The majority of road related incidents have one common theme: excess.

Excess speed, excess blood-alcohol, excess recklessness, excess drowsiness, excessively poor road conditions…

When I hit the road that morning of December 6, 2011, many factors were in excess. The road was excessively wet, my tyres were excessively pressured, my stomach was excessively full; I was feeling excessively ambitious while experiencing a joyful excess of exuberance. I expect excess recklessness played its part in my downfall also.

The intention had been to cycle from Kirwee to Oxford, have a coffee and bite to eat, turn around and come home. Easy as you like.

This estimated 120 kilometre jaunt would see me heading up the Old West Coast Road to Waddington, turning off down Waimakariri Gorge Road, crossing the Waimak Bridge then continuing on to Oxford. While not a feat that I had ever attempted, I had in the past cycled up to, over and around the bridge so was familiar with the roads for at least some of the journey.

The day’s mission was to extend that Northern Frontier.

Donning my most publicly-endearing cycling ensemble, I stuffed into my bum-bag a cell phone and some cash then set off into a heavy drizzle. Around 20k of easy incline and several gruelling hills later, I made it to Waddington. Drizzle had become rain. Turning right down Waimakariri Gorge Road I raised my speed in anticipation of things to come. From 42kph peering back at my rooster’s tail, I was amazed at the volume of water lying on the road. Five minutes later the gorge was in sight. Not a minute after that I defiantly whizzed past the REDUCE SPEED sign.

The descent to the gorge loops down the side of a hill in three tiers before reaching the bridge. Each tier comprises a left, a straight, then a right hand bend.

I hit the first tier at 45kph, took an easy left, pedalled frantically up to 48; took a smooth right. Water spraying from my tyres I squinted through the mist to work out my next approach. Glancing at my odometer the second left hander went by at 52kph. Short stint of pedalling followed by easy right. Not fast enough. The odometer was flicking between 51 and 52kph. I was pedalling as hard as I could. Water spraying up from the road was greasy. Sneakers were sodden. Legs were covered in a sleek grey film. I pushed on.

Bottom tier. Last chance for speed before going up the other side. I changed to a higher gear. I pushed like never before. 55kph. I wanted to go faster. Faster. Faster.

The first bend was upon me. Inside pedal up, easy left. Pedal. Push. Harder. Harder.

55.6kph.

Push. Harder. Harder. Harder…

56.7kph.

Harder. Harder…

57.6kph. Shit.

The bend had come up on me faster than expected. My line was all wrong.

Too late to do anything about it now but.

Steadying my shoulders, I lifted the inside pedal and threw the bike into the corner – I hadn’t realised it was so much tighter than the others.

My folly was immediately apparent. I had limited control. I was travelling much too quickly and had begun my manoeuvre at least a tenth of a second too late. At such speed things happened very quickly. Braking was no longer an option. I was committed. No hope of speed reduction now. No escape. I had messed it up and I knew it.

Nevertheless I was calm.

I allowed G-forces to draw the bike across the road. My wheel ran on the inside edge of the road’s left hand wheel track. It was rough with corrugations. I was almost at the apex of the bend and still trying to bring the bike in. The oscillations coming through the handlebars were intense. I kept pulling the bike around. I was treading that tenuous line between control and capitulation. Breath was held as my front wheel drifted slowly across the worn wheel mark. I was now almost on the outer white line. I knew if it went that far I was gone. Road paint in these conditions is tantamount to wet glass. I kept pulling it around. I was winning the battle. I rounded the apex having just managed to bring the bike back into the wheel track.

This was my next folly.

The wheel mark at that point on the road was beaten down to pure tar and totally smooth. With the water and all the diesel fumes, it was greasy. My racing tyres were rock hard and practically bald. In these conditions they were ball bearings to the road’s grease.

Without warning the front tyre skidded. I pulled it back.

The front wheel shimmied again and started to go down. I used all of my abdominal strength to pull the handlebars back up; in doing so pushed the back out.

It was too fast.

In a split second my vision went from the road ten metres ahead of me to the road ten centimetres from my face.

I reflexively turned my head away, kicked my feet out of the stirrups, released the handlebars and took the impact with my right shoulder. I heard a strangled grunt as the wind was knocked from my body. Then I was tumbling. End over end. I saw flashes of my bike ahead of me. I heard unfamiliar sounds being forced from my throat. End over end, over and over.

Then nothing. I had stopped. I focused my eyes. I was lying on my back, on the roadside, upside down; legs up a bank. I couldn’t quite believe what had happened. I started to wonder if it really had happened. I had memories of tumbling down the road and seeing my bike crashing into the roadside ahead of me yet, I was feeling no pain. My breathing was steady. My heart rate sounded as though it had returned to normal; shit man, I was smiling. I felt awesome.

I stood up and surveyed my bicycle from a few metres away. It looked wrecked.

I turned and jogged to the top of the hill in the hope of locating cellular coverage.

There was none. I walked farther. Still no decent reception. I finally found enough to send a message disclosing my whereabouts and beseeching assistance.

I jogged back down the hill to find that a car had stopped at the sight of a twisted bicycle lying in the grass devoid of rider, along with a wide, person-like skid-mark leading off the road. The lady appeared horrified at the sight of me. I assured her that I was fine and that someone was coming for me. With that, she left.

Third folly..?

An hour passed. As did many trucks. The abating rain came to a stop. I ran up the hill; sent another message. I ran down to the almighty Waimak Bridge, routinely dropped a loogie over the side then jogged back to my bike. I began to feel cold. Also hungry. I kept jogging in place, feeling colder; hungrier with each passing minute.

I assessed the scene of the crash. I pulled my bike free from the grass. It wasn’t as bad as I’d suspected. Then I looked at me. I was certainly the less well-off of the two. Blood trickled from my right elbow and dripped from my fingers. My shoulder was opened up and I could only imagine how much blood was congealing under my shirt. My right leg was grazed most of the way from hip to ankle, protected only by Lycra bike pants.

The worst injury was to my right knee. It oozed blood, it ached, it throbbed and if it remained inactive for more than ten seconds, it began to seize.

After spending some time bending and straightening gear-shifters and handlebars, nothing else for it, I mounted my self-propelled chariot and made my way back the way I had come. Oxford could wait. I was freezing. Inspired by the cold I cycled with more fervour than I could recall. My knee was excruciating. My helmet wouldn’t sit right either. I made it back to Waddington, dismissed the Old West and headed back down the Main West Coast Road.

The Main West mightn’t have had any major declivities but overall, it’s just one big gradual decline – ideal for a man who has over 20k to cover under the power of just one piston.

Despite my leg’s incapacitated twin I was still cracking 45kph for the duration of the ride back to Darfield. Stopping at the public toilet, I dismounted and promptly toppled. Such was the fatigue imbalance in my legs that I had to practically crawl to the urinal.

Finally back in Kirwee I called in at the garage to collect my mail; received a handful of startled looks from loitering motorists, then went home.

Well.

The reason for my unruly helmet: I had clean smashed the back out of it.

The reason for the startled looks: take your pick – as well as blood dripping from fingertips and shoe, ripped and torn shorts and shirt; a helmet that had clearly been an integral part of a near-death situation – my face was spattered with mud, grass, grime and painted with smudges of blood. Guess I resembled something of a wartime latrine digger.

The reason for my unanswered call: the intended recipient was operating a grinder all morning thus could not hear his phone. Not until I had left the gorge did he show up. Nice one.

After putting away my faithful steed and giving the saddle a loving pat, I hobbled inside, stripped off my garb and stood under a hot shower for the best part of one hour.

Best Crash Ever.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Rick Lush-Nash

Photography by Constance Payne

Selecting a new and interesting topic on which to write each week can be difficult.

This week it wasn’t.

This week it was possibly the most simple it’s ever been: I simply sat before the glowing monitor, I simply struck the keys one by one, I simply allowed the work to grow naturally; I simply allowed myself to become increasingly worked up until…

The article that poured out of me almost a week ago, simply, is not fit for human consumption.

It was entitled, Mit Reklaw’s Raw, and it was just that. Honest, open, frank, brutal, angry, revealing, passionate and filthy; skinless and uncooked. It was raw. Furthermore at the time that I wrote it, not only did I feel raw, I also felt like having a roar. All in all, the title couldn’t be faulted. It was the content that made this piece so horrendous.

Curiously its conception took place on a glorious Saturday morning. After a leisurely breakfast accompanied by friendly shafts of early morning sun, I felt as though nothing could break me.

Not two hours after entertaining this notion, I recall looking back and wondering how I could have been so naïve, so idiotically presumptuous.

The sad thing is, blissful golden sunlight notwithstanding, the fracturing process began shortly after breakfast then not even one hour into digestion, I was broken.

This was a peculiar, if not uncharacteristic phenomenon. Over the years I have grown so very accustomed to hardship that ordinarily it takes a terrible lot of shit happening to bring me down. Alas, that wonderful Saturday morning with its perfect weather, its butterflies fluttering over dewy grass, its birds chirruping in trees – that morning with its incipient buds and nascent blooms, managed to crush my spirit well before midday.

Pathetic as it sounds, life along with all its inherent duties and commitments just climbed on top of me. My brain being what it is, this tends to manifest a smothering effect. The only two breathing holes I’ve located are, one: exercise – which I was already doing; two: writing – which I had yet to do.

Mit Reklaw’s Raw is over 2000 words and contains much talk of failure and devastation, futility and depression; filth and destruction – also I believe there was some mention of suicidal ideation.

Ha, some mention. Come on. I think there was actually a fair bit of that.

The aforementioned excerpt was written in a fit of fury. I didn’t think, I just wrote. The first edit took some time. It was a mess. Once I had it coherent and reasonably fluent, I read it through again, made a few changes, read it over once more then satisfied that I had assuaged my irate temperament, left it to mature.

On my return I was aghast to see what had so effortlessly oozed from my head only hours earlier. I will admit, it did make a number of valid points but ultimately, it was ugly. In fact it was the most ill favoured piece of writing to which I had ever forgotten to attach my name.

It was at this point that I decided that it must never be seen by anyone.

Just prior to hitting Delete on five highlighted pages however, I did attach it to an Email and send it to one person – so who knows, it might turn up yet…

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Laifyss A Quest

Photography by Ivana B Arr-Ghost

What’s old but not an antique, wrinkled but not a prune, sweet but not confectionary, often mistaken but never wrong, an automobile owner but not a motorist; prone to confusion but not a GPS unit?

My grandmother is 83 years old and she’s alright.

Characteristic of spending time with an octogenarian, patience is a virtue of which there never seems quite enough – studies show that the thought processes of a 30-year-old male are quite dissimilar to that of a woman who’s well into her fourth quarter.

I like to pay my grandmother a visit at least once weekly. This provides the forum for a candid yarn and catch-up on retirement village gossip; she likes to cook lunch while I fill her in on recent happenings of the outside world. Statements become of an inquisitive nature as we embark on the topic of how technology is taking over our lives; the decadent nature of today’s young ladies, also the way that girls nowadays are all so fat; then if there’s still time we like to discuss other peoples’ peculiarities, idiosyncrasies and foibles. It’s all powerfully engaging stuff.

During these visits plans are sometimes made for a trip to town to carry out all those burdensome tasks that have been niggling at her mind for days – or often it’s for no reason at all. Either way, we’re getting out there. Given Grandma’s inability to drive on account of her inability to see properly, a chaperone is required. If I’m present and willing, these duties are usually offered to me.

Much as I tell myself that it’s me doing her a favour… Come on..?

I turned up for this particular excursion around 11 that Wednesday morning, walked inside, located Grandma and offered myself a seat. Lunch was prepared and subsequently devoured. We then departed. Having since given up on a radio that receives only static, the one piece of instrumental audio was the gentle chiming of the Grandfather Clock in the back seat, along for its fourth trip to the watchmaker in as many months. The 45 minute trip was punctuated with the pointing out of ‘new’ and ‘interesting’ landmarks which had long ago lost their appeal. Additionally, no trip would be complete without the directional guidance that I stopped requiring around 12 years ago.

The watchmaker was pleased to see us; pleased furthermore to see the Grandfather Clock.

Then to the Bush Inn Mall where my eyes fell upon a curious sight: a Chinese boy, standing only slightly taller than his electric piano, embellishing the entranceway with his captivating music. This boy couldn’t have been more than six years old and was playing what even I could recognise as classic compositions. The most amazing thing though, he didn’t even appear interested in what he was doing – gazing vacantly around the area as both hands moved frantically up and down the keyboard with impeccable precision.

Bugger. I’d lost Grandma.

This wasn’t cause for panic, I was aware that she can be inclined to wander off and providing motorists were driving defensively, there wasn’t much chance of her coming to harm. Our impromptu game of hide and seek was part of the fun. Only a few seconds later I spotted her inside a nearby bank. Deciding that I had time, I nipped away for a haircut.

45 minutes later – much longer than expected – I returned to the bank. Grandma wasn’t there. Recalling her words about needing a new microwave I climbed the steps to Smith’s City.

She was nowhere to be seen.

Walking back through a café where she and I had in the past dined, I found her. She had apparently been waiting for me to take her to Smith’s City.

For reasons that I did not totally comprehend Grandma ended up purchasing the most expensive microwave on display. I carried the 32 litre monstrosity back to the car, waited, waited, waited; then we headed home.

We stopped off at Mitre 10 Mega in Hornby, which always used to be decidedly mega; but is now the size of an entire shopping mall. Grandma made a show of asking for directions to the flooring department, before turning and following me there. She spent another 10 minutes perusing the selection of rubber mats before eventually settling on the one that I had initially picked out and had been holding, waiting for this little game to play out.

Back through Rolleston we called in at the Warehouse and bought some vegetable saplings – she also insisted on buying me two pairs of work shorts because apparently a 30-year-old man should not be seen in tattered clothing. While she paid for these I rushed over to the New World to grab a few grocery items. Gauging her walking speed, I knew that I had at least a quarter of an hour. I returned 17 minutes later to find her entering her favourite variety of shop – a haberdashery outlet.

Twenty minutes later I was leading her back to the car. Twenty minutes after that I was pulling the car into her garage. A belated afternoon tea accompanied by the customary small-talk; twenty minutes after that, I was on my own way home.

I was shattered.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Gerry Atrick

Photography by Fruz Trait

In the spirit of forthrightness, I am not a dog lover. Greyhounds on the other hand…

I was recently introduced to the world of online gambling. Quite the slippery slope it is, too. I was given a taste; I wanted more. I was offered a further sample; I wanted to devour the whole portion. I was finally allowed the whole portion… I was violently ill.

This is the nature of gambling.

It starts off a lot of fun. What’s more, in the beginning it always appears relatively easy – it’s all those other, idiot high-rolling gamblers who lose money. Hell, it’s not all that difficult to pick a favourite for a place…

Here’s the thing. These are animals. Thus, gambling, essentially, animals trying to make money from the abilities of other animals. Problem with animals, we all experience good and bad. We all have up days, down days. We can’t always foresee or predict our lesser moments; nor can other people for that matter. Truth is, even the most highly tuned animal, given the most auspicious of conditions, having endured the most rigorous of training programs, under the eye of the most efficient trainer, can lose.

In a word: variables.

Variables were the reason that I elected for Greyhound over Horse Racing. With greyhounds a punter is guaranteed a maximum field of 8 – horses can have up to 15. The odds therefore, are practically halved even before the race begins. The other problem I encountered with Horse Racing: Harness.

It is possible for racehorses on their own to have reliable form. Hitch them up to an unwieldy cart then plonk in its tenuous frame a funny-looking human, variables become limitless. Even without the gig though, horses don’t seem to possess quite the level of consistency as greyhounds.

So while I didn’t expect to make a great deal of money quickly, I did expect to make a good deal of money, albeit eventually.

If the above is my reasoning; the below shall be my explanation.

Admittedly, learning the gambling process did require a number of deposits into my TAB account. I considered them investments. Then having gleaned the knowledge, I was on my way to racing grandeur.

Curiously, my account was still requiring the odd investment. That was my next lesson. I thought I had already mastered the tricks – learned what to look for, what to avoid, the best trainers; the best dogs.

This next lesson must have been extra credit.

Track conditions. Where in the past I had neglected to heed these particular notices, I now realised that they were of great importance – even the best Greyhounds struggle to perform under poor track conditions.

In fact I was finding that on a ‘Raining’ or ‘Showery’ day the favourites seldom won; if they did it seemed to always be that ‘favourite’ on which I had not bet. Ultimately a wet track impeded the strong and appeared to favour the weak.

Lesson learned.

Soggy underfoot notwithstanding, I still felt that I was doing reasonably well, winning most of my stakes. What I was failing to see however, was that in order to make money I needed to be winning all of my stakes.

That’s the issue with ‘safe’ gambling. While I was winning most of the time, these wins were paying so little, on the occasion that I lost, I was losing the equivalent of up to ten wins.

Compounding my frustration was the ‘No Dividend’ trap. This seemed only to affect the races with smaller fields – races which I had naively thought would be that much easier to come away with a place. I wasn’t so much bothered by my legitimate losses but when my dog came in third, I expected to be paid.

I had no idea what ‘No Dividend’ meant. All I did know was that if my dog was awarded this accolade, those jammy bastards at the TAB took my money.

I was later to learn that in the races with less than eight runners, ‘No Dividend’ was given to third place in order to even up the stakes. I lost a lot of money in no dividend races because my dog so frequently appeared content to languish in third position. Seemed like a bloody wrought to me…

Now that I think of it, I guess it does make sense.

Gambling has a way of drawing people into its vice-like clutches; compelling them to invest money that they don’t have down avenues of which they can’t be sure.

Fortunately I didn’t lose a great deal of money; certainly not more than I could afford. I did however, manage to draw a number of conclusions from my efforts. Gambling is a hobby, not a career choice. Potentially it is possible to make money from gambling but one would need to acquire a vast knowledge of the game; also they would need to be prepared for a painfully slow accumulation of funds.

One could easily argue this point claiming ‘bet big, win big’. Yeah. Tried that. What about the inevitable losses?

Bet bigger, lose bigger.

My final address goes out to the World’s aspiring gamblers. You are playing with animals. Living, breathing creatures. There is no such thing as a sure thing.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Lotta Gamm-Ling

Photography Mary Horse

0500 hours. Out of bed, start breakfast.

0600 hours. Outside to raise heart-rate, mental preparation.

0630 hours. Check over bicycle, inflate tyres to 110 psi.

0700 hours. Balanced above two 12mm strips of rubber, the day begins.

When I go for a ride I like it to be worthwhile; I like to be able to feel it afterwards. Cycling is the event; lactic acid the reward.  Suffice to say the terms ‘leisurely’ and ‘bike-ride’, in my vocabulary, are seldom seen in the same vicinity.

Open road, crisp air of an early spring morning; the trip is broken into three segments.

The first 10k is invariably a sprint.

After that, perspiration prickling under pink Lycra, I ease back to maintain a steady 30kph for the next 60.

Third portion, the home straight; final 10 kilometres, again, I sprint.

Without question most regular folk would perceive this ritual as nothing short of insanity. One might begin by asking: ‘Why, when setting out for an 80 kilometre cycling excursion, would any normal person sprint the first 10?’

Valid query. Guess I’m not normal.

In fact there are several reasons for my unorthodox methods. The first, obviously, 80 kilometres is quite a distance to cover on a bicycle. Yeah. That probably only adds to the confusion. Permit me to elaborate.

As any person who is not a cyclist will assert: ‘Dude, bike riding must be such a boring sport’.

Truth be told, it can be. 80 kilometres of rural landscape, gentle proclivities with never as many declivities; cars, trucks rushing by; wind, sun beating me about the face; then there’s the insects…

Honestly, it can be downright interminable.

The aforementioned technique allows me to avoid this potential tedium by simply exchanging one sensation for another.

That is to say, I substitute boredom with pain.

Seriously, I defy anybody to claim boredom while their body is crying out in pain.

Additionally, sprinting the first 10 at around 50kph then easing back to a comparatively sluggish 30, engenders a greater feeling of bliss than one can easily imagine. This sensation dissipates, sure, but by that time adrenalin has filled my veins and taken hold of my brain, bringing with it a feeling of greatness along with the belief that I could ride all day.

Some days I do.

That initial 10k sprint, gruelling as it may be, sets me up for the next stint. 60 kilometres of grey road is a charming little endurance event and it is largely willpower that pulls me through; burning limbs and a heaving chest help take my mind off the drudgery.

Then with 70k on the odometer comes the final 10 – the final sprint.

This is done more out of obligation than desire because God knows my legs don’t want any part of it. Thing is though, any good cyclist, regardless of distance already covered, should always be seen sprinting the final leg…

So that’s what I do.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by S I Klyst

Photography by N Dore-Antz

To date, I have written 35 ‘Truths’.

At this point I fear they are at risk of becoming weak or, heaven forbid, repetitive.

Shit man, some might argue that they’ve already become weak and repetitive.

Others would claim that they’ve always been weak and by writing more this weakness is only being repeated – to these people I ask, ‘Why the hell are you even reading this?’

Idiocy notwithstanding, these haters will be pleased to learn that this shall be the last…

Truth.

Of course I’m going to continue writing. Nothing could shut me up in that respect.

My new literary avenue will be less controversial, more enthralling; less angry, more inspired; less pedantic and a whole lot more awesome.

I hope you enjoy my future work.

Sincerely,

Passionately,

Anally,

Heartily,

Comically.

Surreptitiously and serendipitously yours,

Mit Reklaw

Life is not easy.

Nor is it supposed to be.

Without its inherent difficulties life would soon become a dull place.

That said, a great many people in this world still like to act as though they are entitled to ease of life.

Hang on. Entitled..? Why? Did your parents have it easy? What about their parents? That’s right. Ask your grandparents to tell you about the physical, financial and general hardship that they faced in their lifetime… I’m off point.

Home ownership. Too hard for first time buyers..? Impossible to accumulate that first home deposit..? Yeah. In a word: sacrifice. I bought my first home when I was 20. Admittedly that was in 2003, but the principle remains the same. I was on an apprentice wage at the time, around $250 per week. Even so, as dictated by ‘The Plan’, I put away $100 each week from my very first pay, age 16. Four years later… Sorry, that’s not the point either.

Our desire for simplicity, this obsession with ease of life is being measured then perpetuated by big-shot manufacturers pandering to ignorant consumers’ innate fascination with new ideas. Technology. It’s out of control. Always on the move – constantly transcending itself with new innovations. It would appear that the technology boffins and engineers of the world have undertaken a quest to remove as much of the effort from life as humanly possible. Television remotes have made it possible to sit down in the evening and not get up again until bedtime. Text messaging has made it possible to communicate with somebody just down the road without taking the time to actually visit them. Computers have made it possible to… in fact I’m unable think of anything that we can’t do via a computer.

So few tasks nowadays require any effort at all. People are becoming lazy; idle. This is without going into what it’s doing for the population’s child obesity plight.

Furthermore, it’s how the majority of youth seem to expect everything to be handed to them and never have to struggle for anything; never have to sacrifice. Here’s the thing though, when starting out in adult life nobody needs to have the best of everything. The idea is to work your way there with time. That’s the challenge; that is where the satisfaction is derived.

Sadly this ideal seems to have been lost amid a torrent of interest-free finance, hire-purchase and buy-now-pay-when-you-can. Or can’t.

Does nobody believe in sacrifice anymore?

Without sacrifice, simply, we would become accustomed to ease of life. This is a perilous path to tread. Truth is, your beloved ‘Ease of Life’ cannot be maintained. Life will always be waiting for soft-cocks like you to fall complacent then when you’re not watching, it will pick you up and launch you headlong into a shit-storm of discomfort.

I am 30 years’ old and have already struggled through life more than any law-abiding citizen should have to. The aforementioned shit-storm can befall anyone, at any time. Therefore, to those of you who are currently cruising through life and believe that it will always be this way; think that it will always be this easy, wake the hell up.

My advice, inure yourself to hardship while you still have a choice. That way when shit does get real, not only will you handle it, you will thrive.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by B Ware

Photography by Chet Storm

In 2010 New Zealand suffered 522 deaths by suicide. To put this figure into perspective, that is around 12 people per 100 000 of population who thought it best that they depart this world on their own terms.

Those are the facts, the figures. Facts and figures have a habit of coming off impersonal. Truth be told I went to school with four people who, by their own volition, are no more.

Consider the reasons behind suicide – specifically youth suicide.

In 2010 the youth suicide rate was 17.7 people per 100 000 of population. That’s 78 males and 35 females between the ages of 15 and 24, who decided that the world would be a brighter place if they instigated their own demise.

I have to wonder if their friends and family felt the same way.

Depression. It’s a legitimate illness. I should know. Depression can be caused by a range of factors or seemingly, it can have no cause at all. ‘A chemical imbalance in the brain’, is the technical cause, but who really knows what that means? I would’ve thought that any chemicals in the brain was bad. Apparently not. Not so long as they’re balanced. Depression can affect anyone at any time; that’s the terrifying truth. More susceptible though are those of us who have a hereditary predisposition to mental illness or perhaps, as in my case, have sustained some level of brain trauma. In fact any kind of serious illness or even a significant change in lifestyle can bring about depression: the forcing of one’s body through any major adjustment has the potential to affect the mind detrimentally.

The Maori youth suicide rate is around 35 people per 100 000 of population. This is more than 2.5 times the Caucasian rate of 13.4. So why is this? Why in 2010 were there 21 per 100 000 Pacific Islander suicides along with 28 Asian? These people are considered ‘Minority Groups’; so why is there a disproportionate figure among the minorities? Where is the correlation? Does it relate to poverty? Is it location or living conditions? Or could it be the hardship that these people face on account of being a minority?

Another leading cause of depression is low self esteem; brought about by low self confidence; which can often be related to verbal or physical abuse.

Imagine that, abusing someone to the point of suicide…

Yeah. Don’t bother imagining it. It’s actually nothing new. This was the case for one of the four I mentioned earlier. She effectively died of unrelenting mockery; in this instance, despite being the target of much verbal slander, this beautiful girl left behind a great many shocked friends.

Depression can affect anyone and it is not always visible.

In my experience it begins by pulling down the brim of your cap – you’ll know what I mean if you’ve been there. The world becomes a darker, shadier and more uncertain place. Courtesy of your newly enclosed scope you’ll see no way to escape this permanent onset of dusk, should you even feel the need to. Probably the act of being depressed won’t bother you, you’ll be too tired to care. You will no doubt feel at peace with your melancholy as if it’s all that you deserve: it’s the world’s fault that you feel this way thus you are not beholden to do anything about it. It’s likely the world’s fault that you were even made. You don’t want to have to deal with, talk to or even see people. Dragging yourself out of bed in the morning becomes a pointless exercise. Life loses its direction and before long, it’s lost its will to survive.

No will to survive amid a darkened mind is a lethal combination.

From the perspective of the suicidal mind: of course, your fall from existence will actually benefit the rest of the world; your actions therefore, are more selfless than selfish.

If you want to brighten your world – which you probably don’t…

If you want to brighten the world of your depressed friend, in my opinion, there is only one sustainable solution. Exercise. They won’t want to do it, so force them. It is the only decent way that you will be able to pull them from their slump.

Antidepressants? Put simply, these are moderated doses of Speed.

Of course I will never claim that these drugs are pointless – antidepressants have saved lives. The problem with them can be that even if they do have the desired effect, they will mess with the mind of your friend just enough to allow them to enjoy life again; the downside, as well as the possibility of them becoming dependent on prescription medication, mentally, essentially, you’ll have lost your friend.

Exercise. Natural, healthy, exercise. Take the depressed soul out for a walk. Next day, same thing with increased pace and so on. If not walking, try a different athletic avenue. Start easy, build into it. Exercise promotes exercise. After a while, like a neglected Labrador, they’ll be gagging for their stint of therapy.

Mind you, that’s only my opinion…

That said, exercise did save my life.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by Happy Dais

Photography by X A Scyze

If there is one thing that our New Zealand media love, it’s thrashing their tired old clichés. Better yet is coining a new phrase then saying it so much that we as the viewing public cannot help but embrace it.

 Really my only point of reference is the TV3 6 o’clock news bulletin. With presenters such as the sorrow engendering and heart-string tugging, the guilt eliciting and empathy evoking Mike McRoberts on current events and the pun-tastic Hamish McKay on sports, simply, I don’t feel that I need further sources.

‘Come now,’ I hear you saying, ‘that’s just silly. There’s no way that a simple media network can be responsible for launching and perpetuating flashy new terms or catch-phrases… Is there..?’

How silly is it really? Tell me, going back a few years, when discussing a recent political incident among friends, how common was it to hear someone utter the word, ‘Slammed’, as in, “Oh yeah, good old J Key, he really slammed that twat Shearer’s argument…”

That’s right. Few years ago it wasn’t even part of our vernacular – three times I heard it slurred at the pub last weekend. These days, you’d be lucky to hear a news broadcast that didn’t involve somebody slamming something, or somebody.

So what the hell does that even mean? Is someone physically bludgeoning something here or is it more hypothetical, as in, ‘given a particular set of circumstances, I would slam your f…?’

So. Still having difficulty believing that you are under the influence of that almighty juggernaut, the all-compelling media network?

Try this. How many of you fell out of trees when you were kids? Yeah. I’m guessing there are a lot of raised hands – we used to do it for a laugh, see how high you could go before you fell… Ten years ago, you fell out of a tree, it was your own fault for not hanging on tight enough. Now it’s considered an accident. Ten years ago, you drove a tractor down the road with a raised front end loader and surprise surprise, you hooked into some low hanging power lines, you were a dick for driving a tractor down the road with a raised front end loader.

Now that is what the media call a freak accident.

When some idiot is surf-casting from a big rock amid five metres of pulsating ocean then surprise surprise, in comes the tide, along comes that notorious seventh wave and down he goes like a sodden sack of shit, this kind of mishap is not an accident and certainly it is not a freak.

This is just what happens when you act like an irreverent pillock.

The word epidemic is bandied about a great deal these days, so what about pan-demic? Gosh, that sounds much worse, it will surely kill us all..? In fact a pandemic is more or less the same thing as its epi-inspired counterpart, but of course when referring to the bird, cow and swine diseases of the World, ‘Global Pandemic’ is much more eye-catching. See the theme? It’s an obesity epi-demic because no one really cares, but a swine flu pan-demic because it might be you who dies. See what they’ve done there? Wow. What kind of bountiful linguistic cornucopias will our fine broadcasters come up with next?

While I can’t be sure that our beloved media is responsible for the excretion of this next piece of crap, I am certain it is a term that they love to perpetuate. In fact I have yet to witness anything ‘Go Viral’, but the day that I do, well, you better believe that will be a good day for all involved.

Admittedly, when something first spread throughout the Internet with more celerity than is safe for any sane mind to comprehend, it was most likely a rabble of slack-jawed teenagers who made the assessment, “Wow. Dude, that’s like, going viral or something…” or something.

Even so, our middle aged news presenters do look comical wrapping their dignified lips around such a decided colloquialism.

By definition, a freak is something which occurs out of the ordinary. Therefore. Thoughtless, asinine; idiotic behavior and the unfortunate circumstances which come as a result, cannot rightly be considered ‘out of the ordinary’. To slam something is to hit it violently and noisily – every time I hear on the news that someone has slammed David Shearer, I hope for the best. Epidemic is the same as pandemic – by definition one is ‘illness over a vast area’ and the other is ‘widespread illness’. As for anything else going viral, I always suspected this internet phenomenon might become an epidemic.

Finally for my own peace of mind, please hear this: a car crash is not an accident. Granted, chances are it was not done deliberately thereby qualifying it as a mistaken happening, therefore a mishap…

Let’s just cut the crap and call them crashes.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by T Ruth-Hunter

Photography by C Lee-Fulce

Over the last twelve months New Zealanders were taken for more than 4.4 million dollars in Internet scams. The World Wide Web provides underhanded users with a forum of convenience and ease with which to pilfer money from the naïve, the greedy and the downright stupid.

Prior to reading my opening statement one could have be forgiven for believing that this kind of duplicity would be restricted to the rest of the world or in fact, any country but ours.

The sad truth is that NZ is as much a target for Internet fraud as any nation.

Probably the most well known and indeed the most enduring, is the ‘Nigerian Scam’. It dates back to the 1920s where it was referred to as the ‘Spanish Prisoner Scam’.

In today’s Nigerian Scam, an unsuspecting soul will receive an email from a wealthy Nigerian family or similar, requiring assistance with the task of moving a large sum of money out of the country.

‘But why?’ You need to ask yourself.

A common adaptation of the same basic con is a woman claiming to have been recently bereft of her husband, and who wants to leave millions of dollars from his estate to her church. In both cases they require money, curiously, for legal or transaction fees but of course promise in return a salubrious cut of the aforementioned funds.

Understandably the allure of such a hefty payoff helps the sucker in question to overlook any deficits in logic; then once the money has been paid, providing the scammer doesn’t suddenly incur more ‘unexpected costs’, that will be the end of it.

No money will ever be received because, simply, there never was any – that’s why they needed yours.

So what about the, ‘Advanced Fees Paid for Guaranteed Loan or Credit Card Scam’? Advanced…? Fees..? Paid..? Gosh, it all sounds mighty appealing..?

Take a moment. Think about it. A little known bank offering pre-approved loans or credit cards, but requiring an advanced payment..? Admittedly, as scams go, this is among the weaker as holes in its fabric become obvious with inspection.

Realistically there is no legitimate bank in the world which charges an up-front fee.

Ah, the ‘Lottery Scam’. How can we lose, right?

Well apparently, according to the email, you’ve already won. Congratulations on that. Couple of million dollars is all yours and all you need to do is pay a small, one time processing fee of one, sorry, make it two, thousand dollars.

This is ridiculous; the fact that you don’t even play the lottery seems also to have escaped you – courtesy of the forgetting influence of becoming an overnight millionaire.

Then there’s the ‘Phishing Emails and Phony Web Pages Scam’.

Phishing is where online shitheads use convincing emails and Web pages of, ironically, online threats or dangers to lure that foolish somebody into divulging their password, ID and banking details to genuine-looking, but fabricated sites such as Citibank, eBay or Paypal.

It’s amazing what somebody will do when they’re put under pressure; naturally, protecting oneself against nefarious Internet entities is top priority. Furthermore, since the site appears credible, what harm can come from disclosing your details..?

No prizes for guessing what happens next.

The principle of the ‘Items for Sale Overpayment Scam’ is equally as stupid as the person who falls for it.

It goes like this: somebody advertising an expensive item online receives an email from abroad, informing them that yes, they are keen to purchase this item but on account of international freight costs, additional fees and the like, will need to pay significantly more than the asking price. In return, on receipt of payment of course, the seller is asked to send the sold item along with the cash difference; thereby covering the buyer for postage fees. The seller will likely receive payment in the form of a money order which they will promptly deposit. The monetary value of the sold item will remain in their account; the difference will be withdrawn in cash. The item, along with the extra cash will then be sent abroad.

It will later be revealed that the money order deposited, was fake. The bank now requires that money to be paid back. Therefore, in total the online seller has lost his valuable item; has lost the additional value of that item; has lost the freight costs incurred by the item.

Lesson learned..?

The ‘Employment Search Overpayment Scam’ is classic Internet theft.

As an unemployed but technologically efficient youth, you no doubt have your resume posted somewhere online. It mightn’t surprise you therefore, when you receive a job offer from some company somewhere – you’ll never admit to having never heard of them. They might want you to become a financial rep and to handle those tricky payments from the US, which for an undisclosed reason they have been finding challenging. You might be promised a pay rate of up to 15 percent per transaction.

Sounds awesome. Of course on application you provide this apparent employer with your personal data, including bank account details into which you will be paid, and the ball keeps rolling from there. On reaching the bottom of the hill, you might be experiencing a hint of identity theft, stolen funds from your bank account or better yet, you might be receiving cheques which you deposit into your account, with the instruction that you send all but your 15% cut to this false employer.

In this case, the bank will need to be reimbursed for all those phony cheques you’ve been depositing and drawing upon.

The inventor of the ‘Disaster Relief Scam’ clearly wasn’t big on details. It’s a very basic con. An innocent computer user receives an email pleading for a donation to assist those stricken victims of a recent disaster, the compassionate soul pledges how ever much, revels in the warmth brought about by the act of doing good, and will probably never even find out that they gave their money to a fabricated charity.

‘Travel Scams’ are less criminal and more deceptive. A keen traveller might receive an offer of superb airfares to a fabulous destination via pressurised Email – buy now, offer expires in two hours – only to later find that while the flights are cheap, accommodation is grossly exorbitant. They’ve already paid for the deal and cancellation in this case, is never easy.

‘Make Money Fast Chain Email Scams’ are seemingly designed to entrap preschoolers, or perhaps the mentally impaired among us.

Classic pyramid scheme. You send five dollars to the person at the top of the list, add your name to the bottom then forward it on. Your turn will come soon enough. Great riches coming your way. For sure. You’ve seen the evidence. You’ve read the testimonials; they all appear above board – some people have made millions.

Honestly..? Just think about it. One person gets rich. The same person who is controlling the scam and continually adjusting the list so his name is always on top.

The ‘Turn Your Computer Into a Moneymaking Machine Scam’ is more of a scheme for arseholes than a scam. Simply, one idiot sends another idiot money in exchange for instructions on where to go and what to do to turn your computer into this fabled moneymaking machine.

The advice essentially shows you how to become a professional spammer – not scammer, spammer.

You probably will end up making money, it just won’t be yours. That is to say, you’ll never see it. Like modern day parasites they will be feeding off you, who is in turn feeding off the rest of the cyber world.

Money aside, how many hearts do you think have been ripped out and trodden on by ‘Online Dating Scams’? Pictures of beautiful women who probably died years’ ago; glorious, engaging personalities fronting the pernicious business of which her husband and she are probably partners.

The world of Internet scams is a truly dark place. Honestly, you’re a shithead if you initiate them and you’re a shithead if you perpetuate them.

Don’t be a shithead.

Article by Mit Reklaw

Edited by A R Seoul

Photography by Yeran R Swaip & Chet Tadd