Debate issue 15 by Debate Magazine

debate ISSUE 15 | AUGUST 2014

CHECK OUT OUR BEST POKEMON COMPETITION ENTRIES ON PAGE 10!

debate ISSUE 15 | AUGUST 2014 facebook.com/ausmdebate

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EDITORIAL Hello everybody. The worst part of my week happened on Thursday morning. After my traditional 10 minute snooze, I bid adieu to Blanket Kingdom and braced myself for the torturous walk to the shower. It was as bad as I expected – with no source of heating in my home, it gets pretty chilly come winter time and you feel every step of that five second walk. I whipped off my last line of defence – my t-shirt and boxers – and stepped into the shower. I turned the lever hard to the left, full pressure for faster heat. I stood back from the testicle-shrivelling plume of death, reaching my hand in every few seconds and waiting for the magic. Nothing. Wait, reach, nothing. Wait, reach, nothing. And then, like a flashback to a longsuppressed trauma, I recalled mum’s words from the evening before; “the hot water is out. Check the tap first before trying a shower”. It was then that I reached my lowest point. Feeling like my soul had been ripped into seven and hidden in horcruxes, I miserably aborted my shower plans and went back to bed, setting my alarm 10 minutes into the bleak future. Showerless and moody, I set of to work half an hour later, feeling like I’d been cut a raw deal. The fact that my failed shower was the worst part of my whole week means two things; one, it was a pretty good week, and two, I am a privileged and fortunate son-ova-gun. As horror stories emerge daily from Gaza, we’re offered a window into a world where

blood stains decorate the pavement, playing children are killed mid-adventure and grown men weep helplessly in the rubble where their homes and family stood moments earlier. It’s hard to comprehend the devastation from afar, especially when the news segments are wedged between victory at the Commonwealth Games and Colin Craig’s lawsuits, but goodness me it’s a blessing to live in a country where photobombed selfies are the only bombs that make our national news. I’ve said it before in writing, but the newspapers have stirred me to say it again; we just don’t know how lucky we are. As you may have pieced together, being university level students, I am the editor of your student magazine. In this position, I am able to pass comment on just about anything I feel opinionated about and have it published both in print and online, available therefore to anybody keen enough to have a read. If I’m in the mood, I’m free to write about sexuality, religious beliefs, women’s rights or race issues. This privilege is also extended to you, the students, who are able to contribute freely your opinions and thoughts. One only has to read the news each morning to realise how incredibly fortunate we are to have this opportunity. Looking back over previous articles, I have no doubt that much of what I have written would have landed me in a spot of bother had I published it in other parts of the world. My articles on LBGT rights would most definitely have seen me fired and perhaps imprisoned had I published them in parts of Africa, my lack of respect for various politicians may have caused trouble if published in the war-torn East, and I don’t think my dick-drawing article would have impressed many conservative nations.

And the same goes for you valiant contributors, standing up for equality of sexuality, gender and race – you’d likely be persecuted too, silenced for your opinions. The worst I’ve had to deal with is the odd piece of hate mail, but that’s a damn sight better than letter bombs. The headlines paint pictures of seemingly helpless situations overseas and it’s so easy to become so overwhelmed that you skip straight to the entertainment section. What can we do from way down here at the bottom of the world? We’re not all cut out to be war correspondents or aid workers and we sure as shit don’t have the resources to piss into the wind of mindless conflict. I don’t have the answers, and nor – I think – does anybody. But I do think we, as Kiwis, owe it to those less fortunate to live thankfully and not take our relatively peaceful existence for granted. May we enrol to vote in the knowledge that so many are denied the privilege. May we contribute our voices to whatever medium we like (ahem, debate), without fear of persecution. May we love whomever we please, regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and not face penalties. May we go to bed each night and thank whatever deity (or lack of deity) we choose for living in a country wherein religion is a free choice that won’t get us killed. And last but not least, may we not leave for work miffed because the shower was cold. Have yourselves a great week. Matthew

I caught the Nippon bug

By India Hendrikse Japan’s piercing skyscrapers and infrastructure would seemingly accost one’s vision. Tokyo should overwhelm one’s senses. The bustling people, cars, and bullet train must increase pulse, produce beads of sweat on a foreigner’s temple, and overwhelm even the most experienced traveller. Well this is what I thought. Japan could not really be more different to what I perceived. I pictured a sterile environment with people possessing such drive for success that their souls scurried in a rat race. I imagined a futuristic skyline with no regard for the environment, no greenery to soften one’s vision. Instead, I was greeted with friendliness, buildings with earthy tones, and trees dotted across the landscape. Pride is slicked across every facet of the culture, with gardens manicured to perfection, tables polished, and the streets a smooth grey no bright red cans and cartons emblazoned with a giant ‘M’ are scattered about like back home. Underlying every part of Japanese culture is a regard for others. Japanese people care about each other and have built their lives around the age-old saying of “treat others how you would like to be treated”. Respect is an integral part of the culture; respect for one’s family, beliefs, self and country is a given with the Japanese people I was lucky to meet. Even food is not taken for granted, and itadakimasu (I humbly receive) is said before devouring any part of Japan’s fabulous cuisine.

While back home “rub some dirt in it” is often the Kiwi attitude to sickness, Japanese people have a system that constantly fights bugs. Masks that originally seem pedantic and plague-like are actually there to protect viruses spreading - also a part of the strong sense of community and caring nature of the people within this pristine country. I noticed the strong desire for everything in Japan to be aesthetically pleasing. From the bento boxes that usually spare no less than eight intricately designed ceramic bowls per person, to the chopsticks imprinted with beautiful patterns, Japan understands immaculate design. Women prance down humid streets wearing teetering heels, adorning themselves with floral umbrellas, bows, and sheer stockings. Windows bear a visage of wooden shutters. Ferns are nestled among bamboo forests and neatly trimmed bonsai. Bright lights and lanterns light up roads, and maneki-neko beckon people into shops speckled with calligraphy. Aforementioned respectfulness crosses over into beliefs, traditions and customs. Churches and temples nest within the same streets, and monks and Harajuku-style girls cross paths without batting an eyelid. I’m vegetarian, and thought there would be little on offer besides sashimi and grilled meat. Instead, tofu simmered away in udon broths, and crunchy tempura was served fresh and hot. I drowned myself in miso soup, and ate my way through hundreds of packets of tropicalflavoured lollies, mochi cakes and green tea ice-creams. Rice is a staple and is bowed down

to by Japanese people, the simple grain served sticky and plain with most dishes. The short-grain morsel makes chopsticks a breeze, and hands are a blur as meals are passed from bowl to mouth at a rapid pace. Nothing is cheap, yet I was never ripped off either. Prices are set, and being white is no burden. My blonde hair wasn’t a beacon for harassment, and foreigners are treated to impenetrable hospitality and kindness. Language is only a barrier if one makes it so, as I formed many friendships based on gestures, smiles and laughter. The language is like chimes in one’s ears, almost sing-song in nature, yet spoken with utmost sophistication. Japan is modest, tipping its hat to the earth in its colour scheme, customs and innovation. A sustainable future is a cherished concept, and even high-tech contraptions are utilised in an environmentally-friendly manner. One such concept is Hokkaido’s use of snow for air conditioning; snow is collected in winter and insulated with dirt and cloth throughout the summer in huge mountains, then converted to cool air to chill factories and buildings. My eight days in Japan on behalf of the JENESYS programme were a whirlwind, but left me wanting more. I’ve caught the Nippon bug, a virus no mask can prevent, a red-hot disease contagious merely through the smiles of the people that inhabit this wonderful country. I’m lovesick, and I’ll be back soon.

LOVE YOUR CONDOM FREE CONDOMS, GIVEWAYS AND MORE AT

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clash of the cavies by Laurien Barks

‘Cavies are like potato chips...you can never have just one.’

The sheer enthusiasm and thoughtful sincerity that rang in the utterance of these words were the only indicators I needed to know that I was in for one hell of a ride at the Annual Greenhithe Winter Cavy Competition.

If you’re a bit behind and haven’t quite grasped the lingo of this legendary practice, first of all: shame on you, and second of all: a cavy is the small curvy (actually rather bootylicious when you look at them) rodent that the majority of the population refers to as a guinea pig. That’s right. I was in a building where guinea pigs were being awarded ribbons and bags of carrots for their aesthetic traits. And let me tell you, the competition was fierce!

The Winter Championship Cavy Competition was the biggest thing to hit Greenhithe since the Quilting Nationals of 2004, but the people of this town impressed me with their calm readiness and their seeming inability to let the sudden hit of fame shake them (take notes, Sochi). Despite this competition being open to the entirety of Auckland, this club was ready! The town hall was decked out in merchandise that included pencils, stainless steel necklace pendants, and ‘I love Cavies’ pins to stick on your shirt or bag. Gladwrapped home baking and sandwiches aligned

a fold out table from the church basement, and a small child with a juice box in one hand, and a cavy in the other was put in charge of the cash handling. They even had a part of the town hall sectioned off and filled with guinea pigs who were available for purchase so you could take a piece of the competition legacy home with you to keep in a crate on your desk. Whoever was in charge knew what they were doing. This underground world of cavy breeders and enthusiasts is one of extreme intensity. Combs were out, guinea pigs were groomed, and relaxed facial expressions were few and far between. Uneducated guinea experts, such as myself, had no hope of blending into the half-a-dozen-strong crowds, and were immediately sniffed out and lectured on the art of genealogy: cavy edition. I was surrounded by over 80 guinea pigs, each one being crafted by the exclusively selected genetalia of physically attractive parents. I like to consider myself an artist, but I really had nothing on these people.

Like in an art show, theatre competition, or poetry contest, the contestants brought their works of art to the stage to be judged within a number of different categories. Unlike the more conventional competitions, these people had to train their pieces to sit on a small cushion without making a run for it. The categories ranged from breed to breed, and were centred around traits such as fur length, symmetrical markings, texture, and sheen. To my untrained eye, distinguishing any notable difference between the furry creatures seemed impossible, but the Greenhithe Cavy Club doesn’t take competition lightly, and they brought in the crème de la crème of guinea pig judges, Ken Peddersen.

Having been flown in all the way from Sydney, the man of the hour had made the sacrifice of leaving his own ‘hundred or so’ cavies at home, in order to grace Greenhithe with his expertise and eye for detail. With 35 years of cavy breeding under his belt, Peddersen was more than qualified. It might seem extreme to outsiders, but when the competition is so close, and the prize carrot bags so large...you really don’t want some amateur up there making the decisions. Like watching the graceful hands of an accomplished pianist, the masterful movements of the cavy judge were hypnotising. I was transfixed as I watched guinea pig after guinea pig be presented on a small cushioned platform, then picked up, stroked, flipped upside down, dental checked, and compared against a fellow cavy. Who knew there was so much to observe and consider! One by one the victors were named, the less successful were given advice on how to improve, and the losers cuddled and reassured that they were beautiful just the way they were.

While I had to leave a mere two hours into the six hour competition, the Cavy Club of Greenhithe had still managed to make me feel like a new person. I came, I saw, I cuddled. And I left with a knowledge of guinea pigs that was inappropriately large compared to the other areas of educational focus in my life. I was sad that it was over, but so thrilled that it had happened. I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye as I left through those slightly scratched and grimy town hall doors, so instead I simply whispered ‘see you at Nationals.’

cOMPETITION

Back in issue 13, we asked you to draw us your ideal pokémon companion! We were absolutely to stoked with the results. Here are some of our favourite picks!

ER! N N WI

Pokémon: Master: Type: Height: Description:

Pokémon: Master:

Leora Selina Ng Psychic/electric 3 feet and 9 inches Leora are solitary Pokémon, and are most active at night in cold snowy regions. They can occasionally be found nesting in pairs, and are rarely encountered in the wild. Auroras may suddenly appear and disappear if a Leora is in the area, and travelers who have come into contact with Leora describe bright rings of light radiating from their feet.

Rathe Kerryn Smith

Pokémon: Master: Type:

Slungova Harri Normal/Poison

Pokémon: Weartle, Pottmander, Grangersaur Master: Shannon-Mae Read

Pokémon: Master: Type: Description:

Flippadon Isabella Water Flippadon is a water pokémon. Don't be fooled by its cuteness - Flippadon can slap the shit outta anybody with 6 arms. Caution around this pokemon is advised.

Pokémon: Master: Description:

Human-ator Rochelle Edwards Human-ator has X-Ray and Lazer Vision, as well as the ability to fly and capture humans and other pokemon. Human-ator can fly over 1000ft for long durations. They will eat EVERYTHING. 11

LAST WEEK IN NEW ZEALAND POLITICS A HIGHER MINIMUM WAGE = HIGHER STUDENT UNEMPLOYMENT

ONE OF THE BOYS

By Jason Walls

By Jess Forsman

Another week has passed and yet again it is not looking good for the embattled Labour Party. They were down to just 28 per cent in the latest Colmar Brunton poll with Leader David Cunliffe dropping into single digits as preferred Prime Minister, receiving a mere 8 per cent. It looks as if John Key has well and truly left the Labour leader in the dust, mustering 48 per cent in the preferred Prime Minister race.

The majority of the female population do not like me. As I am sitting here in mostly male clothing, un-kept hair and in need of a shower, I wondered why this is. I am quite a nice person, I know some stellar dance moves and I can crack some good jokes (my cat thinks I’m funny).

National have surged ahead and now sit on a massive 52 per cent, meaning if the election was held tomorrow, John Key’s National party would be the first government under MMP to govern without any coalition partners. So… what is Labour doing about this massive political chasm between them and an ever popular National? The last few weeks have been littered with media negativity toward the Labour caucus; whether it’s Cunliffe taking a skiing holiday to Queenstown or apologising for being a man, there hasn’t been a whole lot of positive press for Labour. But as Labour’s campaign amps up, it looks as though Cunliffe is letting his policies do the talking. Chances are you have probably seen some of Labour’s advertisements; the big red posters with promises of smaller class sizes, more housing and a dramatic drops in electricity bills. Last week however, it was déjà vu when Labour promised to boost the minimum wage by $2.00, hiking it to $16.25 an hour. Cunliffe claims this will “bring down unemployment so all Kiwis can afford a better life.” If this sounds familiar, that’s because it’s almost identical to a policy Labour ran in 2011. Last election, Labour campaigned for a ‘Living Wage’ of $15 an hour. Labour’s new ‘Living Wage’ policy has already caught a lot of flak; BusinessNZ Chief Executive Phill O’Reilly says the policy is inconsistent with the rest of Labour’s rhetoric about skills, business development, growth of small business and growth in the regions. National’s Labour Minister Simon Bridges says the policy would actually costs jobs and says “if you want to make people unemployed, this is a good way to go about it.” But Labour insists this policy will put $4,000 into the pockets of working Kiwi wage earners. This is a good idea in theory… Right? Give people a better wage and they will have more money to spend. More money to spend means more growth within the country and this leads to a higher GDP and so on and so forth. Let’s not forget most of New Zealand businesses are small business which would struggle to keep up with a policy such as this. They would end up having to cut costs to be able to afford to pay staff the new wage and we all know ‘cutting costs’ actually means making redundancies. And when those jobs do start to disappear, who will be the ones more likely to be packing up their desks? It will be those workers with the least education, training, skill and experience, which will then contribute to a higher unemployment level. This puts university students’ heads right on the chopping block… It’s unfortunate, but it’s true.

It all started in primary. I wasn’t a pretty girl with long locks - I had short hair, loved dinosaurs and I was a velociraptor for most of my primary school lunchtimes. Moving on to intermediate school, I was this extremely shy, lanky chick that wanted to be a drummer in a rock band. No boyfriends for me. I was too busy listening to tunes, air drumming, sword fighting with sticks and getting trouble jumping off of a pool table and knocking a guy out (I was very into wrestling). In college, yes guys were around, but I had more guy friends than girl friends. I was that girl with board shorts, not bikinis, I had more than my fair share of blood noses because I wasn’t scared of the ball and on occasion fought fists and all with the guys. So we can see how this all started… I am the girl who is one of the boys. I can understand ladies thinking that I get all the gossip from the boys and that secretly I want all of them, but this just isn’t the case. I get punched hard, hi-fived till my hands burn and I get to hear all the lovely noises from their orifices. I see these mates like the brothers I never had. To my mum they are sons she wished she had. ‘Boys’ night’ can be a variety of things. Sometimes we watch sport and drink beer (and no, ladies, we aren’t all cuddled up on the couch watching old classic romance. Its loud yelling and a lot of swearing). We go to the movies, but this doesn’t mean going to a romantic comedy and sharing popcorn (I don’t share food)… We find the manliest movies that are out (I really enjoy movies that make me jump). Arcades are the most fun though; the competition gets fierce and they refuse to lose to me (I am a dark horse when it comes to these games). I politely excuse myself, however, and draw the line when it comes to those boys’ nights on the town. I don’t want to be mother duck to five drunken males or watch in horror as these guys try and impress the ladies. Perhaps, you’re thinking this must mean my dating life is spectacular. Nope. This single lady has nothing. There are two reasons, I believe. Hanging out with a whole bunch of guys significantly reduces the chances of actual boyfriend potentials and sadly, I Jess, am bloody terrible at picking up guys. I get all nervous and crack jokes then BOOM BABY, straight in the friend zone and no getting lucky ducky for me. How? Well I don’t know. I never ask my guy mates for advice because half the time they forget I’m a lady. If I do manage to get a real life man however, they are worse than the parents. There was a time where the guys decided to sharpen axes (I’m pretty sure I am the only one who knew how to use one at that time) as they met the boyfriend and proceeded to interrogate the poor guy. So ladies, my sisters from other misters, don’t hate that chick that’s one of the boys because most of the time, she is a cool cat, nerd or in my case, a boganerd. We (ok me), actually have terrible dating lives and see these guys as family, and no, sleeping with family is never okay. Now I shall go back to watching Jurassic Park with my cat.

Despite this, I do see this policy getting a fair bit of traction in the coming weeks. It puts the issue of child poverty in New Zealand front and centre in this campaign and, coupled with the Greens’ child poverty policy, it will give rise to some very interesting debate around the issue. 13

GAME OF THRONES

LOOKING BACK AND LOOKING FORWARD By Ethan Sills *Warning: The following contains spoilers for basically all of Game of Thrones. If you’re not caught up, drop whatever you’re doing and do nothing until you have watched all 40 episodes (and, if you have time, read all five books – just for the full experience), and only then you may resume reading this article. Another season of Game of Thrones has drawn to a close, and it was perhaps the best one yet. Many people had doubts that the show would be able to top The Red Wedding, but Season Four managed to shine in a way that made its predecessors pale in comparison. It began with the Lannisters holding most of the cards, the Starks pretty much screwed, and the Night’s Watch facing certain doom, but managed to subvert most of our characters fortunes after a whole lot of plot and some much needed development. I could probably fill an entire issue with everything I loved about the season, but here are just some of my personal highlights from Season Four: Favourite Episode: The Watchers on the Wall While not as captivating as the Blackwater Bay/ green fireworks event, the fantastic direction made the Battle of the Wall better than it could have been. There were surprising and sad deaths, epic duels, plus giants, a mammoth and a giant scythe – what is there not to love? It was a tense and emotional hour of television, made sweeter by the plot shake-up the following episode when Stannis, Davos and Melisandre (a storyline I am continuing to root for even though the show doesn’t seem to care about them) came along for the party. Favourite New Character: Oberyn Martell Really, could it have been anyone else? The silver tongued, pansexual, vengeful prince brought much needed flair to the King’s Landing storyline, and he was played to perfection by Pedro Pascal. While his death was perhaps the most disgusting thing ever, that duel nearly made my heart stop even though I knew what was coming. While Pascal was absolutely robbed of an Emmy

nomination he deserved to win, The Red Viper will always be remembered by fans for his brief but stellar role in the story. Most Satisfying Death: Joffrey His presence will be missed, but it was sooo satisfying watching the little fucker choke and go all blue face at his own wedding. His death was the first of the two big losses to the Lannister’s power, followed by Tywin’s murder in the finale. That I was a tad disappointed with, largely as they rather drastically changed his death and Tyrion’s escape from how it plays out in the books. Not to say the show needs to stay 100% loyal to the books, though… Best Original Scene: Brienne versus The Hound That fight was an unexpected but fucking awesome addition on the producer’s part, perhaps the goriest and most realistic match up yet and is one of my favourite moments from the series as a whole. The Hound’s death was in the books, but the text doesn’t have Maisie Williams’ incredibly icy performance as Arya. I am very excited to see what they do with both Arya and Brienne next season, and how they will top these character-defining moments. (Plus, R.I.P Hound – never thought I’d say, but you shall be missed). Weakest Storyline: Daenerys/Meereen. Sigh… This storyline is the one with the most potential and the one we most want to see reach its conclusion, but it has remained the most boring for a while now. Daenerys and her slave-saving agenda have struggled ever since her epic takedown in the middle of last season and setting up shop in Meereen has not helped her storyline. We know from Bran’s tree-vision that a dragon (and, presumably, Daenerys too) will reach King’s Landing eventually, but our beloved Khaleesi needs something interesting to do before that happens. But now that Season Four is over, the long wait until the next season begins. Yet what exactly can we expect in Season Five?

Firstly, the writers will now be adapting two books at once as A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons take place at the same time but are split geographically (so if you plan on reading a book a season, that kind of screws you over). Going by the books, expect more of the plot to fall on Cersei, as she deals with her father’s death and trying to maintain control of her son, while also facing off against a powerful new religious movement. Arya and Sansa’s roles, meanwhile, could potentially be thinned as there is not a lot of book content to adapt, though I suspect the writers will find ways of stretching it out or adding new elements. They will need to with Bran’s storyline, since they have adapted everything that happens to him in the books so far, the only storyline they have done so with. And things will hopefully be a bit more interesting at The Wall now that Jon Snow has the always friendly Stannis to contend with. There are always new characters in Thrones, but next season will see our biggest influx in one area. It is known that the main new setting will be Dorne, one of the few areas of Westeros we have not yet seen, where we will meet the rest of the Martell family. This includes Kiwi Keshia Castle-Hughes as one of Oberyn’s daughters Obara – don’t expect her to be happy about what happened to her dad. Some characters have not been confirmed yet but it seems likely we will see them: the Greyjoy’s (i.e. Theon’s boat-friendly family) have a bigger role in Crows/Dragons than they have previously, and Tyrion’s storyline will bring a number of new characters and elements to the show when he emerges from his crate, so expect a lot of fresh faces in those areas. The next few seasons will either build on the success of Thrones so far or the rush of new characters, environments and changing focus could lead to things crashing and burning. Obviously, I want the former to occur, and Season Four has left me with high hopes that the writers can pull it off. Be prepared for a lot of change though, and here’s hoping it works – for the night is dark and full of terrors, and a lot can happen between now and the eventual conclusion. 15

UPDATES

Get Discounts with your International Student Identification Card – ISIC Over 4,500 discounts available around New Zealand and Australia and up to 42,000 discounts around the world, including travel, accommodation, sightseeing and of course food and beverages! ISIC can hook you up with all of the above and more. Simply purchase your ISIC ONLINE. What’s more? We even managed to get you an exclusive AuSM price for just $19 instead of $30. Just enter the promo code: AUSM when you sign up online at www.isiccard.co.nz *Offer valid till 31 Dec 2014 and only valid to full-time AuSM members holding a current AuSM card (AUT student ID) which will be used for verification.

AuSM Lodge Spend your weekend at AuSM Lodge with your mates! Located at National Park, it’s the perfect winter destination! There are still some sweet dates available. Book now at www.ausm.org.nz before all the good dates are gone! Mobile phone top ups Phone top up services available at any AuSM@ AUT offices on Campus! And because AuSM cares, you will get 50 cents off every top up of $20 or more. Still a bargain!

Advanced Movie Screening – Lucy Huge fan of Scarlett Johansson? Lucy is coming to cinemas 21 Aug 2014, Eventcinemas Queen St. and AuSM are giving you and your mates a chance to join us for the advance movie screening to Lucy on 15 Aug, Friday at 4pm! We’re going to hook you guys up with free popcorn and drinks too! For more info or to enter the draw, please visit http://bit.ly/AUSMLUCY

Head on in to grab a top up for Vodafone, Telecom, 2 Degrees or Skinny! *Discount only applies to students. ID may be requested to gain discount.

PREZ SEZ Hey guys, I hope you’re enjoying your time at AUT so far and have enjoyed some Re O-Week events. Now that you have the hang of things, I hope you are putting all your effort into your studies! Here are just some small tips to help you with your student life and your experience at AUT. - I know at times it gets so distracting with your friends and family that you put your studies aside but we do not want this to happen so, learn to prioritize. - Also be nice and get to know your teachers and lectures because without them you don’t have the tools to pass. Also you don’t want to give them an incentive to ignore you so lose the attitude. - Get involved with sports. Sometimes recreation can help you and

getting some exercise can help you get the body of your dreams. - Give back to the environment. Help AUT stay clean and be hygiene friendly, pick rubbish up after yourselves and wash your hands because it is flu season and we don’t want to get other students sick. - Got nothing to do? Create a club! There’s nothing wrong with getting to know some other students around AUT and this is one way to get to know them. On that note, stay classy AUT and keep working hard. I know it’s difficult but we can do this together! It’s all about getting that paper!!! AuSM President April Pokino

HOROSCOPES. by Jess Forsman

CANCER (JUNE 22 - JULY23) It is cold, you are all rugged up and yet your body is numb. Using a neighbour’s cat as a scarf is not a cool idea. You are just one step closer to becoming the crazy cat lady.

Custard Pie

LEO (JULY 24 - AUG 23) Don’t judge a book by its cover! Unless it is The Great Depression. You know that is going to be a bad time.

VIRGO (AUG 24 - SEP 23) Chill your beans! So you sent an indecent picture to your mum and half of the Snapchat population instead of you lover - relax it’s not like that will be around forever….

LIBRA (SEP 24 - OCT 23) Use it or lose it doesn’t apply to everything. You will not lose you manhood if you do not engage in promiscuous acts.

SCORPIO (OCT 23 - NOV) Jealousy is not cool sweet pea. Yes he has so much more swag, he’s lazily cute and is beautifully groomed but it is weird to be jelly over your cat.

This recipe is SO easy, like, I could make it in the dark easy, so you should totally try it. Whenever I went to the bakery growing up, scratch that, I still do… I’m always tempted to get a custard pie because I love the taste and the way they are always presented with the nutmeg on top.

SAGITTARIUS (NOV 23 - DEC 21) Stop the duck face look and start smiling. The only creature that can pull this off is an actual duck. Unless you are a duck? Then you are the first duck ever to be able to read. #Mindblown.

CAPRICORN (DEC 22 - JAN 20) Stop stealing your girlfriend’s socks! You stretch them out like the time you wore her jeans. Buy your own clothes!

AQUARIUS (JAN 21 - FEB 19) Life is looking good this week. Birds are in the trees, the sun is shining and the skies are blue. Praise the gods for pretty screensavers.

PISCES (FEB 20 - MARCH 20) Pinch yourself again…Yeah sorry that assignment is still due soon. You not only have an essay of epic proportions but now a beautiful bruise. At least it’s colourful…

ARIES (MARCH 21 - APRIL 20) The idea of giving up makes you feel ill. But it is time to give up the idea that you are the reincarnation of Tupac.

TAURUS (APRIL 21 - MAY 21) Tame the inner bull this week. You need to relax and tread carefully around the China shop we call feelings.

GEMINI (MAY 22 - JUNE 21) Unless you are Professor X, stop cutting people off midsentence - especially your tutor. Close your mouth and open your mind… Even just your ears will do.

What you will need: •

2-3 sheets of ready-made short crust pastry • 3 cups of milk (full fat or dark blue) • 1 tsp vanilla essence • 1/2 cup of Edmonds Custard Powder • 1/2 tsp fresh nutmeg

Method 1. Preheat your oven to 215 degrees Celsius (nice and hot to cook that pastry well). 2. Line your pie dish with a little sprinkle of flour and press the pastry into the dish gently so it doesn’t break. 3. Pour the milk, and vanilla essence into a large pot. 4. Sieve the custard powder into the milk mixture while whisking briskly to avoid lumps. 5. Let the mixture come to the boil and stir constantly - once boiling it will thicken really quickly so watch it like a hawk and stir constantly. 6. Once the custard is thick, remove from the heat and let it cool slightly. 7. Pour custard into crust and smooth over the top, add a sprinkling of nutmeg. 8. You can either leave the top bare or put a plaited crust around the outside like I did. If you want to try the way I’ve done it then cut 3 long strips of pastry and plait them together like you would your hair, then place around the outside of the crust. You might need to do this a couple of times to get the whole way around the pie. 9. Bake for approximately 15-20 minutes depending on the heat of your oven. Once the top has gone golden and you can insert a knife into the middle and it comes out clean you’re ready! 10. I like to let mine cool rather than eat it hot and by doing so, you will allow it to set properly too. 17

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Circle all the words in the Beard Wordfind, tear this page out & pop it into the box on the side of the red debate stands, and you could win some sweet prizes! Get amongst! Winners will be notified by email.

DID YOU KNOW? The length from your wrist to your elbow is the same as the length of your foot.

On average, you speak almost 5,000 words a day – although almost 80% of speaking is self-talk (talking to yourself).

Your heart beats 101,000 times a day. During your lifetime it will beat about 3 billion times and pump about 400 million litres (800 million pints) of blood.

Over the last 150 years the average height of people in industrialized nations increased by 10 cm (4 in).

Your mouth produces 1 litre of saliva a day.

If the amount of water in your body is reduced by just 1%, you’ll feel thirsty.

The human head contains 22 bones. On average, you breathe 23,000 times a day. On average, people can hold their breath for about one minute. The world record is 21 minutes 29 seconds, by David Merlini.

55% of people yawn within 5 minutes of seeing someone else yawn. Hippocrates, the Father of Medicine, suggested that a woman could enlarge her bust line by singing loudly and often.

A person can live without food for about a month, but only about a week without water. You’ll drink about 75,000 litres (20,000 gallons) of water in your lifetime. Hair on the head grows for between two and six years before being replaced. In the case of baldness, the dormant hair was not replaced with new hair. Men loose about 40 hairs a day. Women loose about 70 hairs a day. In the Middle Ages the length from the tip of the middle finger to the elbow was called an ell.

32 is my lucky number. It hasn't always been. It's something that I realized not too long ago, actually. I'm not a terribly superstitious person. I walk under ladders, I open umbrellas inside, I encourage black cats to cross my path - I'm a gosh darn risk taker. But when it comes to luck and lucky charms, I tend to have more than my fair share of superstition. It's not that I necessarily believe that lucky things have any kind of magic power, but I think that when you label something 'lucky', it automatically gains a sense of positivity that is inevitably transferred to you every time you use or see it. It's like a reusable and recyclable 'feel good' energy that can't help but make things better. Most of my charms have a specific purpose. My lucky bracelet only has powers in the theatre - it's used for auditions and performances only. My lucky eye shadow is used for classy occasions (ie. graduations, dates, interviews) and prevents me from tripping over my own feet, accidentally making a dick joke or doing that thing where you try to talk but drool comes out instead and you have to slurp it up really quick to prevent it from falling on the front of your shirt. My lucky guitar pick is chucked into a pocket or a bag whenever I need to confront someone. I don't know why, but I've got it in my head that the 'you really hurt me!' or 'I think we should just be friends' talks go a lot better when I've got my guitar pick close by. I have plenty more, but I don't want to confirm your 'nut job' accusations any more than I already have. For the crazy, creative, and daydreamer types of people, I think that lucky charms and beliefs can be a positive thing to keep around. Even though you're fully aware that it's silly on the surface, there's a sense of comfort underneath it all. Every charm has an origin, every charm has a memory and every charm acts like a suitcase packed full of positivity you can carry around whenever you need to. 32 is my luckiest charm. Can you call it a charm if you can't touch it? Meh, I'm going to anyway. Unlike my others, it's an unspecific charm. I don't need to be in a certain situation or location to find it comforting. It didn't start out lucky, it doesn't have a happy origin, and it’s taken me a long time to find the positivity in it. But fate is funny like that. It has a way of aligning stars, deconstructing obstacles, and eventually revealing the purpose behind every little occurrence. And that’s the kind of magic that I believe in - the kind that comes disguised as misfortune. I suffered from several different eating disorders for 32 months. I was 32 pounds underweight. It took me 32 weeks to recover physically, while eating 32 hundred calories a day. 32 hours of plotting my own suicide. 32 trips to therapy before I could truthfully admit that I didn't hate myself. And 32 scars on my skin from the times when I forgot that I didn't hate myself. Hardly seems like a solid basis for the label of 'lucky', huh? But that's where you’re wrong. I find that we, in western culture, thrive on the contradicting highs of untouchable beauty and body confidence. We strive for Photoshop perfection, but plaster the statistics of eating disorder victims on whatever platform we find necessary. Yet even still, the body confidence campaigns are in a genre of their own - real world, successful role models are rarely larger than a size 8, and despite the facts, celebrity interviews, and raised public awareness, eating disorders are highly romanticised. It’s taboo to talk about them truthfully. People, my past self included, fail to understand them, and so, while feeling sympathetic toward eating disorder patients, we also tend to simplify and

glamourize the mental illness. I’m not going to sugar coat my experiences. I have 32 reasons not to. My first two eating disorders attacked at the same time. My brain and body were taken over by a solid mix of anorexia and bulimia. I was a textbook case. Middle class, white, female, 17-years-old, excellent grades, intensely driven. A perfectionist, if you will. Neurotic, stressed, and chronically anxious. I worked hard to get what I wanted, and nothing was ever impossible - any goal was conquerable with enough hard work and discipline. Which is usually seen as a positive trait to have, except when it comes to unnecessary weight loss. Even after puberty kicked in, I was still slightly underweight. But society can be a bitch, and all it took was one person telling me I’d be perfect if my hips were a little smaller. Perfection was my weakness. Turns out I’d do anything to achieve it. Meals gradually decreased in size, exercise rapidly increased. Eventually I was eating nothing but a few celery sticks and half of an apple, and running for two hours every single day. I was freezing cold, I grew a layer of fuzzy white hair on my arms and torso as my body attempted to stay warm, my skin turned yellow, and my blood pressure was so low, that when I went to give blood it took 45 minutes to get enough out. I had migraines, I fainted regularly, and my clothes wouldn’t stay on my body. Yet I continued to run through the pain. But that’s the kind of thing you already know about eating disorders. What the public awareness notices fail to reveal is the remaining 90 per cent of the struggle. The voices that clog your head with a thousand hateful insults, the extreme depression that results from no food, the refusal to see your friends or family because they might offer you food. The unwillingness to wear anything but a baggy jumper in case someone sees your ribs, the refusal to hug anyone in case they feel your spine, the secret purchase of laxatives, the Googling of how to make yourself throw up, the fingers shoved so aggressively down your throat that your teeth dig into your knuckles and scar them. Bursting blood vessels in your eyes from heaving, feeling your heart skip multiple beats, blood clots in vomit and never being satisfied until you feel empty. Feeling weak when your survival instinct takes over and you binge on everything in sight, and refusing to eat or leave the house for days afterward because the voices say that people will see all of the weight you’ve gained. Lying in bed at night crying because you can’t decide if you should just kill yourself right then, or wait it out and let the disease kill you. Those are your only two options. Eventually someone notices that you’re so thin that you can barely stand, and gets you help. But even after you’re cured of one eating disorder, more follow. It’s a chain reaction of illness, pain, and intense self-hatred. You quickly learn the best way to deconstruct a razor and sometimes you use the blade to draw a steady line in your skin, and other times you just gash away at it until there’s too much blood for you to see what you’re doing. There’s several different kinds of antidepressants, chronic anxiety medication, pills and injections to try and bring your immune system back into existence, and a steady stream of fainting, nausea, and fatigue because there’s next to no iron left in your blood. For the rest of your life you’ll deal with slight heart and lung problems, blood deficiencies, and a very high chance of infertility. Perfection.

We’re all going to have unbearably difficult times in our life. We’re all going to have obstacles to face and mountains to climb. This has been my biggest one so far, and I feel pretty damn lucky to have come out the other side. My disease was curable. Yes, it threw me down and beat me repeatedly, but it also taught me a lot in the process. Before I got sick, I was confident, but I was chronically stressed and worried, and even though I was happy, I never felt good enough. My identity became my appearance, and my family and friends were people who I loved and cared for. My outlook on life was black and white, and practicality held a far greater importance than pleasure. My dreams were contained in a box that I would hold onto but never open. A relationship wasn’t even something I thought about because I didn’t think I was the kind of person that someone could love in the romantic sense of the word. And I was okay with that. Those 32 months, (a number which, to my complete disbelief, reflects almost every aspect of this struggle), changed me for the better. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have come out the other side with the wisdom and enlightenment that take many people a lifetime to achieve. I have a whole new kind of confidence, and have dropped the word ‘chronic’ from my life. Worry and stress have a much lower rate of occurrence, because those pretty pink lines on my skin remind me how hard I’ve worked to let the small things go. I dropped makeup, hairstyles, and expensive clothes from the majority of my life, because I’m so much happier when my identity is who I am, instead of what I look like. My style of dress is one of celebration and colour and happiness, because I’ve learned it’s a far more accurate representation of me than slim legs and a tiny waist ever were. My family and friends are no longer the people I love and care for, they’re the people that stuck around when I pushed them away. They’re the people who hugged me when I was nothing but bone, and force fed me pills, enhanced calorie milk, and encouragement. To say I love them seems like the biggest understatement anyone could make. I prioritise my happiness over practicality, I chase my dreams and explore my talents. I opened the box that I thought would remain closed, and only magic poured out, proving that I had nothing to be afraid of. I know I’m far from perfect, but I also know that I’m one hell of a catch who understands what love is, and what love should be. Even if I wind up with the least superstitious person on the planet, they won’t be able to help but believe that they got lucky. I’m no longer ‘okay’ with my life, I’m excited about it. I’ve not only learned how to live, but why to live. I’m not saying I’m the expert, far from it. But compared to my not-too-distant past self, I’ve got a pretty decent head on my shoulders. So what’s my point in all of this? It’s not to brag or revel in mass amounts of pity. Quite the opposite. Each and every one of us has, or will have, shit to deal with. In my opinion, no personal misfortune can be accurately measured against another; we all have it just as bad as each other. And that means we all have a choice. Let our demon kill us, or take that son of a bitch, cut its left testicle off, mount it on a keychain, and claim it as our newest lucky charm. Every tragedy, disease, accident or loss has the power to either destroy, or enhance us. You can have 32 painful scars, or be the living personification of your favourite number. Cursed or lucky. It’s all perspective, it’s all choice, it’s all you. I chose luck.

Okay, maybe not perfection...but definitely lucky. 21

a gringo abroad: under atacama skies by Matt Neary It’s 4am in the Atacama Desert, and my Californian mate Pat and I are sitting in the back of a jeep belonging to the Carabineros, the police force of Chile. The emptiest black of night engulfs us from all sides, except for a high ridge in front which lays illuminated by the headlights of the jeep. We need to get over the ridge, but the only road we can see is the one that towers over us now, an uneven, loose, unbelievably steep path of dirt. In my mind it would be suicidal to attempt it, but the two Carabineros in front don’t share my anxiety. Before there is time to process what´s happening, we surge forward into the incline, but only make it a few metres up before our momentum is killed and we roll back down. The Carabineros talk to each other in Spanish - I guess about what the next option is - before putting the jeep in reverse. A wave of relief; they are going to try and find another way around and I won´t die rolling down the cliff-like face with my new police buddies. We reverse only a metre before lurching to a halt; turns out they were just engaging the four wheel drive. We take off like an aeroplane, hurtling towards the mother of all roads. We hit the point we failed last time, and miraculously just keep on going. I clench my fists and inhale my testies as the jeep bounces up towards the sky - we are basically vertical. Somehow the beast of the jeep takes us all the way to the top, and I ponder how in the fuck I am in this ridiculous situation. About 14 hours earlier, our own jeep had driven past the same slope on our quest to find a meteor crater out in the desert. There were six of us crammed into our five seater jeep, three girls, three guys, fellow travellers who’d all agreed to hire a couple of jeeps and boost around the Atacama desert. One of the jeeps was returned the previous day and this was our last hurrah with this one. I had a bus ticket to Peru booked for that night and the others had one to Argentina the following morning. We had been driving for a couple of hours when it first occurred to me the situation we were in. We were way out in the

desert, no one knew what we were doing, and we had a very limited supply of water - not to mention we were hungover from a night drinking under the stars. The jeep had done us well so far but if for whatever reason it decided not to cooperate, we were more than a little screwed. I’m sure everyone had pondered this reality, but it was unspoken. The roads were still okay, Owen was driving like a pro and if we had been driving this long, logic dictates the crater shouldn´t be too far away, despite our directions consisting of a French webpage and coordinates on an iPhone GPS.

...IN THE VAST LONELY DARKNESS OF THE NOCTURNAL DESERT THE DISTANCES OF THESE LIGHTS PROVED IMPOSSIBLE TO GUESS. WE WERE STUCK IN A DREAM, WALKING ON A DIRT TREADMILL TOWARDS THESE HEAVENLY LIGHTS THAT NEVER CAME CLOSER, EVEN AFTER HOURS OF WALKING. When we arrived at the ridge with Satan’s driveway we managed to find a much more pleasant route over, however, once we were over, the terrain became more rocky and unforgiving. The niggling thought that we should call it quits and turn around became more active with every corner as we craned our necks without spotting the crater. Personally I didn’t want to be the downbuzz who calls for a stop only to find out later the crater was around the next bend, but that mentality became harder to justify the further we travelled from civilization.

Inevitably, the truck got stuck, in a small sandy dip carved into the road, if you can call it a road at this point. With some desperate manpower, we get the truck out straight away, but it shook us a little, and we agreed to abandon our little adventure – the jeeps had to be returned in a few hours anyway. I don’t quite remember how the jeep came to be stuck the second time on the next bend, but I remember it being worse. I remember the feeling of dread, fear and adrenaline all mixed together in an overpowering cocktail that bubbled under the desert heat. It fuelled some intense physical effort that actually freed the jeep, but with nowhere really for it to go in the sandy rock-covered canyon we were in, it ended up stuck again between a sand ridge and a boulder. Mentally I was preparing myself for our only real option out of this predicament, but for the moment we weren’t giving up. We were possessed, trying for two hours relentlessly to free the jeep. I was carrying a cold and every five minutes of sand shovelling and boulder hauling was causing me to dry retch - a sip of the limited water we had my only relief. Eventually, and with only a couple of hours of daylight left, the decision had to be made; a couple of us had to hike out of the desert for help. We divided up the water and clothing and Pat and I set off. We had a target; Pat’s GPS showed a town 16km away – much closer than I thought! The first hour and a bit I felt like Bear Grylls. We were jogging over vast hills of volcanic rock, before descending into a deep canyon, which wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounds, especially in jandals, the only footwear I had on me. It was extremely steep and everywhere you put your foot down, the loose rocks and boulders would give out underneath you. We had to be extremely cautious as we navigated our way down, one foot wrong could have spelled disaster, the canyon floor being probably 15 metres below. Our hearts were pounding so hard

by the time we got to the bottom that we took a couple of minutes to settle our nerves. It was the only time we rested for the next six hours. Our strategy was walk for a bit then jog for a bit. We wanted to get down off the rough terrain of the ridge before the sun went down, and we managed that. We were doing well, conserving our water and making good ground. As the sun went down we saw lights in the far distance which roughly matched where our saviour town should be. Following Pat’s directions we hit a dirt road like expected, and followed that in the direction of the lights, thinking we were on the home stretch. It was a stretch all right, one hell of a stretch, turning out to be the hardest and longest part of the journey, both mentally and physically. At one point we must have been following the road in a perfectly straight path for two hours straight in the dark, not one new visual element to entertain us in that time. We saw random lights buzzing around the desert. Thinking they were cars or houses, we tried to wave them down when they were probably hours of walking away. Some lights maintained their position to the side of us no matter how long we walked. At one point we doubted we would even reach the lights ahead of us - in the vast lonely darkness of the nocturnal desert the distances of these lights proved impossible to guess. We were stuck in a dream, walking on a dirt treadmill towards these heavenly lights that never came closer, even after hours of walking. Up until that point, adrenaline had been fuelling us. I was so focused on the present moment and getting out of our sandy prison that looking back, the whole adventure seems a blur. We must have had been walking for five hours non-stop and the legs were really struggling. It felt like I had been punched repeatedly in every muscle and someone had snapped a plank of wood across my hips. The knees were wobbling, and for the last three hours we must have said “we´re almost there” a dozen times. The knowledge that we had to get to our friends before the sun came up, out of fear their water would run out, or Owen, being the badass Irishman he is, would try to hike out of

the desert in the morning, maintained our drive not to stop. The lights were really close now. They got brighter and brighter until we almost felt like we could shout out to them, the outline of a massive building becoming clear. Thinking we were moments away from help, we scaled an inclined wall only to find a huge reservoir of water on the other side. Cursing what seemed like our final test of endurance, we had to walk to the side of the reservoir and go around, only to hit another even bigger body of water after that. We were close though, and Pat began blowing his whistle and we waved our torches. We could see lights moving and hear machinery, and when we finally did reach the building, the huge mounds of white that surrounded it identified it as some kind of salt refinery. We entered the complex and saw a solo gigantic bulldozer, crashing into a hill of salt before dumping it 30 metres away. We stalked it, being careful to get out of its path as it seemed it was hard for the driver to see us. We positioned ourselves to the side and as it reversed; the driver saw us. He had a USA flag bandanna wrapped over the lower half of his face, allowing us to see perfectly his eyeballs as they popped out of his skull. He got down and passed us off to another worker who then gave us to the night manager. I knew little Spanish so Pat did the explaining, and once it was clear we were getting help, we both collapsed onto the pile of salt yelling swear words of victory into the night. We later worked out that we had walked for about six hours and 40km without stopping, that initial 16km walk pointed to a town that didn’t properly exist. The manager called the Carabineros for us, gave us some food and drink, and let us wait in the staff room. Even after 20 minutes of rest, my muscles and joints had shut down. I was hobbling over my ankle and every part of my legs was screaming hate at me. To make it worse, all the salt on the factory floor had found its way into the cuts on my hands and feet, so they were stinging too. At least we got a wooden bench to sleep on in

the staff room while we waited three hours for the nearest Carabineros to come to us. I can’t say it was pleasant, but it was the least of our worries; it was hard to relax knowing our mates were still out in the desert, not knowing if we would be back. I learned later that they had a guardian sweettalker in the form of a bottle of Vodka to ease their nerves. Eventually the Carabineros came and we spent two hours in the dark searching for the road the jeep was on, before defeating that horrendous slope of a path. Several bends and a couple of wrong turns later, with the sun coming up, we spotted Owen clambering over some rocks, the jeep behind him. Everyone was doing okay and we had two badass Carabineros here to help us – SUCCESS! The first two hours of that morning were spent following the instructions of the Chilean cops as they tried to free our jeep. They were aggressive and accurate in their execution, even colliding the two jeeps together at one point. But they’re ´get stuck in´ approach (no pun intended) was exactly what was needed, and eventually, on about the sixth or seventh attempt, our jeep was out, using their own vehicle to tow it. This was met with cheers and applause from us. Yes in the process it had its paint scratched and tire punctured, but it was out. Changing that tire used the last little gasp of energy we had left in us. The Carabineros even drove it out of the difficult section of the path for us. They were amazing. Our stupidity had cost them hours of their morning, but they behaved quite literally like our heroes without a hint of attitude and even the odd cheeky smile. We could not thank them enough – it was an incredible show of kindness to some idiotic travellers and I hope that the praise we gave them portrayed that. With that, we drove back to San Pedro for a hot shower and a meal. The shower was amazing but the meal was shit. I suppose that was karma for being stupid Gringos.

The buzz on VOLUNTOURISM by Julie Cleaver We’ve all seen those pictures; you know the ones, of volunteers surrounded by a bunch of gorgeous African children, altruism utterly overflowing from their huge grins. Or what about those docos where various celebrities - or other cool looking young people - go to third world countries and make some sort of large positive impact on the local people. My personal exposure to this sort of media, accompanied with books about the developing world and a hopeful ‘I want to save the world’ attitude led me to Cambodia, where I volunteered in an orphanage for three weeks over the summer break. Given my media conditioning, optimism and naivety, I genuinely believed that I would go over and do great things. However this turned out to be not entirely the case. Instead of a moral crusader, fighting poverty and disease, I was in fact a visitor partaking in a specific type of holiday known by the industry as ‘voluntourism’. Despite my misconceptions I still had an absolutely wonderful and eye opening experience. However, I feel anyone interested in participating in a similar sort of project should be aware of what volunteering is really like - not from a charity’s point of view but from the perspective of someone who has done it. When signing up for an orphanage placement I had no idea what type of work would be involved. I had a vague picture of dressing children, helping them with their homework, cooking, cleaning and just being helpful in general. For a lot of volunteers I met this was the case, however my job consisted of two to three hours of teaching English a day. That was it. There were only 12 girls living at the orphanage and they were basically all self-sufficient and needed very little looking after. They got themselves ready for school, did the dishes without having to be told, washed their own clothes - the works. Basically, my presence was not desperately needed. In spite of this, I do believe my time and energy did have some benefit for the girls. It is extremely valuable for Cambodians to learn English as it pretty much guarantees them a well-paying job in the tourism industry, and therefore a ticket out of poverty. However the girls all learned English at school already, making my job not all

that necessary. It was more of a nice bonus. I was a guest at the orphanage, and the money I paid to stay there was the main aid that they needed from me. The monetary donations from volunteers are what keep the orphanage afloat. So I’m glad that my efforts had some importance, I just had no idea it was money and not my services that they needed most. Another aspect to volunteering which I found difficult to accept was the fact that so many volunteers pass through these kids’ lives. This creates intense, but short-lived connections which are totally severed within a few weeks. It must be a tough cycle for them, however the presence of volunteers still brought the kids immense excitement and joy, which was rather heart-warming. Despite all of the somewhat troubling aspects of volunteering I discovered the experience also came with many unforeseen advantages and magical moments. Firstly, it was a beautifully authentic way to learn about a new culture. Some tourists go to a foreign land just to eat burgers and stay in flash hotels, which in itself is fine, but you could do all of that stuff at home, so it seems like a slight waste of energy. Though when volunteering, especially at somewhere like my placement which was in the middle of the countryside, you are given the opportunity to live and connect with the local people and totally immerse yourself into an exotic culture. There were no shops where I was, only a small produce market down the dirt road. The orphanage neighboured a large Buddhist temple or ‘pagoda,’ and I would often go sit in the courtyard and just watch the monks do their daily chores in silent awe. As well as this, I ate the local food when and how they did, which turned out to be one of the most delicious cuisines I have had the pleasure of trying. Most importantly, I was able to create strong relationships with the staff and children at the orphanage, which was an absolute blessing. I learned about the culture first hand, and after three weeks I really began to assimilate myself to the Cambodian way of life. The orphanage was understandably a very basic place with few western comforts present. There was no wifi, warm showers, sinks, mattresses, drinkable tap water and so forth, and each absence of luxury

presented its own various set of challenges. Overcoming these obstacles proved to be a huge learning curve for me. Before my trip I could logically comprehend that other people had far less privileges than myself, however without seeing and experiencing it first hand I found it difficult to understand, therefore limiting my capacity to empathise. Living more basically made me not only appreciate everything that I have back at home, it also opened my eyes to a whole new world (excuse the Disney reference). Volunteering was an absolutely incredible, perspective altering and life changing experience for me; but that’s just the thing, for me. I may have momentarily relished the lives of those I encountered and exposed them to the awesomeness which is Kiwi culture, but I feel they helped me much more than I helped them. In hindsight it makes sense, I wanted to travel just as much as I wanted to help, otherwise I could have just volunteered in New Zealand all summer. Ultimately, I would recommend volunteering to anyone so long as they knew that it was going to be an experience mostly for them. Of course there are many diverse types of volunteering all with different levels of substance and value. Say for example, if you had a skill in the fields of medicine or horticulture, it is likely that your time would benefit a community immensely. But an 18-year-old travelling with few skills for three weeks cannot really expect to make a huge difference to a country. It can, however make a monumental difference to who you are as a person. Who you are affects all of the people you encounter in many profound and intricate ways. Therefore, a more developed character will give you long term benefits of being able to touch many people’s lives over time. Maybe you won’t be able to help everyone, but everyone can help someone have an impact in some small way. Because (not to sounds like one of those motivational quotes on Facebook) at the end of the day it’s not about how many people you touch but how deeply you touch the people you do encounter. So aim small but large. If you want to offer your time to help people, you don’t need to go overseas, do it here, every day. At the orphanage it was the small things, like playing with the girls and giving them an unimaginable amount of hugs which made them feel loved and nurtured. Even if it was only for a short while, the little things were what all the difference.

Gimli With a plummet to certain death behind him, Gimli is yanked to safety by the one thing Aragorn can reach – his lush Dwarven beard. Gratitude, however, is not on the cards; Gimli is far too pissed at Aragorn for man-handling his chin warmer. Lord of the Rings boasts some marvellous beards, but I must say Gimli’s is by far my favourite. A deep, rustic ginger, it’s a beard so mighty, I often forget there is a chin beneath it at all. But, come to think of it, perhaps there is not – it’s quite possible that beneath his furry asset dangles an extra set of testicles.

By The Beard

of Zeus!

Sported by: John Rhys-Davies. Real or fake: Definitely fake. That shit would’ve taken years. Beard rating: 9

Dumbledore Picturing Dumbledore without a beard makes me feel distressed, clammy and altogether unwell. So long it could be tucked into his belt, it was a beard of magic and magnificence. Although the film beard was a dirty horse hair hue, rather than the sleek silver described in the book, it was still a foreboding facial accessory, niffler nifty and basilisk bold. With such proficiency in the beard department, it really is no wonder Dumbledore was the only wizard pubeless Voldemort ever feared. Sported by: Richard Harris and Michael Gambon. Real or fake? Fake on both counts, but Richard Harris’ was by far the better of the two. Beard rating: 6

The Best Movie Beards

Chuck Noland

Davy Jones

When you’re deserted on a tropical island, growing a fantastic and unruly beard is an absolute must. When the nights are cold and the loneliness kicks in, there is nothing quite like the sensation of a warm, furry beard, hugging your jaw and whispering that everything’s gonna be alright. It mightn’t be sculpted or attractive, but Tom Hanks’ Castaway beard stole the show in the 2000 drama, even going on to earn a Best Supporting Actor nod at the Oscars.

The only CGI beard to make the cut, Davy Jones’ tentacular wonder definitely deserves a mention for its absolute bad-assery. Not only can he use his beard like extra appendages, it also boasts a rather disgusting sloppy sac which hides beneath his chin – to what purpose I have no idea (but I can only assume the worst). Oh, and he also plays the organ. With. His. Tentacle. Beard.

Sported by: Tom Hanks. Real or fake? Surprisingly, this one is real. Tom Hanks actually grew this masterpiece to give more credibility to the role. Beard rating: 8

Sported by: Bill Nighy . Real or fake? Undoubtedly real. Beard rating: 8

Steve Zissou

Alan Garner

Scott Howard

Although not excessively robust, Bill Murray’s brilliant silver beard was astounding in The Life Aquatic. The perfect blend of snow and charcoal make for an overall formidable stubble complexion which is set afire by the red beanie and baby blue shirt. Bill Murray, whose face makes me happy on any occasion, has never looked better than here, as the ever-glum Steve Zissou.

The beauty of Alan’s beard is that it looks impenetrable, like a steel fortress guarded by bears. It’s perfectly symmetrical, lovingly maintained and the area of coverage is just phenomenal – a beard to aspire to. No matter how shabby Alan gets, his beard remains intact and beautiful, a true testament to the might of facial hair. Well played Zach Galifianakis. Well played. Sported by: Zach Galifianakis

Michael J. Fox is renowned for his fresh-faced, boyish looks, but way back in 1985, he sported a beard for what was, to the best of my knowledge, the first and last time. And it was awesome. In this tragically clichéd, but undoubtedly appealing, cult comedy classic, average Joe teenager Scott Howard wakes up one morning to discover puberty hit him pretty hard with the hairy stick and he is in fact a werewolf rocking a beautiful beard. As with any bearded fella, his life instantly became infinitely better.

Real or fake? Real as the earth, moon and stars.

Sported by: Michael J. Fox.

Beard rating: 9

Real or fake? I’m guessing fake, but I hear the back hair was legit.

Sported by: Bill Murray. Real or fake? Real. Beard rating: 7

Beard rating: 6

Pai Mei

Gandalf

Ron Burgundy

Nobody loves Pai Mei’s beard more than Pai Mai. He strokes it when he thinks, whips it about when he’s angry, and generally just gives it the love, attention, and nurturing any beard so deserves. It’s not quite a full beard mind you, more of a vast length of chin and moustache hair. Pure white, soft and straight, it falls like snow from his intense face, working beautifully with his regal robes.

Whether grey or white, Gandalf’s beard is a force to be reckoned with. Soft as a lady’s moustache, yet sturdy as Elven rope, it gives Gandalf a kindly, yet regal look about him and much like Dumbledore’s delicious mane, I couldn’t even begin to imagine him without it. It’d be like seeing Magneto running around Middle Earth. Um, no. Weird.

Scraggly, unclean, and reeking of sour milk, Ron Burgundy’s fall from grace was represented perfectly by one of the most wretch-inducing beards ever captured on film. Milk may have been a bad choice, but not nearly as bad as the decision to grow a mane of thick pubes over what was once a proud, clean-cut jaw. Poor form Burgundy.

Sported by: Sir Ian McKellen.

Sported by: Will Ferrell.

Real or fake? Unfortunately, it’s a fake. Sir Ian simply ain’t got the time.

Real or fake? Fake, but the milk stale milk smell is real.

Sported by: Gordon Liu. Real or fake? Fake. This one is just too good to be true.

Beard rating: 2 Beard rating: 7

Beard rating: 7 29

The Damaging Standards of Masculinity By Amelia Petrovich

an upcoming film called The Mask You Live In which deals with the injustice surrounding

single one of us has emotions and sensitivities and every single one of us possesses a basic

As an avid Facebook user, I have developed a finely tuned bullshit filter. In the everyday sprawl of statuses, it’s exceedingly useful to know at a glance what is and is not okay to ignore. Message from Mum? Important. Invitation to play Candy Crush? Bullshit. Passive-aggressive break up status? Bullshit. 1 Like = 1 Respect? Such, such bullshit.

gender stereotyping, particularly to do with boys and young men. As it turns out, the three most damaging words one could ever say in sequence to your hypothetical son is “be a man”- a phrase I’m sure most people will have encountered numerous times (not dissimilar to ‘don’t be a pussy’ or ‘harden up’).

right to express these without being thought less of.

My least favourite thing has always been those super sensationalist articles that try to shake away all the brain cells you have with bad grammar and general insanity. You know the ones; “TOP TEN WORLD’S BEST DOGS DOING A BUNCH OF INSPIRING STUFF THAT WILL COMPLETELY LEAD YOU TO RE-DEFINE THE DEFINITION OF AWESOME!!!” I often wonder why we’re still letting them exist, as they are pretty much the leprosy of the media world, but exist they do and I find myself simply filtering them out time and time again. It’s because of this filtration though that I almost missed seeing one of the most interesting videos I’ve watched in a long while. The title of this video was ‘The Three Most Damaging Words You Can Tell Your Son’ and even though technically I feel like the more correct term would be ‘the three most damaging things you can say to your son’, that’s just small potatoes. It still captured my attention as a potentially interesting concept and I watched on. This video (and I really urge you to give it an old Googlin’) was actually a teaser trailer for

The trailer explains that this constant imposing of traditionally masculine ideals (bravery, lack of emotion, physical strength, dominance) on young men is not only counter-productive developmentally but also just downright oppressive. Right off the bat it talks about men who are so insecure in their own masculinity (because few people fit the exact blueprint of the hyper-masculine citizen 100% of the time) that they feel like running around and proving it all the time. Yes I’m a feminist (and no I’m not sorry), but this is a perspective I’d never thought about before and it’s really hit me hard. The Mask You Live In focuses on North American society, but this is a phenomenon I’ve noticed in New Zealand too. The largely idyllic image of the ‘staunch Kiwi bloke’ is alive and well in this country still, even though so many of us grow up disconnected from the rural roots from which it seems to have sprouted. A society that under-values traditionally feminine qualities is a sad place to be for all who reside in it (because of course we all remember from Social Science papers that femininity and masculinity are constructs and not synonyms for male/female right? Right.), mainly because every

It pains me to think that one day I might have a son who is ashamed to admit that he’s upset or that perhaps he needs help. I don’t like thinking that we live in a society that dictates which of our traits are permissible based on our unique position on the brilliant and confusing rainbow spectrum that is ‘gender’. Basically, I am calling bullshit on this whole construct. Saying ‘you may identify as male but you aren’t a real man unless you fit this exact mould’ is about as intelligent as saying ‘you may think this is a cake but it’s definitely not a true cake unless it’s carrot cake’. There are so many different kinds of cake out there! And if we say it’s a cake, if the cake itself genuinely believes that it is a cake then who are we to say what kind of cake it should be in the end? There are cakes with vegetables in them, there are cakes without gluten, if you think you know cakes you’re so, so wrong. Cake, like men, like women, like everyone is so much more complex than the sum of its stereotype. It’s silly to think that in this day and age ‘let people express their identity the way they want to’ is still such a difficult concept to grapple with but I feel like maybe, just maybe, if we’re all a tad more aware of the phrases we bombard each other with daily, cool stuff might start to go down.

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REVIEWS

Do your strong opinions drive away your friends? Send us an email at mcattin@aut.ac.nz to contribute to our reviews section.

Under The Skin Directed by Jonathan Glazer Starring Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy McWilliams, Lynsey Taylor Mackay

(scratch that, my favourite film of 2013 alongside the horribly misunderstood Spring Breakers). Thankfully Under The Skin didn’t disappoint. With a spectacularly unnerving soundtrack, intentionally sparse exposition, and fantastic cinematography, Under the Skin is my favourite film of the year so far. Not even the cramped seating conditions of the Civic or the sound of 100 people coughing every time the film went silent could diminish the experience of this film for me. Under the Skin makes you work hard to piece it together. It doesn’t explain anything to you in full; it simply trusts that you are smart enough to work it out. A lot of the blurbs for this film explain some of it’s core narrative elements that I’d rather leave out but I’d rather you went in blind and worked things out for yourself. You are meant to leave this film saying to the person next to you, “so I got this, this, and this… But what was THAT about?” the same way that Upstream Color left you asking “so that’s what the pigs were about?”. The film follows Scarlett Johansson as she picks up guys in her van. She then takes these guys to a mysterious dark room reminiscent of the Black Lodge in Twin Peaks. In this room everyone strips naked. That’s all you need to know about the narrative going in, if that. Maybe it adds something to know that Scarlett Johansson’s meetings with men on the street were recorded with actual strangers who were unaware of the cameras, but then again maybe it doesn’t. One of this films biggest perks to me is its humour. I wouldn’t have liked it as much as I do if it wasn’t ready to acknowledge its own absurdities - it’s okay to laugh at parts. This makes it feel far less pretentious than it could have, while making the darker elements hit harder by contrast.

Reviewed by Clint Milne It is a dangerous thing going into the cinema with such high expectations, but before going in, I had a hunch that Under The Skin would be this year’s Upstream Color, my favourite film from last year’s film festival alongside Only Lovers Left Alive

Cold In July Directed by Jim Mickle Starring Michael C. Hall, Sam Shepard, Don Johnson

Under The Skin is original; it treats you like an intelligent human being, it trusts that you know how to work things out. I would argue that when you go to “the cinema” you shouldn’t always expect to be able to work everything out. Under the Skin Makes sense, but it doesn’t have to.

unaccustomed to conflict, Richard gets a fright and his finger slips. As brain matter splatters on the wall, Richard slumps to the floor in disbelief and his life changes forever. The intruder being a wanted felon, the police show no concern for the death – as far as they care, it’s another crim off the streets. Richard, however, is devastated and ashamed by his accidental role in another’s death. Weighted by guilt, he attends the lonely burial of the intruder, watching in his car from afar. It is here that he is somewhat threatened by the crim’s father Ben (Sam Shepard), a convict recently out of prison. With his family to protect, and increasingly daring threats by Ben, the somewhat naïve Richard has to step up, but – like any good thriller – not everything is as it seems. The plot thickens when Richard sees a wanted poster for Wyatt Russell, the man he supposedly shot and killed. Processing photographs for a trade has given Richard a solid memory for faces however, and he is confused to discover that the man in the wanted pictures is not the man he shot dead. The police call it shock, but Richard is convinced. Therein lies the crux of the twisting tale, and suddenly, the audience is bombarded with questions. Whose body was buried in the grave marked Wyatt Russell? Why are the police dismissing Richard’s accusations as shock? What are they trying to hide?

Reviewed by Matthew Cattin A riveting addition to this year’s film fest, Cold In July wastes no time throwing you in the deep end of a balls to the wall thriller. Awoken in the still of night by creaks in the house, Ann Dane (Vinessa Shaw) alerts her sleeping husband Richard (Dexter’s Michael C. Hall) to investigate. A picture framer by trade, Richard’s hands shake as he loads his pistol and creeps down the hallway, past his sleeping son, toward the intruder. Obviously

So far as thrillers go, this is one of the gooduns. With plenty of suspense, realisations and motives to work with, it had me guessing until the end. The cast do a fantastic job in their respective roles, and Don Johnson’s portrayal of grizzled pig farmer and CIA agent Jim Bob provides some comic relief to an otherwise sinister script. Michael C. Hall, most well-known for playing TV serial killer Dexter, handles the protagonist role with style, an unlikely family man thrust into an unfamiliar world. While it remains for the most part gore-free, it’s at times what you don’t see that leaves the audience gasping for breath (batter up, for those that have seen it). This one may not be released in cinemas after its festival circuit, but if you are a fan of crime thrillers, you’ll want to get your hands on this one when it becomes available on DVD.

Snowpiercer Directed by Joon-ho Bong Starring Chris Evans, Jamie Bell, Tilda Swinton

The train constantly moves around the frozen wasteland on endless tracks built by the enigmatic but unseen Wilford, and entails a class system where the rich live at the front and the poor are stuck at the rear living in poverty. In the year 2031, Curtis leads a rebellion and attempts to lead his followers to the front so they can overthrow the rich and take control. To do so, they must get through hundreds of carriages and overcome the forces that stand in their way. From the very beginning, Snowpiercer had me on the edge of my seat. This was one of the better plots I have enjoyed at the film fest: it was tense and ever changing, with each carriage bringing with it new revelations and surprising new twists. But not only was it well plotted, this was an amazingly visual film as well: each section of the train was unique and magical, so intricately designed that I sometimes forgot it was all meant to be one long train. They did a fantastic job of creating a very real and developed world, one that is an unpleasant reflection of our own society but a pleasure to watch. There are a lot of characters to contend with, such as Evans in the lead role as the conflicted rebel leader Curtis, but all the cast was fantastic. The supporting players include the likes of John Hurt, Jamie Bell, Octavia Spencer and Tilda Swinton, who shines as the disgusting but captivating Mason, but Chris Evans is the true star here. He gave Curtis multiple layers to what could have been a stock-standard, stereotypical champion of the poor, instead crafting a very determined, disturbed and captivating lead character.

Reviewed by Ethan Sills I am sure some people out there will see film festival movies as being pretentious and boring, and, admittedly, quite a few of the ones I saw were very much like that. However, Snowpiercer stood out from the crowd as a gripping action thriller that could easily stand alongside the likes of big budget superhero movies – indeed, Captain America himself Chris Evans stars as our haunted leading man Curtis – and this film is a must see for anyone who loves a spot of action with a touch of class.

This was one of my favourite movies at this year’s film festival, largely as it was a breath of fresh air both as an independent, low budget movie and as an epic action film without the need to throw spectacular special effects at us (though the visuals here, especially the last scene, were amazing). Director Bong Joon-ho did a fantastic job, creating a movie that transcends the line between art-house and blockbuster, and that is what made Snowpiercer such a thrilling two-hour ride that I never wanted to end.

Snowpiercer is the name of a train that houses the last survivors of humanity, the rest having been killed off when a failed global warming experiment froze Earth.

How I Met Your Mother Last Forever: The Series Finale Directed by Pamela Fryman Starring Josh Radnor, Jason Segel, Cobie Smulders

Unfortunately, the hour-long, final EVER episode was a massive disappointment. Firstly, it rushed too quickly over major moments in the lives of characters I have spent years getting to know: Marshall becoming a judge, Robin and Barney divorcing, Barney becoming a father - everything was sped over as they crammed so much into these last sixty-ish minutes. It was nice to see these moments, but I would have rather the whole season was dedicated to wrapping things up rather than shoving it all into one setting. Secondly, we barely spent any time with The Mother/Tracy. We have waited so long to get to know her, and while she got a few appearances and her own episode halfway through the season, we barely got time to meet and know the woman we have all waited so long to meet – especially as she DIES off-screen without any explanation whatsoever! Even though many fans predicted this years ago, that was a massive kick in the guts, especially due to the speed of it, and it made the journey all the less worthwhile.

Reviewed by Ethan Sills For most of the last decade, the adventures of Ted, Robin, Marshall, Lily and Barney have been a constant source of entertainment for me. The eightseason-long mystery identity of the mother of Ted’s children is one of the better plotlines of recent television, and the resulting narrative and the way the story was told has been a weekly highlight. After we first met ‘The Mother’ at the end of the last season, I had high hopes for season nine. I was never a big fan of how the majority of it took place over the weekend of Barney and Robin’s wedding, but it produced some good stories and the throwbacks to past seasons and characters was a nice touch as we progressed towards the finale.

And finally, it ended with Ted and Robin getting together. I’ll admit in other circumstances I probably wouldn’t have minded this; the two have always gone well together and the blue French horn was a touching throwback. However, factoring everything in (the weddings, the divorce, the FRICKING DEATH), it just didn’t feel right as the final scene of the series. I will always have fond memories of the show, thanks in part to the constant repeats on Comedy Central, but there was just very little to enjoy in the final chapter of what has been one of my favourite shows over the past six or so years I have been watching. For a comedy, Last Forever was fairly depressing and not in the pleasant, conclusive manner of say the Friends finale, but most of that could have been rectified if Ted had just lived happily ever after with Tracy. By throwing aside the entire purpose of the show in the last five minutes, they have made a perfectly legendary finale but for all the wrong reasons, and it is a real shame things had to end so poorly.

COnFESSIONS OF A POKENOOB By Team Rocket Grunt Kieran Bennett The day I turned eight, I had quite the birthday. I mean, it’s not every birthday your childhood is changed forever. It was on this special day that I received a copy of Pokémon Gold and a Gameboy Colour from my mother. It was, to say the very least, a slightly rapturous moment. In one instant, several eight-year-old-kid dreams were fulfilled. The most basic of which was to own a copy of the wonderful, delightful and utterly peerless Pokémon Gold. And come that eighth birthday, that dream was suddenly fulfilled and things would never be the same. Like every other kid worth their proverbial salt, I had an absolute wealth of experience when it came to Pokémon. I had, every morning, devoured an episode and if I was lucky I could do the same after school. I knew the names of every Pokémon, knew the words to the theme song and the ever-amazing Poké-rap. My experience didn’t end with television though, oh no. I had Pokémon toys, Pokémon plush and I even had another Pokémon game already. But all these paled in comparison to the semi coloured glory that was Pokémon Gold. See the problem was that I was too stupid to realise no matter how hard I tried, there was no way I was ever going to make it through the dark cave in Pokémon Red by blindly stumbling around. I had literally never finished this game despite having it for over two years. Pokémon Gold was my chance to finally finish a Pokémon game and face this ‘Elite Four’, to defeat every gym leader and have more than two Pokémon at one time.

And so with a fresh pair of batteries and steel in my heart I set of to conquer the world of Pokémon Gold. I remember when I started playing being utterly blown away by the way that I could actually set the clock, the way there was more than two colours and how somehow it felt like more of a game, despite being pretty much exactly the same. I played that game for hours upon hours upon days upon months. Whenever I had a spare moment I would whip out my Gameboy and try to conquer just one more route in an effort to get to the next town. I hardly did of course, such a thing was a matter of luck. Much like the previous game, my problem was that I was just a little too stupid to figure out the most obvious of things. I would have, for example, had more luck defeating other trainers if I had expanded my strategy outside of constantly-smash-the-same-damn-move-withthe-same-damn-Pokémon-wait-what-why-didthat-not-work-this-time-despite-failing-the-last47-times. But that’s just a guess. Nevertheless I did extraordinarily well despite my utter lack of skill, managing to blunder and crash my way through a large number of trainers, gyms and Pokémon. Not that it was always my fault of course; sometimes the game would actively conspire against me. My biggest frustration, and a source of many a disgusted Gameboy shutdowns, was the third gym leader of the game, Whitney. Whitney and her accursed Miltank. That damn thing smashed the complete turd out of me over and over, and I swear I could hear its tinny pixelated laughter every time I was forced to restart. The most insulting part however was every single time I was close

enough to the end of the battle that I could taste it, Whitney would use a full-heal and the cycle would begin again. Now if you know nothing about Pokémon this probably sounds like gibberish, but imagine you need to lift a box. But every time you pick up the box, a 300 pound Lithuanian wrestler pops up out of nowhere and punches you in the face. On top of that you can literally do nothing else with your life until you lift this box. Nevertheless I eventually found myself moving past Whitney and into the murky realms of the end of the game. Here sadly, is where the story takes something of a tragic turn. In every sense of the word in fact, my own flaws leading to my downfall mere moments from victory. I had made it to the end of the game and all that was required of me was to defeat the Elite Four, the four hardest trainers in the game. The only problem was that I was nowhere near strong enough to defeat them, it was mathematical impossibility and I knew it. So, I cheated. Or I tried to at least. I attempted to clone my strongest Pokémon by turning off the game at the right time. I only succeeded in destroying my entire party and crushing my fragile (by that time) 10-year-old psyche. I was so distraught and ashamed (or maybe just pissed off) that I never played the game again. Childish I know, but I was only 10. Now we are here, present day and I have once more resumed my efforts to master the world of Pokémon. My strategies are slightly more refined, the colours are brighter, the sounds are louder but god damn if Whitney still isn’t a pain in my ass.

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