New Tool…

April 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

Likely a great aid to risk analysis on human food chain/s ..

the following cites ZEBRAFISH as a new toxicological agent..

just reading through I was recall-prompted one of Kim’s interviews away back with a guy talking tuna toxins.. Hg wasn’t it?

then Karen Brown(= phonetic) has been digging several similar type stories out for us all of late.. plus the PIP today.. who says diligence doesn’t pay?

then, lo and behold, California pops up with BSE.. and kiwis blessum got onto better meat prospects straightaway. Hope that works out. Somehow sense one animal in Cali doesn’t cut it for consumers..

Good work… keep it up folks..

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How it is at..

April 24, 2012 § Leave a comment

A lad whose dad was a journalist and whose professional ‘calling’ the boy wants to follow has an essay up in which he says:—

The only thing I know about the world, beyond my own personal experience, is what CBS News has just told me.

And for me this makes for why public journalism is more than just a job.

I say this because this morning I overheard a Mike on a commercial mic who claims to deliver the news you need to know in 90 seconds. Need to know significant. Understated of course – the guy can’t come on out and admit it is angled by selected sound bite content – significant because this morning some spiel alluding to the closure of a public broadcaster related his decided problem with what he called “condescending” people who make out “they’re better than the rest of us.”

And no, I’m not playing devil’s advocate on this one. Bigger issues at hand.

In a nutshell, and balancing what I both heard and know for myself of relevant kiwi commercial and public journalism, I’d aver he is so obsessed with doing a job that he misses entirely any sense of calling. And thereby makes a false case to present a misleading picture rather than admit a personal ( sadly also self-professed) complex.

Constructively I’ll simply add this calling skill component pays due diligence to MEDIA-THE-REALITY, which our young friend above found himself in. As so many others.

Taking advantage of this, jobbers delight in their professed power and/or celebrity. Without regard to journalists’ proper about their career calling. Difference we might say between private advantage and public service. Both of which, and despite economic constraints, have value. To any who would their suffer loss.


On the MMP matters before parliamentary committee I figure that if the Party vote percentage of overall voting at a General Election is what really determines the makeup of a new Parliament then its minimum for parliamentary participation is the crucial component.

I feel only parties, movements, or adequately qualified interests attaining this minimum should gain access to the Parliament.

Given resolve and commitment to meet the crucial reality I feel that those (as presently) attaining individual parliamentary access through an Electorate seat ought be discouraged. Given the nature of political alliances to attain government power I think a more honest and transparent course for individuals(small MP numbers) lies within a larger party. What can ally post-Election can also surely accomodate pre-Election.



I’d intended insert some useful bigger picture content for NZ farmers to consider – such as the so-called Indonesia Intent and China Change Convergence which, implemented, could only benefit a few(this being the way of the world in which we all live) – yet these privatisations in an era of same can wait on Anzac day.

Besides, I am out of time, and the “pedestal of awesome” – nice one, Phil 🙂 shall intervene. Worth a listen tomorrow, before a whole commodity productive sector attempts give its uninformed self away.

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Never On Saturday – part 3

April 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

Back to the closing CU of part 2: Casey in all his indecisive glory.

Shouts she at his side, unbuckling the belt of her mackintosh, “Wharra ya waitin’ for? Ya not made o’ sugar and won’t melt in a droppa rain now willya.”

Casey did not reply and rather than meet the challenge in what he alone now knew was a somewhat different situation to what he had told her, took a moment to figure out another lie. “Listen, luv, I’ve er.. I’ve, I’ve gotta better idea. Wharr, wharra ya doin’?”

“Taking me coat off,” said she quickly and eyeing him as she tossed it over her head and made ready for a dash through the rain to wherever the old or this new idea would lead.

“Getta taxi frum here. We could er.. er go to that hotel you was telling me about in the dance hall. Wharr-whattis it?”

“Taxis don’t come till later. Like after ten o’clock when theys crowding out. Hundreds offem! And that hotel just isn’t your league. Mine neither. Working yeah, stayin’ no.”

“Hey Mo, cut it willya, not my league! I’ve got dough. Toldya didn’t I, six months saved.”

“Twenny quid each, if its a penny. Each, Casey! Forty quid,” and with large demanding eyes added, “not even a brass razoo left when ya come outta there. So.. wharris it, chauffeur quit?”

“Yeah,” he lied, “somethin’ like that, broke ranks..Mind you I don’t reckon on waiting around for a taxi, let’s go back in—”

“Bugger that for a lark, you promised me,” and hooking an arm about his their renewed ardour charged into the night, “There’s a smaller place I know so ya can hang onta ya dough..”

CUT TO: [ Nathanial on the phone to his brother, Merv, the latter somewhat contrite at what he had done, Nat reckoning odds at how much worse things could become should Casey be caught in the storm..]

Merv: “Well, all right, look, I’ll find out where they are if you think I should—”

Nat: “I do. If you can.”

Merv: “Try anyway. There’ll be someone from the factory.. always talking Joe Loss Fridays.”

Nat: “Pretty cool out there. Catch a cold for sure, I’d say. Wouldn’t want pneumonia though would we?”

Merv: “Likely late.. catching up with him I mean.. once he leaves the Palais there’s no—”

Nat: “Better late than never, Merv.”

Merv: “True, very true.”

CUT TO: [ Small hotel room, being an entrance hall with bedroom off. This has a thin carpet to the fire grate below a wide mantelpiece, a chair or two and a blanketed double bed set a foot or so from the wall. Casey stands, dripping wet from the rain, his shoes quelching, drenched trousers stuck down the length of his legs, suit jacket soiled, bedraggled collar turned up and arms — at this point I must confess it impossible to describe those arms :-). Casey is puffed, pale, speechless. OTOH Mo is brighteyed after putting a match to the gas fire and watching it glow warmth. She sees Casey not for how he actually looks, feels, but the object of desire..]

Saying unto him: ” Know what ya look like. Lemme tellya. You look like the male version of that bird – Ursula Undress I think it was in that Bond movie – walking fully dressed from the sea. Everythin on show for Bondie to get hold of. Well, here.. now, I’m Bondie, see. And you, you’re gunna undress aren’t ya?”

Casey: “Can’t, can I! I mean, look at me suit. Stuck to me everywhere. I’m telling you, Mo, it’s not funny. It’s cold.. clammy.. silk’s like that y’know, I’ll have ta dry out with it on.”

“Ohh Toffee leave off. Gerrit orf. On the chair in front of the.. the fire. Eh, what’s this—?”

The flame sputters, dies.

“Shit!” says she to no one in particular. Then “Toffee, ya gotta a shilling?”

“Wharr—shillin—no I aint gotta shillin. Remember, Lost me pocket when I went down in that bluddy puddle. Saved me wallet, lost me—”

“Shurrup,” she demanded, “and come ‘ere. I’m dying for a ki—”

Casey had no time to wonder at the light going out as her arms closed about his neck and she pulled herself up to his mouth. They kissed. And he grabbed at her though not in time to prevent Mo rocking back to her heels and lowering her arms to grip his lapels and tug not so very gently. Whereupon she, departing with both lapels in a firm grip, propelled backward to tip headlong backwards against the bed, slide rapidly across it and bang her head upon the wall.

Casey, confused at this departure in the night, whirled to turn on the light. That done he turned about and caught a glimpse of himself in the wall mirror. “Me lapels!” he whined, “whatya done wiff m’ lapels? Mo, what the hell—what ya doing over there on the floor. And yerve got me’ lapels. They’re the star turn in this silk suit o’mine… and you, ya tore ’em off—”

Mo, bless her heart, was sore in more ways than the obvious. Suddenly her heart throb was no more than a dummie. She let rip: “Silk suit! No more silk than my knickers. Only a muggins like you could believe it was. God knows what else ya tell yerself. Me, I—anyone—could see it was a paper and cardboard job. For dress shop dummies. That’s why that tailor said it was for inside only. Me, dunno, can’t say why, but I let ya carry on with ya toff talk, ya chauffeur—what bluddy chauffeur—never was was he? No, don’t even try.. for another lie.. I’m outta here. No, leave me alone, I’m gone—”

CUT TO: [ A week later. Nathaniel in bed, bedside light on, his wife asleep beside him. He is looking at the ceiling, imagining rain on the roof.. reminiscing and thinking things over again as news has reached him of Casey accepting the army greatcoat from the night porter upon Merv finding his location the week before..]

As boys he and Merv would leave their father to his tailoring in the front rooms of the house and go to the open street markets. One, most people have heard of, was Petticoat Lane. There a favorite stall holder who sold childrens’ wear. A cheerful soul he had a name so long that neither brother could say. Which had them shorten it to Nebu-the-Chad(Neb for short). “And how’s your father,” he always asked at seeing them, “still got that masterful eye and touch with any material? Best cloth man this side of the City. Your dad y’know. Oh yes he is. And I daresay one of you will have it, too. Gottim started I did.”

“Oh yes,” they chirped in unison, “and how did you do that Mister Neb?”

“Simple. Remember this you boys. People have tongues. Give them something to talk about and they will. Told your father to display what he did best. Put it in a window in front of the house and.. watch folks flock inside. I offered him a bolt of good suiting cloth. Proud man, turned it down. Instead he saved five bob and bought a remnant bolt of newsprint. That’s the soft paper for printing on. Took it home, blacked it and cut lengths, shapes, sizes, all himself. Made a model—only a cross with a paper mache head. Stitched it up and voila! ”

Nathaniel recalled how it had stood in the window all the time between WWI and WWII. Later Merv, taking the lead, expanded, and went ahead in retail, factory-making their own brand. The suit – fondly called the penguin after they learned their dad had deliberately left off coloring those cardboard lapels to invite attention – went into the spares wardrobe. Stayed there. A welcome talking point as needs arose. Then, over time, family heirloom.

Finally, ghost, as he related the story to me.

And I for my part thought, though I would never dare say so to either of them at the time or since, that that particular Saturday sale had lost the heirloom and gained the sacred ground of family ties.

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Never On Saturday – part 2

April 20, 2012 § Leave a comment

To save time and space I’ll pick up the story several hours later.

When the brothers B talked one with the other after the visitors departed a second time..

“A nice young fella the Riley,” said Merv to Nathaniel, continuing, “and a nice future if he stays away from the wideboy Casey that spooked young John back at the shop.”

“Wideboy, now that says it.. for him,” saith Nathaniel, “sharp on the law wasn’t he? Did you hear when our Fuzz friend stepped up the ante with a Scotland Yard quip or two.”

“No, I didn’t, go on then, tell us Nat.”

“Said how interesting his job must be what with all the scots in his yard.”

And despite the repetition both laughed together at Casey’s nerve.

“Cheeky, eh. No respect for him. Nor us. I mean, Saturday of all days! Mind you I think I’ve gottim sorted. I mean cheek isn’t everything now is it.”

Nathaniel was quiet a moment, looking him over, watching a familiar twist at the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he said presently, “what you been up to? The suits—was it the suits?”

“Sort of. Yeah, you know me, and you did ask me to help the Riley boy. I mentioned being in the rag trade, but like you, never on Saturday”

“You took money didn’t you, I saw you folding notes so don’t deny it.”

“Well,” said the other, spreading his hands, “a man has to ease his conscience doesn’t he? Now you mention it I took ten bob from the Riley and a pound from the Casey. Packed them off as you know for the game at the Park and had them come back to pick up what I’d stitched together while they were out. Well, actually, between you and me, what I pulled off the spares rack. Looked great in a dinner suit did that Casey fella—”

“Spares rack?—the penguin?—you didn’t did you Merv!!

“Did so,” said Merv with a fair flourish at the the brogue. And they went to slapping each other on the backs in rollicking amusement at what was before the departed..

CUT to.. [ pedestrian stream of evening-goers approaching the Hammersmith Palais de Dance. Sky overcast but street lights coming on as several groups converse excitedly.. one is a group of young women in front of shall we say the Casey crowd..]

Brenda to Maureen with a guffaw, “You reckon, Mo, looks more like a bluddy penguin to me. Dunno, takes all sorts—”

“Toff, I say, out for dinner and down here for dessert. I wouldn’t mind, only gotta ask.”

“What’s ta ask? Pig-ignorant that one, I’ll bet.”

“Shurrup! Penguins, pigs, that’s you. Attitood like that neveh gets asked.

Behind them, Riley catches her eye and winks, watching her laughter at his gesture. A watchful Casey, behind him, says: “Good dancer that one I’d say, Riley. The other one now.. whaddya reckon?”

“Blonde—you go fer blondes Casey?”

“Peroxide y’mean? Neveh blonde, not that one. Outta a bottle. Now, that reminds me, and here’s something you don’t know, Riley boy. Human hair’s dead y’know. Yeah, frum the day it comes outta ya scalp.. ya skin.. skull skin. Now that peroxide does nothing for dead.. while those apothecary’s make a small fortune flogging it ta dumb birds.”

“She’s dumb then is she?”

“Fancy—dating a dandruff—”

“I didn’t say that, and—hey you—stop challenging me willya. You know I’m right.”

“He’s never wrong—”

“Shurrup you!”

“Listen up guys. We are getting there. Into the queue and shuffle on down.”

They close up and drop their voices to murmurs, Casey going over the agreed drill. Nearer the foyer the strains of recorded Cliff song are heard: Gotta get meself a walking talking living doll..

Paddy the driver says, “Whichever one of ya gets back to the van first.. tellem to wait while you cross to the pub for yer chauffeur. I’ll come out and drive yers ta wherever.. ya going. What was that Casey?”

“Nearest hotel for me,” said he, “so make inquiries at the pub and sort one out for us.”

“Sort it yersell,” needled Riley, “I don’t think I’ll need dancing frum the way she’s looking at me in me ten bob suit—”

“Ten bob!—that sod charged me a quid! Mind you with these lapels all starched up and rearing to go ferran insiders only show—you haven’t gotta chance Riley boy. I’ll be first back, Paddy, count on it..

CUT TO… [ ten minutes later and we see Riley coming out of the Palais with the gal. He crosses to the outside and flips up her umbrella as they hurry back the way they came… ]

CUT TO… [ an hour later. Dark, raining on the road out from the verandah, vehicles splashing by. Casey leads the blonde out, pausing at the rain.. CU his face.. dawning realisation that he may not indeed be the first back to the van and in this rain.. he/they could get a deep soaking… ]


I’d no idea this caper would write this long.. so it’s a case of come back tomorrow night and try again for the hilarity you would never have guessed possible in a month of Sundays in installment 3 in Never On Saturday..



Classical economists built debt into their economic models. Modern economists do not. What do you get? Answer: you get big ambitions. Who says? Mike Hudson was Chase Manhattan’s balance of payments analyst for SA. Knew first hand the big ambition of BoP surpluses in Brazil, Argentina, Chile, being used up servicing US bank loans. Ambition that never worked out. As local banks financed local realty big time. Familiar..? Borrow to repay loans..? Run-on to Recession.. More familiar..? Knowing your problem is half the battle: solving it something else.


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Never On Saturday – 1

April 19, 2012 § Leave a comment

Old guys do not like accounting journals.

At the time I’d first believed this I sensed that the reason was most likely because such old guys had invested much of their lives in making them. And ledger with its quicker look-and-see summation facility was really where they wanted to be. IN some cases even onto quicker still balance sheet column layouts.

Yes, you have guessed correctly—we are hereby in the past and I, so much younger then and in need of study dough happy to take Nathaniel B’s £10 for a day ‘at the office’ tidying his books. Upon a desk as it turned out adjacent to a small heavily stocked storeroom in back of the dispensary. Alone, but with a view of passersby through two cannily hung mirrors, the one directly in front of me catching reflections from an angled other in the shop.

Not that one could see through the glass-panelled door with its brass-knobbed handles and steel bolts top and bottom to give pause for thought any wouldbe cash grabbers. Oh yes, before drugs and sniffs were to find ready willing and ables in free market London, cash was a king hit. Though not so much at Nat’s place for an entirely different reason. The dispensary was so busy most of the day that a criminal had more brains than fight his/her way to the counter and then face even worse on the way out 🙂 For the upon the door was hung the Saturday notice, as Nat called it. About a metre high and across the whole panel its large print read: Monday to Friday – Business as Usual – Weekend – Never on Saturday.

So there you have it.. past, me alone, on a Saturday, in a locked premise, on the Mile End Road. You may know the neighborhood, Nat’s set back on a wide pavement from tumultuous traffic noise headed into and out of the City. Opposite a whole row of Georgian style houses with narrow, iron-fenced fronts and stout painted wooden doors. Brass the IN metal of course!

Yet wait.. there’s a rattle out front.. I’m not alone. A can see a head, a man vigorous at the outer knob, wearing what today we’d call a beanie. I ignore him and slide the ruler down a line, key the figures unto a paper roll in the adding machine. Two lines later he had not departed and I began to wonder whether he could see me inside, perhaps by reverse through the mirrors. No, I told myself after a serious look he’d need giraffe attributes for that. Wide he was, long-necked he was not. Determined, or stubborn, he was. For sure.

“What is it?” said I bereft of patience at the door.

“Arrh there yarrh,” says he, a brogue evident and a ruddy round-faced bacon eater peering in through an entry side glass, “I was told ta lookup the apothecary whenever we was lost in this place.”

“Don’t you read, we are shut..closed.. NEVER on SATURDAY.. see!”

“Don’t you listen,” said he without a trace of rancor, ” I said we was lost and where I come from the apothecary knows everythin’.”

“I’m not the apothecary—the chemist—the pharmacist—the err—you’ve gotten the wrong man. Now move off—”

“Not the apothecary,” interrupted he and, ignoring my advice went on, “whararra then a burglar?”

“Not a burglar,” I got out and stopped to eye him over. When I spotted a small van at the kerbside of the pavements behind him. Someone there was calling him though I could not hear what was uttered. For a moment it looked as though he would go back to them and move on. Wishful thinking as it turned out as the ferocity of his next knob and door assault clear took away any initiative I had..

“Now look you, ya may not be the apothecary or the chemist or a burglar or whatever you say you aren’t but if I bring a copper here you’ll be whatever he says you are. And I’m not kidding. Hey, waitta mo, there’s a flatfoot just come round the corner..”


The rattle was mine now, the bolts top and bottom coming away in quick practised movements and the door opening a crack to engage bacon face in a full-on shouting match if I had to.

“That’s betta,” said he with a wide smirk, “betta by far. Look, matey, I, we don’t want no trouble. We just wanna get ta Upton Park for the home game and then it’s Hammersmith I guess.. Joe Loss at the Hammersmith Palais ya know. Tonight.”

He had taken a rise out of me all right and I was not about to forget it. Still, this information was a surprise and made the whole thing look even more genuine. I said, “Didn’t know West Ham had any Irish supporters.”

“Ohhh would you be surprised matey. Not me. Our youngster.. in the van. His day.. I mean this trip is for him.. we are with the Survey.. Ordinance y’know, HQ at Surbiton out west but we’re the up-and-down-and-all-around Snowdonia team. He’s bin tripod and backpacking for our surveyor. Done six months.. legs, arms, wrists strong assa orse now. Big day out, see. Earned it. Nothing like putting your feet up.. in a bed y’know—”

“Thattafact,” says I, getting the picture, “Lost on the big day, riight?”

“Riiight,” says he, smirk entirely wiped, “ya can help us can’t ya?”

“Yes,” said I, telling myself no way was I leaving Nat’s shop to oblige them outside. “You need a map—what’s funny?—” I added when he laughed. And then, suddenly, I got it, they were map-making men and lost was one ridiculous admission to make. I relented, asked him to fetch the driver and we’d work out a write down the routes. After I’d spoken to Nat on the phone.

“No,” said Nathaniel B, businesslike and firm, “not in the shop! Not strangers and definitely not more than you. Send them over here. Better still, send them to m’ brother’s next door. I’ll call the other side—the fuzz—and we’ll all see what they’re made of.”

Minutes later, the youngster from the van in tow, the driver and his mate were seen to cross the road and headed up into one of the Georgians…


Come back tomorrow night and try again for the next hilarious installment on Riley’s night out in NEVER ON SATURDAY part 2


And now, as I leave you, there is a …


A new Reuters/Ipsos poll out showed that women’s preferences of candidates remain virtually unchanged from the March poll. Women are still supporting President Barack Obama over Mitt Romney by a wide margin.

In this case, it’s a 14-point margin. Obama leads 51 to 37 percent among women, and he leads in all crucial issues with women.

Of course.. stands to reason… the Repugs War on Women (WoW factor) not only did nothing for the Repugs, but then they went and upped a so-called saint with initials M.R.

Corny I know but gottabe all mister, riiight 🙂

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Billing .. a caper called Never on Saturday..

April 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

Amazing how little things can drive one quite potty..

And then, quite suddenly, off pops the lid and out for all to see the potty-maker mechanism which some dude charged a heap for in one of his make-work schemes.

And, no guys and gals, that was not a dig at Labor who more obviously than not go in for make work schemes just to lasso continuing membership.

FYI the modern alternative to this schematic is non-national building make price schemes. Don’t believe me then!

But I can assert the mechanism of lower global milk pricing has much to do with the counterfactual of supplyside — yea, for administrative pricing through supply relies entirely to date on hedges and speculators ‘competing’ with consumers and their agencies to drive prices. Getting on outta the mix explains the fall. No question.

Enough notch stuff for the minute.. I wanted only to bill an oncoming cheer-UP whose actual participants have long since left the scene, so to say, yet whose latest narrator – me – can still recall with considerable humor.

The title lends nothing whatsoever to the Greeks and/or Melina Mercuri’s classic hit, tho a little to news this week of yet another Japanese innovation in the construction sector. For post-shook ChCh.

So.. keep an eye out for another blast from the past.. likely prepped tomorrow (time being my stiff commander today) and up by Friday at the latest..

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King’s Ransom Reversed

April 5, 2012 § Leave a comment

Of the two long grain rices to settle upon kiwi supermarket shelves only one – basmati – suits me. That is to say it is voluminous on the boil, ample in the palate and most digestible in the bodily system. Things I could neither say for the other brand. Nor most definitely welcome to my bodily system .

Not that the waitress at a restaurant could know this.. or that I would tell her.. tho I would ask about – and WAS told affirmatively that they only stocked basmati. “We pay more, but by making more and so using less it comes out a better deal,” yelped an endorsing cook from the kitchen.

Agreed, this being the reason to boil the stuff myself, whereupon I ordered. Then ate. Drove home. Rested. Slept. Worked another day.. and then found myself rather too bound for comfort. Nobody’s company, it was to the shed I went. Guys need do things.. even if it’s only staring out .. to anything about.. cursing all the while the lies folks tell.. along with the pain ransom resulting from them. Consequential you might reasonably say…

Ongoing instruction, however…

Considered context: Counterfeit Drugs

Supposedly good cancer drug from Roche’s Genentech stable, Avastin, was zinged by the FDA in recent times after clinical trials revealed its clinical efficacy little different to placebo. They did not ban it, simply suggested it be available only to those patients/doctors able/willing afford it. Most likely in continuing therapy situations. I say this because a single shot of this drug costs $2400 in a US market worth $2.5bn. Usage in Illinois, California, Texas. And yes, these are the locations seeking alternative supplies to meet not least patient shortfall problems when the FDA made its announcement.

From Turkey they ordered in a product named there Altusan, Roche chemical, different name, okay in Turkey, not approved in the USA. How come..? I’d say more to do with metric in the new dynamic of costs and private practise, amongst which pharmabiz and political parties with the current anti-statist branding irons hot from their forge to embolden a market’s practitioners with. Besides, they spout effusively, this is a free market country and who do these ‘crats fink they are and blah blah..

Tasked to their corporate steady watch the FDA take a close look at the new import. [ Hey, this is America today, globalization and all, aint no tariffs ta knock back let’s say a thalidomide.. disaster! ] Name Altusan, foreign suppliers several. Packaging, vials look okay. But lab tests March 15th showed none of Altusan’s active ingredient, says Shelly Burgess(FDA).

FDA bottom line advisory: “Packaging or vials found in the U.S. that claim to be Roche’s Altuzan with lot number B6021 should be considered counterfeit.” Significantly, she adds, “In the past three months, we’ve notified health care providers about the risk of purchasing unapproved injectable cancer medications from unlicensed sources.”

Insufficient time has passed to discern whether the counterfeit drug has actually been used in the US. Of course, playing the placebo card could make for a time qualifier on efficacy. Even so, at market prices ripoff looks the most appropriate word. Along with practitioners’ reputational risk.

Still, that’s free ( unimpeded and unregulated ) markets for you. Sort of king’s ransom reversed. Tho no darned use at all for what folks need do by way of those criminogenics* Bill Black mentioned last week.

Using the FDA parallel law prof. Eric Posner et al have a pertinent study in respect financial operators which could make traction over coming months. With a bigger take on the topic the NYT’s Gretchen Morgenson

Mentionable this week RNZ’s Patrick O’Mara(?) whose biz slot on midday report today held mention China’s Mr Wen and his call to break-up those big Chinese banks whose funds are illiquid right now. PO hadn’t time to mention, however, that smaller banks, Wen reckons, flow the money for smaller businesses better. And yes, gotta do that in the reoriented “strategic economy” that China is chasing now:—Domestic markets first, exports follow as and when.

Which kind of explained, tho no one was willing talk about it in the media, why Aus/US stocks and secs moved south these past few days. But no way does it adequately explain minister Bill English’s late wording in an otherwise clearly stated radio interview today. Hey Bill, you are good at this y’know. Slower speech than John boy, that’s for sure (and welcome), adds gravitas. Which kiwis need right now.

I’m referring of course to EXPORT-led. ? The buck @ 81¢, China in-bound, Euro austere and a few other things piling for perfect storm.. I think mebbe we try for a 3-ringed circus instead of the one-trick pony.. model 😉

Po$itively: I heard how ex-PM, Mrs Shipley, is a Dame these days. Sounds good. Well, she did on RNZ’s reportage of proceedings today. Nice to know the bond is working out for her board etc. Do I recall correctly that she was strong on money laundering back in the 90s..? need of bankings’ oversight etc..?

* Mention this because one of the aspects arising from FCIC comments last week – ‘wealth-taken’ opportunists – along with part privatisations of state-held energy companies – new market opportunity – is the greater possibility of laundering money (or ill-gotten gains) through this process. Which leads me to ask what measures are undertaken to prevent money laundering through these sales?

Yes, I realise this could be by first generation – and fall due the selling agency – but also and for longer term stock holders second, third etc generations sale transfers – presumably by the companies themselves. An immediate concern mebbe the first one since should laundering happen at all then subsequent biz would be thereby tainted.

See you next time round.. meantime I’m over to Lazonick and his corporate take re predators replacing producers.. hands, knees and jawbone burying stuff that it is.. 🙂

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