Anyone who doesn’t wear a lifejacket aboard a boat is a dickhead.

That was me showing restraint too; because honestly, of all the boating incidents in New Zealand, the mishap most frequently results in a fatality when the dickhead in question is not wearing a lifejacket. Seemingly the issue lies somewhere within the folds of their arrogant, ill-conceived, dick-headed; veritably moronic mindset: “What do I need a lifejacket for? I’m not a kid you know, I can swim…”

Famous last words maybe..?

Yeah, if by famous you vacuous, which you probably don’t…

These are the facts, dickhead. Whether or not you can swim, being suddenly immersed in frigid water, fully clothed and shod, the surprise alone can be enough to send a gulp or two of liquid death down into your lungs. That’s all it takes. You see, human lungs aren’t set up for processing water. The instant that you swallow/breathe more fluid than you can choke back up in a couple of spasmodic coughs/retches, you’re a dead dickhead.

Furthermore dickhead, have you tried expunging water from your lungs while frantically treading the aforementioned in an effort to not inhale more? Believe me, it’s a mightily arduous task – that’s without taking into account the fact that there’ll likely be waves breaking in your mouth, also that you’re still a fully clothed and shod dickhead.

Another thing, dickhead, don’t for an instant think that because that old lifejacket at the back of the wardrobe – your late grandfather’s RNZAF relic – was good enough to save his life when he was shot down over the Pacific, or because it still fits you, it will be at all beneficial to your 10-year-old son. Adult lifejackets do not fit children. In fact poorly fitting lifejackets are more renowned for killing the wearer than saving them.

So dickhead, ensure that your vessel is equipped with enough lifejackets for every person aboard. Don’t try to be a hero by giving up your own so a child doesn’t go without. If you all end up in the water, fully clothed and shod, you’re gonna need all the buoyancy you can get when you do start being a hero.

Lastly, dickhead, don’t be a dickhead on the water.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Richard Head

Photography by Gray T Ocean

Everybody has heard the adage and most like to say they believe it too. Some actually do believe it and have gone so far as to incorporate this doctrine in their lives…

Whichever way you perceive it, ‘It’s the simple things in life that matter’.

I used to have expendable cash. I don’t anymore. I used to be that guy who appeared to have ample everything. I’m not anymore. I don’t spend much money at all these days. I’m not tight though. I just don’t have money. I have had to adapt to a new way of life. I have to be prudent with the money I do have. I’m not bothered by that though. I quite enjoy it. I get by. I never was big on wasting money anyway. I never did see the point.

So yes, they can drive their expensive cars, they can wear their flash clothes, dine at their fancy restaurants then perhaps head out to the opera; I’d sooner drive home in my ’92 Primera, change into a check shirt and Stubbies, cook my own bloody meal and spend the night getting better acquainted with an old buddy, Hard Rock.

I once overheard a conversation between two couples trying to outdo each other regarding how much money they had spent during a night out. The victorious duo was pushing $1000. This wasn’t a special occasion, this was just a young, frivolous couple of people, carefree and cashed-up.

These people seemed to have forgotten the happiness and beautiful simplicity of a life before Gainful Career Opportunities teamed up with The Almighty Dollar and possessed the souls of so many; a time where satisfaction was sought not via the swiping of credit cards but through peaceful strolls amid serene landscapes; where amusement was found not within the darkened seats of movie theatres but through sunlit yarns over cups of coffee; where gratification was secured not through a stint of mindless retail therapy followed by an all night bender but through working, earning then rewarding oneself with something worthwhile – something that would stick around a little longer than a bloody hangover.

Alas in this consumer world of one technological breakthrough after the other where chain stores don’t ever seem to sell anything above cost, a great many people appear to have lost sight of the basics, the roots; the rudiments of what make life great.

When did it become acceptable to burn through a weeks’ pay and have nothing to show for it? When did an expensive SUV become the representation of a cohesive family? When did money wasting become a status symbol? When did young people become so damned entitled? When did we stop appreciating the simple pleasures in favour of newfangled crap?

Ultimately, and whether or not you’re like me where the simple things are more or less the only thing given that anything too complex usually results in my shortcomings thus failings, chances are the simple things – the simple pleasures – will be not only more satisfying than their high maintenance counterparts, but more meaningful too.

Embrace them while you can.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Taki Tefur

Photography by Grant Tedd

We have signs for everything. Signs to tell us what to do; signs to tell us what not to do.

I once saw a sign along a walking track advising that wet conditions might cause the walkway to become ‘treacherous underfoot’ – until then I’d never heard of a perfidious dirt track and I don’t expect I ever will again. On that same route was a timber stile bearing a similar sign except instead of warning users of underfoot treachery, it was cautioning against possible ‘slick surfaces’.

More recently I was witness to a sign stuck to the frosted glass of a fifth storey hotel balcony; it advised against leaning over too far because, ‘you could fall’. There is a sign on most fuel bowsers making sure people understand that petrol is still very much a ‘combustible liquid’. There is a sign on my three-step stepladder notifying me that should I ascend past that first step, I risk ‘toppling’. There is a sign near the spout of my electric jug warning me that should I insert any part of my anatomy, I risk ‘scalding’. There is a sign on my container of Napisan telling me that should I ingest its contents, I risk ‘sudden illness’; there is a similar sign on my rat poison bucket pointing out that should I ingest those contents, I risk ‘sudden death’.

That’s a great many signs depicting a great many risk factors that are either beyond stupid or so basic that anybody in their right mind should be able to see the risk involved – but what about babies, you might say..?

Babies can’t read, I say.

It is therefore a parent’s job to ensure an infant’s safety, and if that parent requires a sign to tell them that scissors cut, points prick, knives slice, petrol goes boom and heat is hot, I reckon we need to consider screening our breeders.

Personally, this provides the ideal opportunity for the implementation of my fabled ‘culling’ programme. If someone thinks it prudent to lean so far over a fifth storey balcony that they fall to their demise, I honestly can’t see it as a huge loss to society. Similarly if somebody strikes a match to see inside their fuel container or scoops Napisan instead of Equal into their morning coffee; ground rat poison instead of ground pepper onto their mashed potato, do we truly believe that it would lower the nation’s collective aptitude?

No. Yet seemingly the intention is to have such a well explained, thoroughly comprehensible and indeed foolproof nation that as the people therein, we can go through life having laid down common sense, relinquished logic; having cast off any responsibility for our actions, shed every modicum of thought process, and still manage to maintain a reasonable level of prosperity.

Gosh, what a world. What a time to be alive – where idiocy is not only celebrated, it’s nurtured.

Those mindless bureaucrats at Occupational Health and Safety are indubitably the force behind this excess of inane illustrations because obviously, the more restricted an organisation can render a particular industry, the more safe its employees will be..? The implied motif is an insult: common workers are simply too daft to realise when they’re jeopardising their own lives, therefore OSH have to tell them…

I guess in a way we’re fortunate to have so much signage; how else would a person know to aim a live firework away from face?

I do have to wonder though if the frequency of workplace mishaps has actually decreased in recent years, given that when the aforementioned variety of misadventure takes place, generally, the offending party is quite aware they are acting dangerously – they sure as hell don’t need a sign to remind them anyway.

How about a sign to tell us to stop making so many Goddamn signs?

PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS AFTER TOUCHING THE TAP AFTER WASHING YOUR HANDS

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Rex Banner

Photography by Si N Edge

They’re a menace on our roads. They’re a danger to both themselves and to motorists. They’re a hindrance to the flow of traffic. They take up too much of the road. They look so bloody stupid in that Spandex…

We also run red lights, we never stop completely at stop signs, we’re often seen riding two or three abreast, we sometimes fail to indicate before we turn, we’re insanely erratic and yes, then there’s those bloody outfits we wear.

I’m a cyclist. Rather an avid one at that.

I have no issue with the haters, I can even sympathise with most of you. I have no problem with the typical motorist expressing his hackneyed opinion – embodiment of slothful ignorance that you are – for the most part I can even understand your viewpoint.

As a fat, lazy man the last thing you want to be doing is embarking on more exercise than is absolutely necessary. That being so, as you while away your Sunday afternoons over a few cool pints of ale at the local with your buddies; given that your office job provides little semblance of ‘Better Work Stories’, the topic of discussion likely turns to, ‘The main issue with those bloody cyclists’ or ‘How we need to get rid of those bloody cyclists’ or ‘The way our roads these days are overrun with those bloody cyclists’ or even ‘How you were almost involved in a traffic incident when your phone call was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of those bloody cyclists’, or similar.

In your mind the more aspersions you can throw at these energetic lunatics, the less guilty you will feel about living a life of such indolence; therefore the less likely that you will ever feel compelled to get off your own arse and commit to a stint of physical exertion.

On the other hand perhaps you’re not trying to avoid exercise and the reason for your prejudice relates less to sweaty Lycra and more to cyclists’ ostensible arrogance on the road – on your road.

In which case, point noted.

Yes, cyclists do tend to be arrogant and even reckless on the road. That’s probably on account of having so much testosterone coursing through their veins. This is not me talking up the manliness of cyclists, this is merely the body’s natural reaction to prolonged exercise. Despite being among the less sizeable, less controllable and indeed, less robust vehicles on the road, when testosterone couples with adrenalin and begins to flow around our bodies, simply, we feel invincible.

Hence the occasional, apparent death-wish.

As for stop signs, have you seen the calamity involved in detaching, then reattaching our feet to the pedals? No? Fair enough then. I concede, that is unfair. Bicycles are vehicles and they should therefore adhere to the same set of rules as automobiles.

Truth be told, I seldom come to a complete stop in my car either.

Indication on a bicycle can be difficult. Under heavy braking, it can be an impossibility. The right hand operates the rear brake; the left is the front. The front brake has more stopping power but is more unsafe – especially in the wet. If a cyclist approaches a greasy intersection wanting to turn right, he’ll elect to use his rear – or right – brake. You see the problem. I do always make an effort to indicate but often, especially if it’s only a flick of the hand while still holding the handlebar, it is easily missed.

Typically a solo cyclist I am not a supporter of anything wider than single file riding. That said, and despite the ill-conceived instruction that cyclists are to be given at least a metre clearance when passing, personally, there’s nothing the matter with coming within 20 or 30 centimetres of us anyway. It’s when sides of trailers clip my knuckles on the way past…

While I am not an advocate of male leg shaving, I am a user of cycling garb. Hard as it might be to believe, those tight pants and stretchy shirts do amazing things to protect a supple body in the event of a crash. I’d know. My most severe spill occurred on a wet hillside road at over 57kph and had me sliding, tumbling and bouncing for the next 20 metres. Admittedly I came out of that crash with blood oozing, but only in exposed areas and nothing so bad that I was unable to ride the 35kms home.

I think what truly riles a lot tax-paying motorists is the fact that cyclists don’t – pay road tax. I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment. I don’t believe that cyclists will ever be respected as road users until they start paying for the road on which they ride. Every other road user pays to use the road, so why don’t cyclists?

I have no problem with the concept of bicycle registration. How can we as cyclists expect the road to be accommodating to us, with cycle lanes and the like, if we aren’t prepared to pay for it?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Anita Band-Aid

Photography by Moe Tristan, Trey Le

What gives some the belief that they are better than others? What elevates these people to their seemingly exalted standpoints? What then affords them the arrogance that they so readily exude – because I’m beginning to wonder – are reputations simply handed out these days, or are they still earned?

Come on. Really? Everybody knows that reputations, be they positive or negative, are earned. As for those people who like to act as though they balance on the upper echelons of the ladder of life when realistically they are not much more than moronic, snivelling little piss-ants, they likely suffer some sort of mental affliction such as megalomania or hypomania whereby their ostensible and indeed, their projected level of grandiose is far superior to the rest thereby creating an impenetrable force field of blinding scintillation…

If you would, shift your focus to the music industry. On the one side we have truly venerable pop artists, such as Madonna, Christina Aguilera and perhaps to a lesser extent, Lady Gaga – individual acts who have been around a while, who’ve shown class, flair, uniqueness; have perhaps been the centre of the occasional scandal but nothing overly destructive and most importantly, who have exhibited longevity. Then we have the blow-outs. Britney Spears was among the first of the teen idols to be destroyed, followed later by Miley Cyrus, with Justin Bieber beginning his insalubrious implosion just recently – so who’s next?

I dunno. Ask the media.

There it is. The disgraceful truth. It is our irreverent media network that is responsible for not only celebrities’ rise to status but their subsequent, or given the age at which they are cast into the limelight some might say inevitable, fall from grace.

The media builds them up; the media shoots them down.

Take a look at Kim Kardashian. She was nothing. She didn’t even do anything spectacular. Yet through her appearance on some crappy reality TV show, she rose to the height of fame, brought along for the ride her two nothing sisters, where she then embarked on a series of marriages, gaining through this not a husband but even more publicity, therefore status, until finally settling on another talentless loser but media favourite with a great deal of undeserved status himself, Kanye West.

So what if you aren’t in the media spotlight? Who allocates status to regular folk? Also, why does this great allocator seem to give out chunks of status disproportionately and to what can only be described as an arbitrary cross section of people? Moreover, why so very frequently are we finding that the pond-scum of the world – the shit-buckets, the drop-kicks, the douche-bags – the ones who by right are the least deserving of status, are those same ones who are seen to be breezing through life with their flash cars, nice clothes, cute little girlfriends and apparently living their lives from the precipice of personal and social grandeur?

Hold up. Stop asking questions. Firstly, to that one just there, the answer is illusion. That and a lot of debt.

To elaborate: this is an example of a phenomenon that I have coined, ‘Pretentious Status’. Most commonly found among the incapable, the feckless and the ignorant, Pretentious Status is the mind’s way of coping when the being it’s fronting, just isn’t very good. People who are genuinely good don’t require a surplus of self esteem, it’s there because they’re awesome and they use it accordingly. The hyphenated group mentioned above do require extra helpings of self esteem because, well, what else do they have?

Problem is, in producing an additional quota of bodily goodness sometimes the brain makes an excess; in which case you are left with a delusional douche-bag who thinks the world of himself and will only ever become more of a douche-bag in your eyes because his self assuredness is so very misplaced.

Kanye West isn’t very good – he can’t sing and he can’t dance but he’s really stupid and he does look pretty cool, so the media allocate him status. Remember Taylor Swift? Gorgeous. Yeah, she’s still there but the media stopped her allocation of status because she’s quite clued up and of late she’s been acting far too sensibly.

The World Media have a lot to answer for. They have ruined a great many good, hitherto prosperous lives.

Status is overrated and unimportant anyway. Don’t try, just be.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Richard Pullin

Photography by Owen Carr

I am an atheist. This doesn’t mean I’m an antichrist, it does not mean that I’m a devil worshiper and nor does it suggest in any way that I am a less than wholesome person.

All it means is that I do not believe one person created everything.

Yet when the local team of bible-bashing, God-bothering, devil-dodging proselytes turn up on my doorstep having decided the time is nigh for me to embark upon a life of eternal happiness; when they inquire into my relationship with this all powerful deity by checking up on my God-fearing-ness; when they then have the audacity to query my life choices; when I inform them in no uncertain terms that I am an atheist who doesn’t buy into the hype of all things religion primarily because I’ve never been given reason to; when I casually mention that while I have no problem standing there politely hearing them out I have no intention of joining in their delusion; when they then stare at me, critiquing, assessing, as if my decision to not believe in a fairy tale which honestly, contains no greater aspect of realism than the tale of Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny; when they do this, why is it that I feel as though I am doing something wrong?

Don’t misunderstand me, in principal I have nothing against these people; hell, some of my most revered companions are Christians. This is generally because they don’t try to push their beliefs onto me – for that’s all it is: evolution, creationism – these are doctrines, belief systems.

Admittedly one of these doctrines is patently more believable than the other: one is logic, the other fantasy; one is sensible, the other farcical; one is based on actual events while the other is not.

Try this. Regarding the facts surrounding evolution/creationism, ask a devout Christian a few specific questions requiring specific answers, and see how you go. Here’s one I prepared earlier.

Evolution: “Is it a fact that God made the world in just seven days?”

Creationism: “Not just the world, God created the universe.”

Evolution: “Huh. Impressive. How would somebody go about a task like that?”

Creationism: “God works in mysterious ways.”

Evolution: “Sure, but I mean really, because it sounds like magic – was it magic?”

Creationism: “Heavens no, magic is one of the black arts.”

Evolution: “Right, but to make a universe, he must be able to fly or something, yeah?”

Creationism: “I wouldn’t say fly exactly.”

Evolution: “So how’d he do it? I mean, he’s obviously massive…”

Creationism: “He can be both big and small, God is not limited to physical sizes.”

Evolution: “I see, so where’d he sit while he was putting the w – the universe together?”

Creationism: “God is an all powerful being, he is all around us.”

Evolution: “So he levitates?”

Creationism: “God is an almighty being, he’s not up, or down, he just is.”

Evolution: “Ah, right. He’s a being, who is. So where exactly is this being?”

Creationism: “Oh, he’s here, he’s there – he’s everywhere.”

Evolution: “Everywhere, nice one. So does he plan to reveal himself, or what?”

Creationism: “Oh, God has already revealed himself, you just have to believe.”

Evolution: “Seriously? He’s already been? Christ, how’d I miss him? Shit.”

Creationism: “Have faith, and he will return.”

Evolution: “Oh, great. So do you have a time and a place?”

Creationism: “God is already with us, he’s in our souls, all around us, he’s everywhere.”

Evolution: “Ah, Mr Ubiquitous eh? So are you meaning God himself, or is this Jesus?”

Creationism: “Well, Jesus is God, God is Jesus, they’re one glorious being.”

Evolution: “I thought they were father and son..?”

Creationism: “They can be whatever you want them to be, that’s the glory of God.”

Evolution: “Right, God. Then there’s Jesus, son of God. Two separate entities..?”

Creationism: “Yes but it doesn’t matter who you worship, God is everywhere.”

Evolution: “Right, this being who is seemingly everywhere, but apparently, nowhere.”

Creationism: “Not nowhere, he is all around us – you have to believe.”

Evolution: “So you’re saying, if I don’t believe, then he doesn’t exist..?”

Creationism: “He won’t be in your life, no, and gone will be the promise of eternal life.”

Evolution: “Eternal life? Shit man, have you seen my life? Christ, the sooner it’s over the better, I reckon…

Unlike the topic on which it was based, the aforementioned yarn did happen.

What I find so damned unsettling is not so much the bullshit they push, but the force with which these door to door salespeople of the Christian faith try to shove it down your throat.

Here’s my major query: how can a doctrine which causes so much pain and conflict be embraced by so many? All through time religious zealots have believed that by massacring their enemy on the battlefield, they are performing God’s work. I simply do not accept religion as a reason for war and if there is a God, I reckon he’d be dead against it too.

Although I openly confess my detestation for devout God-bothering, I am an ardent supporter of the morals and values that Christianity bring to the game. Who the hell said that in order to be a good person, one must devote their life to some dude they’ve never even met, and likely will never even see?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Maree N Joseph

Photography by Adam Knight

Asinine as it might sound, we have become a nation of actors.

Most of us wouldn’t consider ourselves professional actors and certainly we aren’t paid for the honour; yet we act.

We act in the face of people we wish to impress, we generally act better than we genuinely are; we act as a way of removing ourselves from undesirable situations and ultimately, we act when it becomes too awkward, too complicated or just too God damned difficult to portray our genuine selves.

In fact for many of us playing a particular role has become such an act of normalcy that if it came to it, we would probably struggle to locate our genuine selves.

The majority of actors will take on a different role for home as opposed to work life; another role for social life and of course one more role to play for the kids and their friends. This variety of role-filling is harmless in that it’s necessary to propagate a functional life – but what about when it’s not necessary?

What about the facades put forward by some people in an effort to gain an undeserved reputation or to leave a deliberately false impression? What about those cloaks of disingenuousness worn primarily to astonish, confuse or bewilder? Why? What is the sense of staging a show that by Act 1 Scene 2 will have fallen flat, thereby revealing the true self of the Muppet on display.

Why do we bother to put forward an image that we know we can never hope to maintain? Are we so impossibly full of ourselves that we can’t stand the idea of portraying anything less than scintillation? Why, and this is directed more at the actresses than the actors, when asked a question must the response be so decidedly positive and agreeable?

When a male speaks to a female for the first time, obviously, if that female is acting as though she’s being won over by him, the male will believe that he is winning her over.

If, during further correspondence the woman tells the man only things that she knows he wants to hear, before too long he will undoubtedly begin to fall for her. If, as the months go on she continues to act in this manner, feeding him only auspicious lines – words that she knows are endearing to him – he will likely fall very hard indeed. If, then it becomes inconvenient for her to maintain this act, of course, she can easily drop it…

The question remains though: how easily could he drop her act?

The point: insincerity, disingenuousness, sycophantism, obsequiousness and to a lesser extent pandering, have the ability to injure. Interesting that the first maxim I can recall learning was, Just Be Yourself.

Incidentally that was the same day I found out what a ‘maxim’ was.

We hear it with such frequency: “Just be yourself”. So why do we find it so very difficult? Why must we constantly try to be someone else, someone better – why must we act?

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Sally Benny

Photography by Trudy Self

You know what pisses me off? It’s how easily offended and overly bloody sensitive everybody seems to be these days – are we really so precious?

Are we that fragile, that pathetic and that weak? Is our collective esteem so impossibly low that as individuals, we can actually not handle the occasional piece of shit being slung our way? Really?

Or is it that as such dutiful ambassadors of the 21^st century where unless one is mentally well-adjusted, compassionate and of course willing to accept and exhibit unwavering political correctness, also faultless decorum and at least partial metrosexuality, they are guilty of falling out of vogue? Is it that we as a nation have become such perfect little NCEA-moulded, reality-sheltered piss-ants that we are no longer accustomed to failure, to hardship or in fact anything the least bit negative?

Said it before and by Christ I’ll say it again: people need to learn to distinguish Observational from Judgemental. Example. Pointing out that a Nigerian is black is not racist. It’s fact. Distinction is simple: judgements tend to be untrue, slanderous; observations are unequivocally factual. Therefore, a bikini-clad beach-goer rocking 70% body-fat cannot rightly call ‘judgement’ on somebody asking to share in her spongy muffin-tops.

In a time where it’s fashionable to say STI rather than STD because obviously ‘infection’ is so much less repugnant than ‘disease’; where the equality advocates and Russell Normans of the world are becoming increasingly unrealistic, perceiving it as unfair that women in the workplace are finding it tough to become male strippers, or that the only reason Global Warming is still an issue is because some NZ citizens are still mixing paper with plastic…

Then there’s television and radio. I honestly think that there are people out there who watch and listen to these mediums with the sole intention of locating broadcasts that might possibly under particular circumstances perhaps be potentially offensive to someone. Not to them though. Oh no. They likely don’t give a shit. These people are looking out for the good of the nation.

Ah Christ, then there’s social media. I do wonder how the hell some people can justify being so damned uppity about their own personal privacy, then go ahead and wilfully post practically their entire bloody life on Facebook for all to see…

Did someone say hypocrite?

No no, you misheard me. I said dick-wad.

Who gives a toss if ACC mistakenly send your name, age and address to some random you’ve never met? Think about it. Logically, how the hell can that even matter? This is the modern world. Anybody can source any piece of information on any person. Name, age, address? So what? Mother father, shut the front door. You probably post one helluva lot more than that on that infernal bloody Facebook page. Then what about those so-called private conversations you have on that same bloody forum? Private? Really? Ha. Thick-clod.

Get this. Saw a dwarf the other day. I shit you not, he was wearing a cute little hat and everything. He was strolling mirthfully down the footpath, swinging his arms, whistling a gay tune as he went. Of course I stopped him. “Pardon me sir,” I began.

“What?” he grunted coming to an abrupt halt. I’ll admit, at this point I’m slightly taken aback. I always thought dwarves were a merry people…

“Oh,” I said, “I was just hoping to ask you a question, relating to your … stature.”

“Yeah, and what’s wrong with my stature?” he inquired indignantly, as if he hadn’t noticed that he was somewhat less tall than everybody he was encountering that day.

As that ruddy little face stared up at me with its menacing eyes and hissing breath, suddenly I understood. I had located the fabled Eight Dwarf, Pugnacity.

Irascible temperament notwithstanding, I had a question to ask. “Well there’s nothing wrong with your stature though clearly, you are a little shorter than most, in fact I had wan -“

“So what if I’m shorter than other people, doesn’t make me any less of a person.”

“No,” I said in disbelief, “it doesn’t, I’d just wanted to know, once and for all, what people of your, stature, prefer to be called..?”

“Kevin.”

“Right.” At this point I had no idea why I was persevering with the grumpy little gnome. “Thanks for that Kevin. From this day forth I shall call every dwarf, midget, little person and other vertically challenged entity I ever meet, Kevin. Nice one.”

“What?” this seemed to confuse him, “No, I’m Kevin … whaddaya mean?”

“I was meaning to ask what you guys prefer to be called, given that it used to be midget – which I now hear is offensive – then it was little person – which these days is apparently even worse – and now I hear it’s dwarf – which ten years ago was the worst…”

“Oh. Yeah, think it is dwarf, don’t really know eh…”

“Right, but you’re called Kevin, yeah?”

I think he probably did respond but I had already turned – repaying his show of premeditated irritation with my own display of intentional ignorance.

Fact is, I understand better than most what it is to have ‘regular folk’ give you a hard time but in my experience, one learns to go with it. The worst thing you can do is constantly be on the defensive. It’s offensive and extremely hard work.

On that note, people who take affront to things that really don’t bother them, in my opinion, ought to be shot. Their mild indignation results in my severe irritation. Who actually gives a shit if a television or radio presenter slips up and drops a live F-bomb? Personally, that kind of thing is broadcasting gold.

It doesn’t matter if something somebody said was inappropriate, offensive and not totally PC – they’re words for God’s sake.

Or shall we force an apology do you think? Yeah, that’ll teach them.

My God. Does no one realise that an apology is meaningless, thus utterly pointless unless it’s of one’s own volition?

Finally to all you easily offended douche-bags out there, try this simple formula. If it’s visually offensive, don’t watch it. If it’s aurally offensive, don’t listen to it. If it’s orally offensive, don’t eat it. If it’s nasally offensive, don’t smell it and if it feels offensive, for God’s sake get your bloody hands off it.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by P S Off

Photography by Dick Wad

Gosh, how terribly unlike me.

It’s the first day of 2014 and already I’ve managed to antagonise myself.

Agreed, that doesn’t sound at all unlike me. Even so, there are two things about that heading which just don’t sit quite right…

Firstly, I seem to have foregone my pseudonym – removing the mirror so Mit Reklaw reads Tim Walker again. Secondly, and this display of pedantry will prove to any disbelievers that despite the name reversion it is still me and yes I do still teeter on that deranged precipice; secondly it’s the fact that I have yet to encounter any form of Beginning, which is not a New Beginning, thus ‘Tim Walker’s New Beginning’..? Yes, indeed, it is suitably apt; and hence thus so therefore…

Right. I should explain myself. It was really only my desire not to be recognised as an affiliate of Facebook which inspired such an uninspired nom de plume – uninspired in that I could just as easily have referred to myself as Mega Buttload or something cool like that…

Thing is though, my late grandfather and his brother once raced a greyhound they called, Reklaw’s Pride. I learned that piece of history a little over a decade ago. It was the first time I had realised that Walker backwards was Reklaw. Seriously, it rocked my world. Therefore, when I joined Facebook only days before my 30^th birthday, Mit Reklaw seemed the logical way for Tim Walker to maintain his furtive presence…

Yeah. Although I obviously didn’t think so at the time I can now appreciate that a middle aged man inverting his name for the purpose of anonymity, does seem pretty juvenile. Also lame.

So that’s my story. As for ‘New Beginnings’, despite my earlier show of deprecation I now see that I was in fact justified in using such a tired idiom: today is the 1^st of January 2014, thus a New year is upon us; that heading, the title you will have read at the start, was the Beginning, of this. Also, I am Tim Walker.

Not wishing to take away from the brilliance of my readers, I best let you lot piece that one together.

Additionally, it’s not just the year that’s new. Many things will be beginning today. For instance, a great many resolutions will have been undertaken last night – only to be shattered in the days to come…

That’s where I’m a little different. I made the pledge to relinquish my beloved tar babies way back in November so while everybody else is buckling under the strain of ‘six hours without a cigarette’, I’m already over a month into it – at the risk of sounding a little smug…

Ha.

Alright. That’s me. To all you delightful little word-smiths out there, Merry Cliché and a Hackneyed New Year.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Mit Reklaw

Reckon I’m about done with lucky number 2013.

Week out from Christmas, a handful of weeks out from the end of the year and I feel as though I’ve already left the building…

On the topic of all things nonsensical, I do have to wonder what’s up with that heading – did I mean un-entitled, as in, “You jumped up little skid mark, you’re not entitled to that…”, or did I mean simply untitled, as in, “This particular piece of crap is not entitled anything because I couldn’t be arsed thinking of a title…” – because you do realise that ‘unentitled’ is not a real word, don’t you? I can see it now, looking all garish, embellished with its red underlining so I know that I’ve messed up…

I don’t have kids. Those who do might have experienced the astonishment, the horror; the outright disbelief of youthful entitlement – the grasping nature of children who believe that Christmas is a day put in place primarily to shower them with gifts.

I’m an atheist. Possibly there was a carpenter born today with flowing hair, tattered loin cloth and sandals, but I don’t worship him. Presumably neither do the kids tearing into their neatly wrapped presents with so much anticipative glee and a sense that they deserve everything that they receive on that fine December 25^th…

Shit. I don’t know if there was ever really a point to be made here and if there was, well, I seem to have failed to make it.

This is quite short because I didn’t make it quite long.

It didn’t really say anything because I didn’t really have anything to say.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Sash Rullidge

Photography by Bliss Feemy