Is there anything lower than cheating on one’s boy or girlfriend?

            Yes. There is. Cheating on your spouse.

Of course, this action becomes that much more despicable when the aforementioned infidelity takes place within the same year in which the pair establishes those nuptials.

I know. It sounds too ridiculous to be true. Sounds like the brainchild of a worn out team of uninspired TV writers for use on the cheesiest daytime soap opera of all time. It just sounds too…

Ignorant. Pathetic. Arrogant. Gutless. Immoral. Perfidious. Weak. Obnoxious. Unscrupulous. Thoughtless. Heartless. Callous. Spineless. Shallow, cold and wank, wank, wank, wank, wank, wank, wank, wank.

I recently visited the girl who intends to be filing for divorce just eleven months after the ‘best day of her life’. While the news didn’t come to me as a total shock – indiscretions being a feature of past relationships – the groom’s latest indiscretion left me incensed beyond comprehension.

More than anything though, it left me confused. This woman has been a big part of my life for over fourteen years. I have known him for a few. She is clever, she is funny, she is witty, she is wise; she is the most competent woman I have ever known but above all else, she is stunning. She is a blonde bombshell with a brilliant mind; he is an obsequious twat with shit for brains.

On hearing the news my first question to her was, “So, what, was he hoping to do, better … than you?”

Whatever this prime douche-bag had in mind, seemingly it involved more than one, presumably gorgeous, woman. An obvious follow-up question would therefore be: ‘Why would anyone bother entering into a marriage when the implied intention was to later destroy it?’ I considered this long and hard drawing several conclusions: at the fore of my mind was the unequivocal statement, ‘The guy’s a pillock’.

I think I already knew that.

The other conclusion referred less to this pillock’s penchant for treachery and more to his mental state. Ultimately I assessed, he is also a gambler. Similar to many gamblers the rush of losing is often more satisfying than the thrill of a win. This prick must have seen it as a game. Once married, he went out there and he gambled with the highest stakes at his disposal – human emotions.

Evidently he played the odds for a few months before stretching his bet too far – he became careless, thought he couldn’t lose.

On reflection I have to wonder if being caught out was just another part of his master plan, or if he would have allowed the cheating to go on for as long as he was able – perhaps indefinitely..?

I have to wonder furthermore about the state of his reflection, how he perceives all that’s happened..? Does he feel wronged, indignant or even, get this, cheated? I have it on authority that the subject of his adulterous affair has since been discarded, suggesting there was never the intention of taking things further than a simple, albeit prolonged, dalliance – which pisses me off all the more.

That filthy shit-bag was only ever playing. He played with the trusting, loving and sweet nature of the most wondrous woman who ever lived and for that, I have no doubt that he’ll get what’s coming.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Flyan Levtook

Photography by Arp E Cutt

Is the New Zealand public getting stupider, or is it just me?

Yes, I do appreciate the ambiguity of that query. Thing is though, my opening line could have been something flash like: ‘Are we as a nation propagating a generation of indolent lack-wits?’ – or it didn’t even have to be a question – ‘Evidently the majority of New Zealanders have become the personification of obtuse’ or something similar, but I didn’t fancy being labelled a pretentious arse-wipe, an arrogant arse-wipe or, heaven forbid, a conceited arse-wipe.

So I won’t do that.

There’s really only one point of reference to be made here anyway but that single point is more than adequate to justify such a provocative statement – or question as it were.

In a word: speech.

I really don’t think it’s an unreasonable expectation that a person should be able to string together a coherent verbal sentence, and without having to resort to a lot of clichés, idioms, turns of phrase, figures of speech, or famous quotes. You see, the problem with mindlessly repeating a well known phrase is that often it’s a grammatical abortion and one seemingly innocuous abortion, can quickly lead to an unmitigated English genocide.

It is practically impossible to watch the news of an evening and not be bombarded by either juvenile grammatical mishaps: ‘That marathon was like, the most hardest thing I’ve ever done’; adults using puerile colloquialisms: ‘OMG they were like, totally skuxxing it up’; or the most common and by far worst offender, blatant word mis-usage: ‘The car just flew past me, he was literally going like a bat outa Hell’…

While I refuse to engage in discussion regarding the top speed of a hellish bat, the term ‘literally’ implies that words used remain true to their definition as recognised by the International Word Bank, or other formal language source. What the aforementioned speaker has done is confuse ‘literally’ with ‘figuratively’ – the latter being a description which most wouldn’t bother articulating anyway because simply, it’s implied. The expression ‘like a bat outa Hell’ could well be considered a simile, an idiom, or a figure of speech, but as no one truly knows just how fast a bat would come out of Hell, probably the last thing it should be called is literal.

The above example is certainly not the first time ‘literally’ has been used in the hyperbolic, analogical or figurative sense either – it has been happening for years and as peoples’ desire to maintain correct grammar becomes increasingly tenuous, this variety of erroneous speech will assuredly become more frequent.

I understand that by slinging into a sentence at any opportunity the word ‘literally’, people believe they are making their statement more emphatic. The issue here is that obvious misuse of speech tends to manifest the opposite effect. If for instance, while delivering a speech at a town meeting addressing youthful loutish behaviour you regularly refer to the offenders’ ‘fragrant’ instead of ‘flagrant’ actions, unless the neighbourhood kids have been drinking deodorant for kicks, not only might you be grossly misunderstood but those who pick up on your gaffe will likely lose respect for you, making your stand a whole lot less forceful.

Literally is the same thing. Someone continually using the word ‘literally’ to describe figurative situations, potentially, will literally become the butt of the joke.

‘He literally split his head open’ – this refers to a male who has sustained any sort of open head wound.

‘She literally killed it’ – this means she did a very good job indeed.

‘It was literally the most disgusting thing I ever saw’ – this means its appearance was somewhat less than desirable.

‘I am literally going to kill him’ – this means he has earned himself a stern talking to.

‘Yeah, come around man, we’re doing literally fuck all‘… Yeah. Sorry about that. As I recall, at the time I found myself incredulous that anyone could speak so stupidly. The term ‘fuck all’ is about as far towards slang as a speaker can trudge before tumbling into the realms of unintelligibility. After this person’s monstrous grammatical error, whatever respect I had held for them, promptly dissipated.

As a speaker, if you want your words to be hard-hitting, if you want people to take you seriously, my advice, spend less time abbreviating text and more time speaking fluent English.

Also try reading a book. A real book. No pictures.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Bren Lass

Photography by Lee Trolley

Politicians. Yeah, I know heaps more dirty words too…

Caucus, incumbent, lobbyist, impeachment, mandate, doublespeak, disinformation, confederate, conservative, economy, back-bencher, totalitarian, utilitarian, republican, populist, fascist, socialist, dictator, quota, democracy, ballot, by-law, balance of power, constituent, candidate, referendum and the clincher, election.

Gosh. That’s a lot of argot for an assortment of pompous individuals who carry out jobs I’m sure some feel would be more adroitly accomplished by a throng of rabid chimpanzees…

When they’re not besmirching they’re digging for dirt with which they can later besmirch; when they’re not whinging, moaning or bitching they’re cogitating on material to inspire their next big theatrical moment; when they’re not hurling faeces at one another they’re accumulating faeces to hurl.

In theory politicians are straight-talking, transparent, personable and generally charismatic people; in reality they are deceitful, ignominious, insincere, unscrupulous and generally odious actors. In theory politicians are assertive people who have dedicated their lives to ensuring that our great nation proceeds with efficiency, efficacy and prosperity; in reality they are dilatory procrastinators who would struggle with the decision of boxers over briefs let alone how best to run a nation – spending a week forming a committee to decide who should comprise the next committee or holding another referendum to allow the people to decide if it’s necessary to hold so many bloody referendums, or if it’s just a waste of taxpayer money given that the outcome always seems predetermined anyway.

As the election draws nearer politicians will indubitably become that much more smarmy, they’ll want to be seen hugging that many more babies, they’ll force their cheesy grins that much more painfully, they’ll pander that much more feverishly, they’ll lie that much more surreptitiously, they’ll make out like they’ve kept that many more promises; they’ll do everything they can do to try and make you, the New Zealand voting public, declare your allegiance to them…

So, who are you gonna believe?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Des Parridge

Photography by Cam Payne

I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’s right that a man should be able to kill a woman then avoid consequences by oozing out the nearest loophole.

            Furthermore to this hypothetical, imagine the man is a tall, dark, handsome athlete of Olympic standards; imagine the woman is a world renowned sweetheart, model and Cover Girl. Now imagine the pair has been romantically involved for around four months; then imagine that one night the man shoots the woman multiple times through a closed door.

What if, in the ensuing court case this 27-year-old man appeared genuinely remorseful, managing tears and even forcible vomiting at the sight of his now deceased 29-year-old girlfriend – would that engender your compassion, your sympathy, your sorrow…

Or would it not?

Personally, the situation smacks of gutlessness, shamefulness, recklessness, impulsiveness, and a whole butt-load of enmity – likely fuelled by petulance stemming from this sociopath’s inherent narcissism.

You see, I don’t believe Mr Pistorious mistook any identities that night. His defence want us to believe that he fired multiple rounds into a door with the understanding that it shielded an intruder. This was based primarily on noises coming from inside that room; also the fact that home invasions in Pretoria are relatively common.

Seemingly it slipped his mind that he shared a house with his girlfriend. In the moments after squeezing off that succession of rounds however, seemingly, Mr Pistorious has realised his folly – seemingly the fallen figure behind the bathroom door is not a murderous criminal at all but his very own girlfriend – where he’s bashed in the locked door with a cricket bat then seemingly overcome with shock and of course grief at having killed his very own girlfriend, he has immediately contacted the South African authorities.

Now who’s the murderous criminal?

Both parties resided in South Africa, both parties famous in their own right; one party no longer living at all. Reeva Steenkamp was a stunner. She was the sweetheart, the pride of her nation. Reckon Oscar Pistorious was pretty well liked, too. That said, I have to wonder about his nation’s current feeling towards him – especially after he’s been revealed as a gun-toting lunatic.

Admittedly it’s not uncommon in South Africa for citizens to own weapons for protection, but Mr Pistorious’ penchant for weaponry was quite something else…

Seems all this man needed was a target.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Don Tesmy

Photography by Ima Rifleman

Ever since that fateful day in September 2010 where half of Christchurch either collapsed or was suddenly rendered ‘unsafe’, there have been people to capitalise on these unfortunate circumstances.

Looting came first – idiots breaking shop windows and helping themselves to whatever they could grab with two hands, as if ‘crisis’ was just another word for ‘everybody now has permission to forego the natural inclination to look out for your fellow man, and to start acting like lawless pillocks’. Of course this was followed by vandalism and other senseless acts of desecration/violation.

That was years ago. Yet even now, as Christchurch is being rebuilt, that same kind of idiocy is apparent: senseless desecration, petty theft and essentially, violation. Obviously, one could easily assert, given the gutless nature of these misdemeanours the perpetrators must be idle teens, loitering youth, restless rapscallions or indeed, local reprobates of some other variety…

Who would have believed this ongoing scourge could have drifted in from abroad?

Admittedly, Christchurch has always flaunted a reasonably high rate of crime and having the city thrown into tremulous disarray by a barrage of terra not-so-firma quakes, has only exacerbated the issue.

The main problem now, after so called ‘dangerous’ housing has been vacated by its respective owners, seems to be maintaining this vacancy.

Personally, there’s a whole lot of logic in occupying a dwelling because nobody else is; realistically, although they’ve been deemed dangerous, these houses aren’t about to topple over – more likely an EQC assessor snagged his shirt on a nail in a doorjamb.

So people are squatting. Good for them. Makes sense – so long as they understand that they are there at their own risk: beware of falling ceilings and such.

In fact there’d probably be no issue at all if the aforementioned malingerers simply left these ramshackle surrounds as they entered them, which is to say, devoid of faeces…

I’m an open minded guy. I am accepting of most unusual practises. I’m into some pretty weird shit myself, but this shit bothers even me. International Freedom Campers, freely camping in a condemned building. I take no real issue with that, but common sense surely suggests that they take their defecation breaks outside..?

Yes, we are descended from animals but hear this: generally speaking, birds don’t shit in their nests, dogs don’t shit in their kennels, sheep don’t shit where they sleep, horses don’t shit where they eat and nor do cats shit on your lap.

Must be a German thing then.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Daph E Kate

Photography by A R Swipe

Whose bright idea was it to cut ties with the Commonwealth and ditch the almighty Union Jack; who thought it clever to allow the similarly mighty Southern Cross to fall from recognition or perhaps the worst thing, to trade majestic hues of red and blue for the so called ‘Colour of the Nation’, black?

I suppose in some ways it does make sense, in a country where everything sport-related is synonymised with the colour of death, that some might assert the material representation of said nation should also be black.

In New Zealand field hockey both the men’s and the women’s teams are known as the Black Sticks; basketball they’re called the Tall Blacks; cricket it’s the Black Caps; ice hockey we have the Ice Blacks; our male softball team is the Black Sox; the men’s wheelchair rugby team is the Wheelblacks; of course men’s rugby union has the famed All Blacks; then perhaps predictably, our woman’s team of the same code is named the Black Ferns.

Which nicely segues into the next. One proposed flag design is the laughably hackneyed backdrop of black, emblazoned with our other renowned sporting depiction, the silver fern – so everybody can see how very proud every Kiwi is of our sporting accomplishments…

Wait. What about those who have no affinity with sports whatsoever or, heaven forbid, have zero affection for the ever-so-revered All Blacks? Because let’s be fair, it’s New Zealand’s team of resident rugby zealots who most support the flag change; the original patriots of all things NZ appear decidedly less enthused.

I guess in this world of everything-at-your-fingertips, no-need-to-remember-anything-anymore because-everything-you-will-ever-need-to-know-is-in-your-phone which-you-always-have-on-you-anyway – in other words goldfish-like attention spans – it’s understandable that some of us have grown bored with something of which few of us even understand the origin.

Thing is, I have heard only two real complaints about the current flag’s appearance and both of them were asinine: for an undisclosed reason a portion of complainants want to be disassociated with the Union Jack; the other portion claim that our flag is too similar to Australia’s.

Guess what. Essentially, we are part of Great Britain. We are also very similar to Australia. They have over five times the population admittedly, also they sell their dirt so they’re a lot more cashed up than we, but other than that, we’re pretty similar. Reckon we should stop trying to fight the likeness and just accept it.

Besides, I don’t believe our flag is like theirs, I think theirs is like ours.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Eugene Jack

Photography by G C Scrap

As a concept it polarised motorists; as a practise its results have yet to be discovered.

The carefree and careless saw it as simply an elongation of the period for which they could drive their car without having to worry about its condition; the caring and careful saw it as simply, portentous.

The facts: from July 2014 the frequency of WOF checks for all cars first registered after 2000 will be reduced to just one a year. A new car will undergo an initial inspection then not until three years later will it have another; from then on it too will require only annual inspections. Cars born before 2000 will maintain their usual six monthly checks.

Alright. Skip forward to July 2014. Now. Hypothesise with me.

Meet Tania. She’s the driver of a brand new Holden Astra. She has no mechanical understanding. Tania is a sales rep who is expected to clock up in excess of 100 thousand kilometres a year. As hers is a company vehicle she will have little regard for fuel conservation; engine, brake or tyre wear. Her Astra has already passed its initial inspection with new tyres measuring a healthy 8mm of tread, fresh brake pads, full electrics; in fact everything that one would expect from a new car.

In theory the typical motorist is sufficiently responsible to remain mindful of areas of deterioration such as tyres and brakes; to be aware of faltering wiper blades, indicator and brake lights, as well as all other degenerative components.

Hold up. Is somebody seriously giving people this much credit? Sure, some of us probably deserve it but the rest, the rest see their automobile solely as a tool – a means of transportation requiring little to no upkeep, aside from the occasional oil change…

In theory cars undergo a full service every 10 to 20 thousand kilometres where the mechanic will not only change/check filters/fluids, but also carry out an extensive visual inspection of all vital parts – especially those susceptible to deterioration. In theory, these worrisome areas – tyres, brakes, lights etc – will be periodically assessed by a qualified mechanic where the automobile owner will be notified if anything is awry or heaven forbid, amiss.

Now. Skip forward again.

Just under three years and just over 300 thousand kilometres later Tania is marvelling at what a great car her Astra has been: the company has had to absorb no maintenance costs, she’s had no breakdowns and as she pulls out of the petrol station only a few kilometres from home she realises, her only real motoring expense has been covered by the company fuel card.

What is playing on her mind however, is regarding that ‘oily stuff that goes in the motory thing’. Her bush-mechanic boyfriend had often said how it’s important to keep the oil fresh; he’d always told Tania to ‘make sure she had regular services’, and while she was pretty sure he was referring to the car, she didn’t even know how to tell when it needed servicing – did it make a funny sound or something?

Understanding of his girlfriend’s auto-ignorance and passionate about vehicle welfare, at monthly intervals, or just whenever Tania was scheduled to be home for more than two hours, her loving boyfriend would quickly drain the Astra’s engine oil and throw on a replacement filter…

Tania had been driving her Astra more or less continuously since it was allocated to her and while she was aware that her first real WOF was due – there was a sticker at the top right of her windscreen for that – there was no sticker to tell her when she should be servicing her car.

Her boyfriend used to tell her of the letters he received from her company reminding her to bring in the car for its service every ten thousand kilometres but then, where was ten thousand – what number did she start at?

So preoccupied is she that Tania scarcely notices the intermittent rainfall on her windscreen. Only once it has become a veritable deluge does she flick on the wipers. Alas at 100kph the three-year-old, stiff and perished wiper blades can’t keep up. Tania peers through the greasy appearance of a streaked windscreen. She doesn’t notice the blocked water-race to her left. She certainly doesn’t see the shallow pool of water stretching the next few hundred metres down the road.

Before she knows it the car is sliding sideways across the centreline on its way into a roadside ditch.

In the three years since her last safety check, courtesy of a wheel misalignment that should have been rectified two years ago, 8mm of tread has become 0.8mm. Courtesy of frenetic driving, fresh brake pads have also become perilously low.

Tyre tread is designed to disperse water by effectively sucking it from beneath the tyre’s surface into moulded grooves, then squeezing it out channels at the sides. Without adequate tread tyres are unable to perform this task. At speed, wheels skim over water in a process called aquaplaning. Realising she has no control Tania has instinctively hit the brakes – to no immediate effect. Then suddenly the front right wheel has found the road. With no brake material left on the pads the calliper grips. The floating vehicle is thrown into a vicious slide.

Minutes later, peering out a greasy windscreen from her roadside ditch, Tania is shaken but unscathed. Hoping to attract attention she has flicked on her hazard lights. Passing cars are sparse, still she can’t understand why no one’s stopping for her…

To oncoming vehicles Tania is simply nosing out of the drain waiting to rejoin traffic and in no need of assistance – at least according to her rapidly blinking left indicator.

For over 12 months a short circuit in the Astra’s wiring has rendered the car’s right hand side lighting, unblinking.

Three years is an insanely long time period for any car to not undergo rigorous scrutiny. It’s too long. It will end badly.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tania Dink

Photography by Sihle Gall

The NZ Government hopes to have abolished cigarettes by 2025.

Makes me wonder when they’re going to step in and stop, or at least regulate the sale of high sugar, high fat food products – because you do realise that more people die in NZ of fat related disease than they do of tobacco related disease..?

Thing is though, making anybody understand or even hear that being a lard-arse is more detrimental to your health than being a smoker is like pushing a fat chick uphill. It’s down to publicity. NZ media seem to have agreed: Cigarettes are the Devils Work. The media appear similarly sold on the belief that fatness is an illness, rather than a life choice…

Remember back in the Dark Ages when people believed the world was flat, and that homosexuality was a disease? Whatever you remember, whatever you believe, the fact is, it’s not Politically Correct to call a fat person fat, but it is widely accepted to ridicule smokers for their poor life choices.

When tobacco does eventually disappear from shop displays, the hardened smoker will likely still be able to purchase all the smoke-ables he or she desires, and at an undoubtedly discounted price to what the Government is currently charging, at your local Black Market store.

This however, presents a quandary.

On the one hand I am pleased for those hardened, ever so resilient smokers of our great nation – they can still secure their fix and will no longer be financially sodomised for the honour.

On the flipside, our Government will no longer be reaping the rewards of its financial sodomy.

If in 2012 cigarette taxes lined the Government’s pocket to the extent of $1 billion, and tobacco related illness drained the health sector by approximately $1.1 billion, it’s fair to say that as smokers, we pretty well covered ourselves, yeah?

Assume that by 2025 cigarettes have vanished from behind shop counters. All this means is that the main benefactor of tobacco sales will no longer be the NZ Government. Of course the Government will still be expected to cover the cost of tobacco related illness and will be doing so for a great many decades to come, but will now find themselves milking a dried-up cash-cow.

The logical way to cover this shortfall is for our Government to pull its head in, stop blindly discriminating against smokers, wake the hell up and start taxing those who have never paid anything extra for their healthcare – the same ones who are the realistic drain on the nation.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by P C Bolsit

Photography Ura Faddi

Truth be told, I always thought it was illegal to operate a boat in New Zealand with excess blood alcohol.

Apparently not.

Apparently, it’s quite the contrary. It seems that in order to remain law abiding all you must do is abstain from alcohol while setting up for a day’s boating, while setting off for the day’s boating; then not until you have reached the setting out stage – where the boat is actually floating and surrounded by myriad other boating enthusiasts all in similar states of exuberant care-freedom – can you finally hit the booze.

Phew. What a bloody nightmare those few hours of preparation must be. Just be thankful that once you’ve hit the water you can get as legless, and drive your boat as recklessly as you like – providing you stay within International Maritime Laws, of course.

Let’s be fair though. How many casual boaties are actually familiar with the aforementioned laws? For instance, were you aware that International Maritime Law requires approaching vessels to pass on the right – thus portside to portside? Also, how many private motorboat owners are aware that while they must yield for sailboats, commercial fishing vessels have privilege over both kinds of craft?

The point here is that other than a few diligent boat owners, most skippers like to consider their time on the water recreation – a time where they are not so bound by rules; a time where they can let loose, crack a few beers, go a little bit nuts…

Which brings us back to the issue: boozing and boating. Although this practise is currently legal, it is greatly discouraged. That makes little difference to some weekend boaties. In their dickheaded heads: ‘If it’s not illegal, it must be legal, right?’

Here’s the thing, douchebags. The only reason that it is still legal to imbibe alcohol on a boat is because policing such a law would be nigh impossible.

Personally, boozing and boating is as stupid, as irresponsible; as downright reprehensible as drinking and driving. A drunken sailor is equally, if not more dangerous as a drunkard behind the wheel of a car.

I would sincerely hope that if driving with excess blood alcohol became legal, you would not suddenly deem it to be sensible.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by I R Seoul

Photography by Richard Pullar

Why, when cycling garb is already awash with gaiety, do some people feel that cyclists should further embellish themselves with High Visibility vests?

What was the reasoning behind that one – they’ve already made us wear hard-hats so obviously Hi Vis gear is the next step..?

Interesting logic, but have we considered the practicality of such a move? High Visibility vests are clumsy, awkward, stiff and horrible. Traditional bike clothing is sleek, smooth, fitting and as previously mentioned, it’s already frightfully convivial.

It doesn’t require a great deal of perspicacity to identify the group behind this Hi Vis craze either, and you can be damn sure they’ve never ridden a bicycle for more than a few hundred metres at a time.

In fact, I’m seriously querying the prospect that this is a visibility issue at all. Seems to me it’s just another example of anti-cyclist propaganda – another way for the ignorant motorists of the nation to throw an additional handful of spite our way. Reminiscent of homophobia, you only hate so much because you want to join us so bad…

Come on, leave it alone, you know we look good as is – perhaps you’re just bitter because you can’t find a cycling shirt big enough to stretch over that beer gut..?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by B Gotti

Photography by Fleur O Vust