be so proud of that one I think. I don’t know.

Navy ships continue to ‘rescue’ buttloads of – sorry, boatloads of illegal immigrants off the coast of Libya and offer the stricken souls refuge in Europe, further promoting the act of immigrant trafficking thereby rendering the description ‘illegal immigration’ something of a misnomer I think. I don’t know.

A digger driver has been buried by a landslide at a Waikari lime quarry, reigniting talk of increasing workplace safety for workers of dangerous occupations. Here’s the thing about that though: in order for those so called, dangerous occupations – forestry workers, miners, quarry workers etc – to be free from their sinister tag of death they would need to employ maybe twice the staff to perform tasks at perhaps half the speed and the entire operation would therefore become unproductive. That is why not everything can viably meet OSH approval, so I don’t know.

Some career choices are deadly. On that note, Jerry Collins’ recent death shocked the world. Fair enough, he was a great man and an even better All Black.

That much I do know.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Thyme

Photography by Tua Mitch

In this modern era where everybody appears to be fascinated with the lives of everybody else, perhaps expectedly, reality television has come out the winner on the day.

With no actors to pay and minimal scripting to be written, from the producers’ point of view reality television is a cheap, easy and presumably quick way to throw together a show: simply find a bunch of good-looking, outspoken idiots who have difficulty controlling their tempers, who thrive on emotional tension and who are prone to meltdown, put them before a camera and give them an array of senseless tasks to carry out, and, cut.

Sounds brilliant, and if that was really how it worked – people watching other people going about silly tasks in their natural capacities – it’d be great, wouldn’t it?

No, it wouldn’t. In fact it would be dead boring – or so television producers seem to think – which is why they feel it necessary to step in and change reality to ‘reality’.

Of course you have your X Factors, your Idol franchises, your Survivors, your Big Brothers, your Bachelors, Bachelorettes and so forth although in fairness, I think we already knew they were staged and scripted, didn’t we?

No, it’s the likes of Ice Road Truckers or, to a lesser extent, Storage Wars/Hunters, where as a viewer, regarding the former you actually do expect to see the hardships of an openly pious middle-aged Canadian cowboy in his big old Western Star towing across the northernmost reaches of the planet a forty foot curtain-side semi-trailer laden with a month’s supply of food for the citizens of Yellowknife or something, or regarding the latter, you might be genuinely excited about seeing a bunch of eccentric Americans vying for ownership at a storage locker auction and revelling in the crap they find therein; yet these so called reality shows have truck drivers doing and saying things that you can be damn sure they would not do or say if they had the choice, we have idiots at an auction acting like petulant dick-wads then after they’re done bitching and moaning about nothing of significance but filling a good ten minutes of air time, those dick-headed producers have them finding things in the lockers that must surely lead a viewer to question the shows authenticity, but for the benefit of the person standing behind the camera, that’s how it has to go.

Cops, Cops Uncut, Road Cops, Gold Coast Cops, Police Ten 7, Police Stop!, Motorway Patrol, and any others I might have missed, I fear are going the same way. From what I’ve witnessed the majority of these shows start off alright if that’s what you’re into – for someone with an interest in heavy vehicles/road transport, Ice Road Truckers used to be a brilliant watch and dare I say even the Storage Wars of days gone by was worth a look – but inevitably, they soon become over-produced, ridiculously conflict-filled and tension-ridden pieces of television-wasteland that no longer even focus on the topic alluded to by the show’s title; instead becoming remarkably akin to every other bloody soap opera drama on TV.

What is reality though? Is it actually what we live, or is it the manner by which we’re instructed to live?

Dude, I don’t even know anymore.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rail T Shoe

Photography by Scrap Ted Chyte

Of all the controversy incited over the years by so called right wing blogger, confirmed mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding, cretinous creature, Cameron Slater, his recent attempt to contract a computer hacker to commit illicit deeds is up there with the best of it.

This outspoken pillock who has become something of a cult figure in New Zealand for his ability to make outlandish claims about people he’s never met while hurling around his misdirected and sometimes erroneous abuse from the safety of his computer screen; also for the ability to publish on his website hurtful and often scurrilous content which in many cases does nothing more than reveal this slothful blob of repulsion as the gutlessly greasy piece of Whaleoil scum that he truly is.

This piss poor excuse for a man first became known to me when, in the hours following a Greymouth car crash which left a 26-year-old backseat passenger dead, Mr Slater was seen to publish an article under the heading: ‘Feral dies in Greymouth, did world a favour’…

Supposedly he’s a political blogger, apparently right wing orientated, reportedly he’s a National supporter; yet all I ever hear is how this shit-bag’s underhanded tactics have resulted in someone else being dragged through the mud of public opinion.

…To refer to any deceased person in any part of the country in any kind of derogatory manner is nothing short of brainless, although according to shit-for-brains Slater it didn’t really matter – it was only Greymouth. Granted, his intention is to write ‘provocative’ content but slagging off the dead – dude, really..?

The man is a disease. Watching Jesse Ryder twice beat him in the boxing ring was nice although, admittedly, in either fight I recall being at a loss as to who I should be backing – in my opinion each man is as big a douche-bag as the other – so no. It’s about time somebody played that dick-wad at his own game and spread some shit over his big flabby face. Word is he began his ‘blogging’ career years ago as a way to remedy his own crippling depression. Yeah, nice one. Therefore now, instead of him being depressed, he simply causes the depression of others with his tactless writing.

Here you go, Cameron. Let’s even the stakes. You sir, are nothing but a disgusting, fat, vile, slovenly, vomit-inducing, bile-rendering, pathetically repelling, useless piece of septic waste.

Oh and, I hear death threats aren’t beneath you either so: the sooner you…

Come on. Really. Could anyone be that much of a shithead?

Huh, apparently so.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Shay Ted

Photography by I Ron-Ich

Winter is unquestionably the season of my smoke alarm discontent.

Not being terribly fearful by the cold I am not the kind of person who ensures his house maintains a steady 16-18 degrees overnight; oh no, the inside of my lounge has been known to dip as low as 5 on those icy winter mornings…

Which brings us back to smoke alarms; unlike me batteries don’t do so well in the cold. Indeed, batteries are known to become withdrawn and depleted by the cold; therefore it’s generally around 3 a.m. that the infernal mid-winter beeping drags me from my slumber.

There are four smoke alarms in my house all fitted out with 9 Volt ‘Heavy Duty’ Eveready batteries. One of them is beeping, that much I know. Once I’m up, out of spite I usually ignore the beep for the first while. As the morning begins to warm, of course, the battery appears to find some energy and the alarm stops beeping. I go about my day as normal. It’s not until that night that I am reminded of the low battery, smoke alarm issue.

The problem also is that a smoke alarm’s low battery beep is ubiquitous – it can be heard all throughout the house but one never can readily decide from what room it’s originating.

This game of early morning alarms might continue for up to a week before I track down the offending beep and fit a replacement ‘Heavy Duty’ battery.

Yes, ideally I’d replace all four batteries at a given time each year – ideally. I am much too frugal for that; which I guess explains my usage of substandard batteries to begin with.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Eve R Reddy

Photography by Uri B Ping

Who else but the revered New Zealand Government could bring themselves to pay thirty thousand dollars for a door?

Reports have it that a simple door providing division between two rooms – speculation is it’s so Labour party members aren’t continually facing intimidation from their National counterparts – is costing the taxpayer thirty grand.

Supposedly this door is made of pretty expensive timber though so, you know.

Seriously, if there is one NZ institute who like to ensure they always pay top dollar for goods or services that a layman would know is not even worth middle-dollar, it’s our ministers. These guys somehow find single pairs of underpants worth almost a hundred dollars, taxi fares worth thousands of dollars, airfares worth tens of thousands, hotel rooms worth more tens of thousands; company cars worth hundreds of thousands of dollars…

You’re alright, guys, taxpayer’ll get it.

On top of this travesty, somehow our Government found a way to spend millions of dollars fixing up some high country abode when I know a team of builders who would have done the same renovation over a long weekend for a couple of boxes of beer, also the knowledge that the favour would one day be returned.

Minister for Economic Development, Steven Joyce, is running one hell of a misnomer with that ‘economy’ tag he wears so proudly – reportedly spending $70 thousand on convivial signage out the front of MBIE headquarters; Minister of Earthquake Recovery, Gerry Brownlee went through a stage early in Christchurch’s rebuild where as much money as he burned through nothing really appeared to change and in fact, one might have assumed that he was following the advice of Prime Minister John Key and spending his days literally ‘throwing cash at the problem’; Minister of Transport, Simon Bridges, is no better, somehow finding ways to pay approximately ten times the value of cars, buses and well, just about every-bloody-thing.

I almost understand the desire of a politician to throw around cash, to make it rain and such forth – shit, when your wallet is continually filled with a seemingly endless flow of money why would you not? – although being one of the people funding this frivolous expenditure; this outright wastage of the nation’s money, honestly, I don’t think I’m alone in my exasperation.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Phru Val Luss

Photography by Polly Tish-Onn