There’s something in my head and it sure as hell doesn’t sound like my brain.

I’m sure that’s where it originated but whatever it’s become over past weeks, whatever the thing in my head is now, it doesn’t sound at all like me. Sounds like a question. Admittedly, that alone doesn’t sound terribly unlike me. It must be the nature of this query that is causing my upset.

Yes, from what I can make out, this seems to be the issue. The thing in my head has been evolving. Curse you Darwin. It’s been evolving and now it’s gone and evolved into something unfamiliar – a smugly arrogant, arrogantly smug; boastfully ostentatious, ostentatiously boastful; condescendingly vainglorious, vaingloriously condescending; powerfully bothersome question. Unquestionably, a few weeks ago the question in question was a slightly different question to the question today but still equally as daft although the voice, the voice behind the question, well, it was just as Goddamned haughty back then as the way it’s coming across right now.

“So smart guy,” it begins, “in a few weeks’ time,” it proceeds, “I was just wondering,” it continues, “once you’ve gone ahead and posted on your gay little Facebook page Moments Gone, Obsession, Revelation, and finally the climactic bombshell to your incendiary sequence, Raw, dude, really, what the hell, how the hell and, more to the point, where the hell do you plan to go from there?”

It should be said, for those of you who did actually take the time to read it, the level of obscenity seen in Raw, is not to be celebrated and nor is it to be replicated. I was a different person back then. By the sound of it a much cleverer person too – shit man, I had no idea you could pack so many expletives into a sentence and still have it contain some semblance of meaning. That blew my mind. What consistently fail to blow my mind however, are the moments leading up to an international rugby union test.

Yeah, that was probably more segue than I needed.

If I am anything to go by, we as New Zealanders, are a decidedly pretentious people. Even so, do we really think it necessary to exalt ourselves to the level that we so clearly do? Yes, unequivocally, ours is the greatest rugby union side in the world. Does that give us the right to keep people waiting, often channel surfing, sometimes drink refreshing, occasionally conversation engaging; seldom attention paying but invariably agitated, by New Zealand’s elongated display of national pride..?

I call to reference the June 14^th match between New Zealand’s All Blacks and England’s English Rugby Union side, which incidentally, posed an identical issue to the week prior and as it turned out, the week thereafter. Here we saw a scintillating, single versed rendition of England’s national anthem, followed by a similarly exquisite, single verse of the Te Reo version of New Zealand’s anthem. Let it be known, I was suitably impressed. “Great”, I thought/mumbled, with emphasis this time on the latter, “they’re finally done putting us through two verses of God Defend New Zealand, then just when you think it’s over and you can watch the bloody game – only-to-be-reminded-that-the-All-Blacks-think-themselves-special to-the-extent-that-the-pre-dominantly-Caucasian-team-like-to-do-a-native-war-dance of-which-few-even-understand-the-relevance-anyway – the bloody Murray version of the anthem starts.”

Tonight appeared to be unfolding differently. One pretty lady had sung the English anthem in English then another pretty lady had sung the New Zealand anthem in Te Reo and it was brilliant. No one could have faulted it. So I’m now preparing for the native war dance of which I have recently reminded myself. Then the second pretty lady’s pretty mouth starts to open again. “This is odd,” I thought/mumbled, “what, is she doing two Murray verses now?” I had no idea at the time just how close I came to thought/mumbling upon the truth, as an additional two English verses of God Defend New Zealand rang out across Dunedin’s Forsyth Barr Stadium. I recall sitting in bemused rigidity throughout. Then the war dance began. I think I recall thought/mumbling a choking sound. I can’t recall if I felt more angered, indignant, embarrassed, cheated, or like laughing at such an audacious manifest of arrogance. Then it was over. Finally. Three verses of the NZ anthem to England’s one, followed by NZ’s decidedly threatening but apparently sacred war dance, to England’s perfunctory interest.

I pitied the English rugby team, standing, transfixed; knowing if their attention lapsed for the briefest of moments, some racial rights radical would likely complain to the NZRFU that the English showed disrespect towards the All Black Haka, and cause all manner of unrest.

Honestly. People. A four part anthem? Shit. We’re not that bloody good.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Murray Wright

Photography by Justin Thyme

Wasn’t long ago I considered myself clinically depressed. I then realised that for a twenty-something-year-old recovering-head-injury-patient to feel this way, was a glaring fucking cliché. It was primarily for that reason that I stopped…

Considering myself depressed.

Most probably I still was, I just refused to see myself as a sad statistic. In fact, most probably I still am; I just don’t allow myself to see this life for the shit-heap that it is.

Thing is, from all those years ago until now, I wonder what the hell has even changed. I mean, I’m still a recovering head injury patient – much as I detest thinking of myself in that way, truth is, my brain is and will always be a damaged. Yeah. So what else do I reckon has change since I was forced out of my dream carer on account of a piece of shit, infuriatingly fickle and indeed, rather fucking bothersome Post Traumatic, Rubral Tremor?

Well, I am doing more now than I ever have done, so I guess that’s something. Still, I do wonder how much of what I could actually be seen as meaningful – how much of what I do at the moment would pose a deficit if the man behind the face yet above the shoes, was no longer in existence?

To all those people with happy little intact brains, the majority of my daily chores would no doubt be perceived as ‘pointless busywork’ – that or just ‘fucking around’.

Yes. Clever cunt. I concur. You see, in order to tackle the big projects one requires wherewithal; in order to possess wherewithal one generally requires a job; in order to hold down a job, well, one requires some sort of current skill set…

You are currently looking at my current skill set.

I’ve been draining the NZ Government for over  ten years now – that said, I don’t suppose they’d even notice if my less-than-minimum-wage weekly compensation was stopped.

Ha. Who am I kidding? Someone fucks up my pay almost every three months and no one ever seems to notice; it’s up to me to find the reason that once again, my medical certificate has not gone through. Given my monetary constraints, including a mortgage and other obligatory costs, this minor fuck-up causes me major distress.

I have extreme fucking difficulty dealing with any kind of stress.

Thing is, my nerves are shot to shit. An affliction not aided by the ostensible fucking incompetence of those people in the nation’s more high-fucking-ranking, important positions. The same ones ironically, who earn the massive fucking salaries and by all rights, should be less likely to fuck things up.

This is but a sample of the shit that plagues my world.

Recently I signed up for a proofreading cum editing correspondence course. It was to be a computer course, thus not requiring pen to paper. Such a potential breakthrough exited me. I have developed a technique which enables me to operate the aforementioned piece of equipment with relative ease – work on a computer is rather more efficient than the Bic inspired alternative.

Well. The course package turned up the other day.  This parcel comprised a lot of paper, a few pens, along with instructions on how and where I should write my answers.

I almost fucking cried.

In hindsight, I should have realised that something was up on the walk back from my Post Box: the beat that I was happily tapping out on the side of the package sounded suspiciously akin to the same beat I had played earlier, on a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s False Impression – wads of paper have difficulty disguising themselves under a drum-beat.

Shitty circumstances notwithstanding I still intended to complete the course, it was just going to be lot more strenuous than it otherwise would have: I find that if I tense the muscles in my arms, back and shoulders to near tearing point, I can usually manage three or four neatly written words each minute. Oh yeah, everything in my world’s fucking rosy.

The question. What has changed from eight, nine, ten years ago, where I would exert on life around seven times the effort of regular folk for only a fraction of the progress?

Nothing really. Still pushing; still being driven back. Still attempting; still failing. Still fighting; still being defeated. Still facing up; still facing down. Still putting in the effort of a dedicated motherfucker; still being comprehensively fucked over.

Sounds silly, but I have always felt that things go wrong for me great deal more than they do for others.

Silly? It’s fucking outrageous. It’s not the case at all, either. It’s just that when things do go wrong for me it’s a fuck-load more significant, because it turns out I’m pretty much fucking useless, therefore powerless to put them right. See, I used to able to fix things. Now I just flail a lot and tend to break more things. I also used to have money so on the occasion that I couldn’t fix the problem, I could pay someone who could. Dude, tradesmen are as expensive as fuck. Hence my life is currently riddled with broken or malfunctioning objects that I am either too fucking useless to repair myself, too poor to have repaired, or too fucking idiotically proud to ask for assistance to put right.

Back when I still thought I was good, back when I believed I still had the ability to fix things, I pleaded my mother for a $1500 loan to buy a project car. 1978 Holden Kingswood fucking shit-kicking panel van – Lucifer moved into my life on 6/6/6; static from thereafter. My (earned) bicycle needs professional attention. My (gifted) computer died. Then my replacement (gifted) fucking keyboard went bung, too. My (gifted) fucking printer ceased function. My (hard fucking earned) spa pool is on the blink. Fuck’s sake. Then sometime in between all that failure my (late grandfather’s) watch stopped. My cell phone, circa 2008, (paid $100 for that one) is on its last legs also…

A lot of the reason for these failings, I guess, is the fact that I can’t afford to buy replacement objects thus have to draw out the lifespan of my existing objects.

Existing objects. Full circle. Currently, I am an existing object. Somewhat of a fucking travesty, admittedly, but an existing object nonetheless.

My life is tantamount to a festering pile of shit in the back paddock. No one cares that it’s there and whether it remains or if it were gone, makes fuck all difference.

Yet, similar to the days of old where if not for the cliché factor I would have quite happily claimed depression, this life does contain moments of joy.

Thing is about that, any good time is only as good as its most recent occurrence. For example, eight years ago my utmost joyful experience was sitting alone in my conservatory, sun on my face, coffee by my side; cigarette in my mouth. Some would say that’s a pretty fucking lame joyful moment – but it cost next to nothing. Granted, my skin has paid the price for the sun but cheap coffee’s cheap and my tobacco’s always duty free. All in all I paid fuck all for that joyful experience; that’s largely what made it so fucking good.

Now my world has been opened up to a whole fucking range of potential joyful moments and all of a sudden, coffee, sun and cigarette in the conservatory have lost its lustre.

As one goes through life, happiness can be located around many different corners. I didn’t go used to looking for new corners and on account of that, I was pretty fucking happy. Perspective. You can’t fucking yearn for what you don’t fucking know.

I was recently introduced to this newfangled Internet contraption. So essentially the pricks at Telecom charge me another $40 a month on top of my phone rental to look at porn; prior to that my spank-bank was located entirely in my head and totally cost-free. Also I am now attending a multitude of appointments up to 80k away, therefore clocking up hundreds of kilometres every week; in the past I would ride my bicycle wherever I needed to go and scarcely use my car. Whichever way you look at it, doing shit costs money. I am now doing more shit than I ever have done, making no more money and the best bit, I am constantly tired. On top of that, despite this recent excess of shit, I still only defecate once daily.

As if shit just won’t stop happening, I contracted Chlamydia a couple months back too. This came after more than six years of sexual aridity and the biggest fucking piss off, there neither was at the time, nor has there been since, any fucking substantial rainfall in the area. Turns out my undercooked sausage was just caught peering through the doorway of the infected hallway. All it took. On top of that injustice, took the meds, had diarrhoea for a fucking fortnight, then lo and behold, few weeks later testicle swelled into a nutty golf ball; had another check, infection remains. Fuck it.

Suffice to say, diarrhoea’s back and I’m thinking, ‘How the fuck is this fair?’

Oh that’s right, how silly of me. Life is not fucking fair. In saying that, it still seems to be a lot more not fucking fair to some than others. I wouldn’t be so pissed off right now if those fuck-faced pricks controlling the game showed some fucking consistency.

You sadistic fuckers, I see your theme. You let the raping and pillaging shitheads of the world live in incarcerated fucking comfort and of course, ensure there are always pillocks to lobby no their behalf for a higher fucking standard of living. You fucking penalise a decent guy and by fucking Christ, you make fucking sure you strip him of every–fucking–thing that he held dear, e-fucking-specially his quality of life. Penalise him for a simple fucking mistake. For one fucking mistake. The same kind of fucking mistake, that most fucking idiots, in most fucking every fucking part of most every fucking where, make most every fucking weekend. Fuck it.

Fucking nice one. Penalise the poor fucker once for nothing out of the fucking ordinary then continue to penalise the fucking shit out of him for the rest of his God forsaken fucking life.

Do that you fucking fuck-stain, if that’s the way you want to do it. I’ll just stand here and take it up the arse like a subservient fucking douche. You just give me a yell when you’re done butt-fucking me with your fateful fucking fuck tool, rinse and repeating. I really don’t have the energy to argue. I’m tired. Take me, take my life, screw me up, hey, roll me in dog shit if that’s your fuckful inclination; lie me down, allow me to unfurl and watch as I endeavour to rebuild a piece of shit life amid a piece of shit world.

Because that’s what I do. I rebuild destruction.

So. The question. Why the fuck do I bother?

Shit. Thought I had a clever answer for that one. Huh. Turns out I don’t. Fuck it. I’ve had it. I sure as fuck don’t have the energy to persevere. I’ve had it with this piece of shit world. I’ve waited for over ten years for it to start cooperating, for it to start playing the game. If it did, I would participate. Alas, it is not. Therefore, I am not. See the pattern, clever cunt? The game’s fucked, it truly is. Even so there is something holding me here. I’ve made my choice – the same choice in fact, that I made years ago but for the benefit of something or some-fucking-one, did not see through.

Problem is, I understand that there are people who would feel genuinely bereaved if I departed this life; some dick-faced munters will even argue that it’s my duty to prolong my own bloody existence. These are the same bunch of ignorant idealists who like to claim that suicide is selfish. I wholeheartedly disagree. Over the years I’ve know a number of people who have offed themselves. I’ve heard many more bitching about how selfish, or how fucking weak it was.

Understand this. A person’s life is their own. They can fucking do with it as they fucking please. If that life-plan includes self-annihilation, surely, that’s their fucking call.

Despite what I said at the beginning, I don’t believe that I’m depressed – not in the conventional sense anyway. I just don’t value life. Simple as that. I could take it or leave it and right now, I’m strongly favouring the latter.

I’m sure some pillocks would argue that the only reason I have make this, apparently impulsive, assessment is because I am depressed…

Dude, have you fucking seen my life?

Honestly, for people like John Kirwan – perhaps the country’s most famously reformed depressed man – the term ‘mental illness’ is probably quite accurate. Shit man, he had the life of which most people dream.

In everyone’s eyes but his own, John Kirwan had a good life. That statement practically defines depression: in everyone’s eyes but his own…

So take a gander at my life and tell us what you reckon – is it depression or is it just shit?

Some people, for whatever reason, don’t have functional lives. Moreover some people had functional lives but have had that functionality taken from them.

I sustained a bee sting today and found myself praying that I spontaneously developed a mortal allergy towards them. I recall looking down at the bee with his arse stuck in my shoulder, frantically buzzing and flapping in an effort to break away; thinking, ‘Dude, be calm, the instant you leave you arse behind, you’re finished.’

Either this wasn’t one of them telepathic bees or he and I shared a common affinity with death, because he kept struggling. Poor little bugger’s arse just wouldn’t come away. So I flicked him. He didn’t come off. I flicked him again an he tumbled to the ground, dead.

I wonder if a bee knows it will die when it stings a person. If it does, I wonder if it wishes to go on living after it stings.

You can’t fucking yearn for what you don’t fucking know.

So what if you have known it? What if you’ve struggled for more than a decade to have it reinstated, to no avail? What if, like that bee, you’re still struggling and the harder you struggle, the harder life seems to fuck you over?

What if you’re not depressed but death just seems like the easiest escape…

Recently, I delved into My Documents and had a look through over 12 months’ worth of homemade literature. You’ll never guess what I found.

I currently have four folders set up with around 18 personally written pieces in each. These folders are named, Articles; Newer Articles; Even Newer Articles; Newest Articles. (No idea what I’ll name the next one but.) I opened Newer Articles. Nestled between Mit Reklaw’s Music and Mit Reklaw’s Truth on Antiperspirant – both fine articles of yesteryear – there was one document which caught my eye. It was entitled simply, untitled.

‘Oh, right,’ I thought/mumbled after a brief moment of confusion, ‘that’ll be Mit Reklaw’s Unentitled, from memory, written shortly before Christmas 2013…’

‘But hang on,’ came the immediate response (amazing how fast a conversation can proceed when it’s being held by the head of just one man), ‘why would I not have named Mit Reklaw’s Unentitled, Mit Reklaw’s Unentitled? Why would I have called it just, untitled, thereby avoiding the ostensible spelling mistake that was ultimately the essence of the article?’ (By this time I believe the thought/mumbling process had become rather more ‘thought’ orientated.) ‘More to the point,’ I thought/mumbled with emphasis on the former, ‘how ever could I have committed my very own cardinal sin by Not Capitalising Words of a Title? (Conjunctions and prepositions don’t count.)

Alarming as the whole ‘untitled’ escapade was, more alarming I think is reading back over this as it’s being written and observing just how long it took me to position the bloody cursor on this mystery file and just open the Goddamned thing.

Am I going for suspense, or am I an inherently dilatory person? Funny how I only ever query that kind of thing once the time has already been wasted.

Prior to opening the file I hovered the cursor and saw that it was written in October of 2013. Interesting. At that time my computer literacy was still very much incipient and in fact, as I recall I was receiving professional tutelage on that very thing – in the hope of one day becoming the IT paragon that I’m certain you can all imagine as the author behind this fluently verbose and exquisitely scintillating articulation.

Click-click.

Who wants to wager on what I saw? Odds for a blank page – $1.80:1; something written in my sleep – $16.20:1; a ransom note for someone of whom I’ve yet to notice the absence – $4.25:1; something penned from beyond the grave – $56.90:1; something written by a hapless hacker who wasted his time infiltrating Tim Walker’s My Documents – $8.21:1; an article I wrote then saved without a title then wrote some more then gave a title then saved again therefore inadvertently making another copy so when I deleted Mit Reklaw’s Raw, I actually didn’t delete it at all. At least not the second draft…

I found it heart-warming to peruse two and a half thousand words – a startlingly high percentage of which were profane – written by a version of me not often seen by the world and indeed, not overly conducive to a life of smooth sailing. It was written so long ago that I had forgotten what it’s like to feel so utterly helpless.

Also angry.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by C U Sune

Photography by B A Blast

Hell. Moments Gone. That was quite something. In light of such an epic personal awakening, I now find myself in a state of reflection. Also perplexity…

Are the majority of people actually as level headed and normal as they make out, or is this apparent normalcy merely a projection intended to perpetuate the stereotypical image of the ‘easy going, calm and collected Kiwi battler’?

In the throes of my comparatively juvenile existence I have encountered plenty of examples leading me to query the authenticity of this portrayed stoicism. I can’t count how many times I’ve met the ‘typical Kiwi bloke’, oozing his seemingly balanced and totally unaffected mindset; yet who is realistically overworked, under-slept, overstressed, teetering on the brink of insanity and who as a result would struggle to subtract 7 from 15 which incidentally equals the total hours sleep he’s allowed himself over the past three nights leaving him in an unstable and somewhat deranged mental state…

I’ve been said to suffer from some curious afflictions in my lifetime: Hyperthyroidism, Hypomania; Hyperactivity, Insomnia; Hypersensitivity, Hypoalgesia; Tobacco Addiction, Asthma;  Rubral Tremor, Fitness Fanaticism – as that last one’s not so much an affliction as it is a life choice, I’d best leave it there. You’ll see the point in a minute.

One supposedly normal woman once noted that I was ‘such an intellect’; then with the next breath conceded that she ‘loved my crazy’..?

For the record, that’s the first time I ever heard ‘crazy’ used as a noun.

Crazed intellectuals notwithstanding, I spent hours in torrid contemplation over that one. Honestly, it worried me a little. Truth is, something as apparently innocuous and indeed vacuous as mixing the terms ‘intellect’ and ‘crazy’, can lose me a great deal of sleep at night. The reason this next affliction of the mind failed to feature in the fourth paragraph is because I don’t consider the terms Obsessive and Compulsive at all curious – at least that’s what my brain told me to say.

Now sling a D word alongside the existing pair and you can abbreviate like a pro – OCD.

Many normal folk will maintain that OCD relates strictly to numbers therefore any other form of obsessive compulsion is not technically OCD, but what can we really expect from under three hours’ sleep a night? Mine relates primarily to words. I do have other hang-ups, such as neatness, correct object placement and replacement, pattern repetition, equal treatment of sides, only stopping on even numbers and other pointless stuff like that but mainly it’s about words, and the composition of words.

Also grammar, punctuation, parts of speech, page styling and formatting; ultimately words.

Dude. Honestly. Who still uses semi colons?

I do, because I refuse to begin a sentence with the word ‘and’.

But Danielle Steel starts paragraphs with ‘and’.

I know, and it makes me sick. On that note, the word ‘but’ as a sentence beginner, is equally as detestable.

But what about when you need to?

You never need to.

But I do. Sometimes.

Alright then, take a look at your last three buts. Now remove them and read the statements. I think the sentences sound better, clearer; more emphatic.

But why does it matter anyway?

It matters because ‘but’ is a conjunction, a joining word; a sentence filler. Similar to ‘and’ and ‘because’, in most cases, it is possible to avoid in sentence beginnings.

But sometimes it’s not.

Not there though, eh.

And what about ‘and’ or ‘because’?

What about them? How are you not getting it?

Because it’s not natural. But it’s easy to start with conjunctions. And that’s all I was meaning. But anyway, your way’s not normal.

Nice one. Normalcy. Full circle. Yes, my perceived level of normalcy is frighteningly low.

So you’re weird then?

By definition, yes. By colloquial interpretation, no. I’m weird because I’m not typical, usual, regular or ordinary; not because I’m mentally unstable or ill – although…

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Timothy Walker Dip.Edit

Photography by Anita Break

You know that feeling you get when your mind falls idle, then suddenly it’s overthrown by an onslaught of frustrating memories that just make you angry and which you have no idea why your brain’s even bothering to retain because they’re so damned pointless and depressing anyway?

No? Just me then..? Right.

Worse still is that the force behind this exodus of pleasant thoughts, followed swiftly by the unsettling influx of longing and regret, sometimes likes to stick around for a bit, making itself comfortable, settling in within the folds of my memory membrane, often digging up other undesirable events in memory form, perhaps in an effort to quell the need for companionship – do memories need other memories to be happy and if so, can an inherently odious memory become a joyful memory simply by reaching out to another memory?

I don’t know and I’m willing to wager, neither do you.

That’s not the point though. The point is, occurring most frequently while chopping vegetables of an evening, my brain, in an act totally out of my conscious control, starts running through every major embarrassment, every significant failure, every shameful rejection and in fact, given time, I’m quite certain that it would recollect for me every bloody negative moment in my life to date.

Couple of reasons I can see for this phenomenon. Firstly, ten or so years ago I made a concerted effort to ensure that my memory returned fully from the brain damage that almost killed it, and perhaps I pushed too hard. Secondly, and let’s be fair, this life, my life, comprises a terrible lot of shitty moments which, as we continue, are only set to become more abundant. Therefore I suppose, when the brain sitting atop the body of the man below has few conscious thoughts to occupy it and with a memory bank brimming with excruciatingly lurid recollections, well, there’ll be no prizes for guessing how that brain chooses to fill its downtime.

From stupid things I’ve said to idiotic actions I’ve taken, from erroneous problem solving to absent minded mistakes, from awkward introductions to heartbreaking farewells, from ill advised endeavours to personally blundered efforts, from regrettable moments to forgettable occasions; from the gorgeous girl who mocked my ingratiation, to every other pretty lady who has ever spurned me…

Believe me, of the latter there is no dearth.

I effectively missed my late teens. Those years where I might have been gallivanting around the countryside, boozed up and without a care in the world, I was immersed in brain damaged solitude and focused only on executing my cognitively adequate return to society. Problem was when that time finally came, it was too late. All the good memories had already been made and generally speaking, I was not a part of them. People had selected their life partners and already made their getaways.

Missed opportunities notwithstanding I dug in and tried going it alone.

This earned me a mere spattering of good times and a veritable buttload of shitty memories.

Few hours down the track, once the vegetables have been chopped, cooked, prepared and eaten, if I’m not careful they’ll get me in bed, too. That’s the worst thing. That’s worse than 108 of the aforementioned rejections – because that’s what it usually is only in this instance I’m not physically present to face up to the situation and the regret evoked by the memory of rejection is actually a lot more painful than the rejection itself. The regret of what I didn’t do, the regret of what I should have done; what I would have done had the universe hence circumstances had not been against me…

You know that feeling?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Bill Sheet

Photography by Tom Malt

It seems counterproductive that New Zealand’s authority figures are bound by law to treat offending dick-wads with a similar level of courtesy they’re expected to show their grandmothers at Sunday brunch.

Breach of human rights; police brutality; inhumane practices; mistreatment of suspect; excessive use of police dog; abuse of authority; abuse of power; abuse of weapons; abuse of douche-bag-who-thinks-it’s-his-God-given-right-to-desecrate-another-person’s-property-because-that’s-how-the-streets-raised-him-and-he-doesn’t-know-any-better…

These are terms that idiots who know they’re in the wrong but feel that with just the right amount of idiot self-righteousness they can still make it out on top, like to spout with idiot tones of undeserved entitlement and unwarranted grandiose in an idiot effort to mitigate the idiot consequences of their idiotic actions.

Truth is, if I were a police officer tasked with the apprehension of a pack of illiterate, ill-mannered reprobates with no greater desire in their feeble lives than to make nuisances of themselves by showing irreverence and belligerence towards anyone who tries to direct them down a path with even the slightest semblance of meaning, I would not hesitate to beat the shit out of them.

Yet NZ police officers don’t do that. NZ police officers exhibit restraint. NZ police officers show discipline. NZ police officers, beholden to act according to an ill-conceived, restricting and largely ridiculous list of regulations, do their very best to uphold our law.

Here’s the thing about that. The average law-breaking shit-head has no rules or regulations to hold them back, it’s only the poor sucker trying to reinstate order who does. Yet even after everything, even after the offender has done his darnedest to evade capture, even after he has lead a team of officers on a five kilometre jaunt across town, even after he has been finally dragged down, even after he has managed to break the nose of the apprehending officer, even after writhing and thrashing his way to freedom for a second time, even after requiring ten men to once more pin him down, even after scratching skin from every face within reach; even then, if the police so much as contuse this piece of shit, it is within the offender’s rights to complain to a higher authority, to have the situation reviewed, to cause a spectacular uproar within the media, also among the public and subsequently the entire bloody police force; then the real shit of it, it is totally within the rights of the accused, if they feel hard done by, if they feel as though their offending has resulted in anything less than their complete bloody gain, to do whatever they can do to precipitate the loss of rank or position of any one of these upstanding figures.

Hardly seems fair does it?

Take a West Auckland street party – that is, a party which began indoors but due to excess numbers on account of someone’s invitation contracting a virus, was unable to be contained by four walls. Obviously neighbours are unsettled. In fact to many, these are the two most unsettling words in the New Zealand vocabulary: alcohol, youths. Therefore police are called. Of course the aforementioned rapscallions maintain that everything was always under control; the police will maintain a decidedly different perspective. The rapscallions claim that everything was fine until the fuzz stepped in hoping to stem the torrent of vomit; the police will be proceeding with the understanding that if they don’t control the current level of revelry, it will soon become uncontrollable. The rapscallions reckon that in the process of controlling the situation police mistreated them and in doing so, stripped them of their basic human rights…

Police will have been doing their best to act according to law, or as much as one can do while being chastised, berated, castigated, excoriated, expectorated and fustigated – yet a week later their actions are under investigation.

Funny how no one ever feels the need to investigate the actions of a dick-headed rabble of drunken youths.

Like anyone I have had my problems with police. It could even be asserted that I don’t much care for their presence. That said, even I can appreciate the magnitude of shit these people endure – shit they endure for people like you and me.

Given all that, I reckon they do alright.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Clancy Wiggum

Photography by Eddie N Lew

Why wait until death is just around the corner before embarking on all the cool stuff you’ve always wanted to do?

Why not do it now?

I mean, why wouldn’t you carry out your so called ‘bucket list’ while you’re still able-bodied and healthy, while you can still appreciate the greatness of the feat for years to come; while the people you hope to include in this activity are still alive and able to appreciate the greatness of it also?

April 2007 I underwent the death of my dearest friend.

Although I was devastated by a gargantuan sense of loss – for me but especially for his family – that was almost mitigated by the fact that I knew he regretted nothing. This man had lived his life according to a resounding cliché – as if each day were his last. Similarly, I felt no regret on his behalf – him and I had shared countless great moments and never held anything back from one another – if it needed saying it was said, if it needed doing it was done and done properly.

The point here is that in the days following this great man’s death, there was one line which was uttered with such frequency that it reverberated inside my skull for weeks to come: “Oh, there was so much I wanted to tell him…”

On hearing this mawkishly hackneyed quote for what must have been the 32^nd time in just a couple of days, honestly, I felt I was going to explode. It was all I could do to stop myself from confronting the speaker, gripping them by their quivering shoulders, shaking them by their forlorn bodies, slapping them across their woeful faces and screaming into their bloodshot eyes, “Well why the bloody hell did you wait?!”

Given that outbursts of this nature are not considered proper funeral decorum, I was forced to bite my tongue.

The point remains: why do we wait until it’s too late?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rip Deano

Photography by Dean Jared Carroll

How many times in the last ten years have you heard weather forecasters predict wind/rain/hail/snow of a destructive nature, only to have the impending storm fizzle long before it even reaches the New Zealand coast?

So did you ever wonder why they’re so cautious? Did it ever bother you to find yourself preparing for the worst when that elusive negative so rarely seemed to befall you?

What do you reckon about the alternative though? If you’d been warned, sure, you might be prepared; if you hadn’t, this so called destructive weather would catch you unaware. Then what would you do?

You’d likely complain your entitled little arse off, wouldn’t you? You deserve to know about severe weather in advance, don’t you? You work hard, you pay your taxes; it is therefore the duty of television meteorologists to inform you of considerably bad weather at least three days before it occurs.

Here’s the reality guys. Earth’s weather is fickle. Much as we like to think we can predict its cycles, patterns and so forth, ultimately it does as it pleases. Honestly, I wouldn’t trust an ‘extended weather forecast’ past day two – hell, even that’s pushing it. Yet for some reason the public expect to have knowledge of significant changes in weather days, even weeks before they eventuate. In fact, it seems that most people expect warning of just about every undesirable event occurring in their day to day lives: weather; terrorism; earthquakes…

Poor old Ken Ring. He was only trying to help out with his predictions of when and where earthquakes were most likely to take place, and his reasoning was sound – on the full moon tides are higher; higher water volume exerts extra weight; extra weight on tectonic plates can cause them to shift; therefore shifting; thus moving; so shaking and hence, quaking.

The poor bugger was accused of ‘scaremongering’. He offered the people likelihood, yet was heard to be saying: “The next earthquake will almost certainly strike on…”

Here’s the issue with Ring’s ‘helpful’ projections. The majority of us don’t like to deal in ‘maybes’, ‘perhapses’ or ‘possiblies’. Oh no. Our current batch of highly strung, self-righteous and generally pompous 21^st centurions will be satisfied with nothing less than ‘definitelies’, ‘certainlies’ and to a lesser extent, ‘probablies’.

On that note, here’s the issue with establishing a life of absolution: Life is Uncertain.  Ostensible authority figures can spend all day promising you all manner of reassurance but at the end of that day, it’s all largely shit.

Shit happens. Get used to it.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Kharma Stacey

Photography by Quay King

Now I look at it, that heading is a little misleading.

Let’s be clear. I do not, nor have I ever, sported any amount of racism. That said, the issue of racism within sport is currently and has always been a big one. Appears to be biggest at the moment in the US; specifically, with redneck basketball team owners being overheard uttering things that nobody should ever hear.

Take a look at the UK though. Racism has always been a feature within FIFA, they’re just so inured to it that nobody bothers feeling aggrieved anymore – although if one is seeking true racism in sport, one must go southward.

South Africa is considered by many to be the home of sporting racism. Idealists like to talk about ‘pre and post apartheid South Africa’ as if such an agreement makes any bloody difference to the bigots and xenophobes of the nation…

Perhaps someone should ask a few Maoris about the sanctity of agreements with White men.

Realistically, while sporting racism is and for a long time has been all around us, given that it usually takes the less damaging verbal form, most level headed sportspeople don’t find it too difficult to ignore. Of course when these aforementioned slurs take place in the public arena, seemingly, it becomes that much more damaging.

It’s not even that the public is more sensitive to racism than the world’s sports stars, it’s just the instant the public become involved in such a potentially uproarious situation of which details are globally disseminated in a matter of mouse clicks, those people in high places seem to think less about the actuality of words spoken – about how words are only words and how they hurt significantly less than a stiff jab in the ribs – and are now thinking about ‘how this purported string of words might be construed possibly in a worst case scenario maybe by someone who just happens to give a damn..?’.

Honestly, people, are we so bloody precious that we allow our lives to be thrown into veritable disarray by a collection of nouns and adjectives?

On that note, what about the recent brouhaha caused by Top Gear big man, Jeremy Clarkson? What an absolute bloody crock. The man mumbled a famous rhyme which just happened to include that detestable N word – not that anyone could hear it, they just knew it was there because they knew the rhyme. Honestly, I can’t see it being any worse than thinking the word. The N word. The same one you’re all thinking right now. That same word that Black folk use freely and even affectionately but which they can, because they’re Black folk, so other Black folk know there’s no malice behind it…

That right there, that’s the point. Surely, in order to exhibit racism per se, one must actually feel prejudice; yet as a result of mindlessly quoting a renowned rhyme, Mr Clarkson has been dubbed King of Bigotry.

I think he was later seen chewing up and spitting out some Black Boy peaches, too.

I have to wonder though, are these ‘Black Communities’ genuinely offended, or have they merely taken the opportunity to play their race card by capitalising on an ignoramus’s gaffe?

To reiterate, I am not a racist person. People who commit so called race crimes by harassing minority groups primarily because they are minorities, in my opinion, deserve to be hung by their balls from a streetlamp in K Road.

Even so, words are words. If sticks and stones are still breaking your bones, you should probably harden up and eat more calcium. Besides, racism goes both ways. I have been the subject of Black riling on account of my inherent Whiteness – I bit my tongue and walked away.

It’s not that bloody hard.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ray Schism

Photography by Trav S Tay

Are we so full of ourselves that we think we know what’s best for all of nature’s creatures?

Of course by ‘we’ I mean the environmental activists of the nation and by ‘all of nature’s creatures’, well, I’m really talking about one species in particular which, if you paid any attention to my typically flippant heading, you’ll have probably worked out by now.

Pickles aren’t creatures, smart-arse.

The reason that whales beach themselves is not definitively known. Yet, and coming as no surprise, the aforementioned enviro-zealots like to attribute this issue to the ruinous effects of modern living. Included in this scapegoating is pollution; shipping noise; military sonar – the latter shouldering the brunt of the blame, having been said to mimic whales’ own natural audio thereby confusing and disorienting their navigational senses…

Wait a minute. Nah. I don’t buy it.

I just don’t believe whales are that prone to confusion. Hell, if these miraculous mammals can orientate themselves while holding their breath over ten kilometres beneath the ocean surface and in absolute darkness, something tells me they’re a smidgen more canny than to be confused by the beeping of a ship’s sonar – not like people when combing the ocean for a missing aircraft’s black box…

Here’s the thing. Mass whale strandings have been a feature of coastlines since back in the day when Greek philosophers would try to convince naïve townsfolk that grounded whales were portentous of Poseidon’s anger. Yeah. A slightly more credible theory is that whales are coming ashore with the intention of dying due to an aquatic food shortage; which I can totally see being peoples’ responsibility. Global population is ever-expanding thus fisheries need to continuously raise output and ultimately, sea life is suffering. That part makes sense. It’s what we do about it that makes decidedly less sense.

Instead of locating the cause of the problem then taking steps to reinstate these ocean-going-behemoths’ food source, we appear to be doing the opposite. For a start we’ve recently implemented laws preventing Japanese from ‘hunting whales for research purposes’ meaning there’ll be more of them in the ocean requiring a food source; so when for the good of the species these magnanimous creatures do opt out of the race by parking up on the nearest beach, we recruit teams of do-gooders looking to justify their own existence by spending countless hours moistening, comforting then finally refloating them, sometimes only to have the sly buggers swim around the bay and do the very same thing on the next beach over.

What the hell did you expect, genius? Whales aren’t stupid. Their world is almost twice the area and is over 100 times the volume of ours, so I reckon they pretty well know where they’re going. If they do run aground, I have no doubt it’s because they want to. So if you want to do something practical, shit, I dunno, swear off seafood or something. Otherwise, just leave the big ol’ beasts be.

Japanese slaughter whales, sure, but at least they use them. Surely that’s better than having them starving in the ocean or the alternative, rotting away on beaches.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Waylan D Ocean

Photography by Wit Harr-Poon