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A feed for fuck-all By the time this issue goes to print, Wellington will again be going feral for chunky sandwiches. Every pub, cafe, and ferry terminal will be scrambling to serve their own Wonky Bonky Baby Burger—a 60-centimetre tall monstrosity, made with the mince of a steer called Jeremy who was fed on a stash of Snickers Pods—topped with beetroot, banana, and a relish of wild dandelion root picked under a new moon, in an Arobake brioche bun. No, I jest. A midwinter fe

There is this idea that the best way to kill a revolutionary ideal is to idolize their leader, converting them into harmless icons that can be put upon a pedestal. How many Che Guevara t-shirts are there? How many Martin Luther King Jr Boulevards? I think in some twisted way this happens to us as well. When we lose someone, when they disappear from our lives, our nostalgia grips us and takes hold and their memory is forever unblemished and held above. I fear this will happen