Petrol proves a hit with small investors
Pay attention, I’m going to make you rich.
Like me, you’ve been watching your assets evaporate in recent months. Your mortgage is going backwards, that rental property you bought a year ago at the top of the curve is running rapidly downhill and the dabble on the stock market proved to be very bad advice.
You look around and ask yourself what’s increasing in value? And the reply is – commodities. But little guys like you and me can’t afford shares in mining companies or steel mills and we can’t invest in milk unless we own a few hundred cows.
But there is one commodity we can all get a stake in. It’s local, it’s profitable and it’s available.
I’m talking about petrol, and I don’t mean trading shares in oil companies: I mean literally buying petrol.
Think about it. Four months ago a litre of 91 octane was worth $1.76. Today it’s $2.18. If I had bought 1,000 litres of petrol four months ago, costing $1,760, I could sell that today for $2,180. That’s a profit of $420 or about 25%. What other investment today will return 25% in four months? That’s 75% profit per annum!
What’s the risk? Nil. The international oil geezers say petrol prices are going up until 2013. It’s a sure-fire, can’t-lose, gilt-edged investment and you heard it from me.
Investing in petrol is perfect for small buyers like ourselves. Listen up and I’ll tell you how it’s done.
What I do is collect the empty milk containers and Coke bottles from the neighbours’ green bins on a Monday morning (I pretend to be jogging with an empty wool fadge). Then every time I fill up the car I also fill up a few extra containers. I’ve got about 3 or 4 hundred of these stacked in the garage. Recently I extended the mortgage a bit and moved into 10 litre paint buckets and I’m about to step up again thanks to a farming friend who’s just dropped off a few 100 litre offal drums.
You can pour petrol into pretty much any container but you have to be careful you don’t overreach yourself. A mate of mine rang BP recently and asked them to deliver a tanker load around to his house. He’d lined an old septic tank with polythene and reckoned he could get a few thousand litres into it. As it turns out there are rules about things like that, so my advice is stay fairly small and low key.
One thing you want to be careful about is security. You’ve got to protect your investment and we all know there are a few mongrels who’d be into your stockpile given half a chance – even here in Tinwald.
I’ve hidden most of my petrol in an old coal bin behind the garage. Other investors store it beneath the floorboards or behind the fireplace. One mate of mine filled an old beer fridge in his garage, which caused a couple of problems when some mates called around unexpectedly for a few bevies. Now he’s got two fridges, one labelled ‘beer’ and the other ‘petrol’.
I’ve been giving some thought to the selling side of things. Obviously guys like you and me can’t just set up a forecourt on the front lawn. However, if we keep it simple we can sell all we like and the people we’ll sell to are the idiots who, for the sake of a few dollars, drive their cars on empty and keep running out of gas. Apparently this is happening all over the place. So when I’m ready to sell I’ll simply fill the station wagon and peddle the stuff along a stretch of SH1.
The added bonus of this strategy is that guys who’ve run out petrol in the middle of nowhere will pay top dollar. I could probably charge $3.50 a litre and if they don’t want to pay I can rent them a bicycle!
Direct selling of this nature will become competitive and I predict we’ll see turf wars on popular stretches of highway, along the lines of the famous whitebait wars on West Coast rivers. With that in mind I’ve been putting out feelers to the Triads for security. The closest I’ve come is a local Tri-Hard gang up on Melcombe Street. They might do it - I’ll keep you posted.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Olympic fatigue strikes early and hard
I think I’ve peaked too early in my buildup to the Beijing Olympics. Two weeks from the opening and I’m exhausted.
The problem is I don’t know what to make of the Olympics any more. The original concept of a sports event has, like the guy at the bottom of the ruck, been obliterated beneath layers of marketing, drugs, jingoism and politics. Complicating this is the media’s obsession to cast these Olympics as China’s coming-of-age; an initiation ceremony that will somehow determine that country’s status in the global community.
But, true to the Olympic spirit, I am determined to be fortius, altius and speedius – to rise above myself and participate fully in the event.
I do this largely from guilt. Over the past several Olympics I have not pulled my weight. I’ve become increasingly detached from the pride, the hoop-la and the sheer stamina required to be a member of the 4 million-strong support crew to our athletes.
Instead of doing the hard yards I’ve soft-pedalled, tuning in only for the victorious soundbite or videoclip – “coming up to the line and it’s gold for New Zealand!” – and shunning the near-misses, the failures and the steady plodders. The only thing I recall from Athens are the final three minutes of whatshisname and theotherguy winning gold and silver in the triathlon.
I am sorry for this and I will try to redeem myself in the next few weeks. It won’t be easy – as an Olympic fan my match fitness peaked in 1972 (the men’s rowing eight) and 1976 (John Walker). Over the decades the malaise has spread to my interest in all sports. I no longer follow cricket, tennis, motor racing, the horses or even rugby. I’m not so much out of shape as off the planet.
Looking back, my single greatest error as a sports fan was my failure to make the shift from free-to-air television. Over a period of about a decade I shunned the enticements of subscriber TV and satisfied myself with the dwindling offerings on the traditional channels. Eventually my diet was reduced to crumbs and I turned off completely.
A couple of years ago I realised that, quite unintentionally, I had stopped watching television altogether. Like old friends we had sort of drifted apart and it became too much of an effort to get back together. My television sits in the corner of the lounge draped with a colourful scarf. It is now so out of date it ranks as ‘legacy’ equipment because it needs a special adaptor to connect a DVD player.
My relationships with other media follow a similar, though perhaps less final, trend. I do a bit of newspaper browsing and occasionally ping the sports headlines on National Radio. I use the internet constantly in my work but almost never for recreation or news.
On the rare occasions when I confront sporting events in the media, especially radio and television, it all seems too clamorous. The grace, the finesse, the dignity of the athlete vanish beneath self-indulgent broadcasting, mind-numbing advertisements and truly blithering commentaries.
You can see what I’m up against if I want to pull my weight as an Olympic supporter.
But I’m making a start. To regain the TV habit I’ve rented a few videos of ploughing competitions from the library. I can manage about 8 minutes of this - more with carbohydrate loading. This weekend I’m stepping up to a highlights package from the 1986 Ashes and I plan to spend a bit of time with my ear to the neighbour’s front door during the rugby test.
I figure some high altitude training will do me good so I’ve booked a couple of evenings watching Sky at a friend’s bach at Castle Hill.
With my limited build-up I will inevitably resort to doping like everybody else. My preferred option would be a live-feed internet implant. That should reduce my broad band and give me a passing chance of surviving the opening ceremony. I’ll see you there.
I think I’ve peaked too early in my buildup to the Beijing Olympics. Two weeks from the opening and I’m exhausted.
The problem is I don’t know what to make of the Olympics any more. The original concept of a sports event has, like the guy at the bottom of the ruck, been obliterated beneath layers of marketing, drugs, jingoism and politics. Complicating this is the media’s obsession to cast these Olympics as China’s coming-of-age; an initiation ceremony that will somehow determine that country’s status in the global community.
But, true to the Olympic spirit, I am determined to be fortius, altius and speedius – to rise above myself and participate fully in the event.
I do this largely from guilt. Over the past several Olympics I have not pulled my weight. I’ve become increasingly detached from the pride, the hoop-la and the sheer stamina required to be a member of the 4 million-strong support crew to our athletes.
Instead of doing the hard yards I’ve soft-pedalled, tuning in only for the victorious soundbite or videoclip – “coming up to the line and it’s gold for New Zealand!” – and shunning the near-misses, the failures and the steady plodders. The only thing I recall from Athens are the final three minutes of whatshisname and theotherguy winning gold and silver in the triathlon.
I am sorry for this and I will try to redeem myself in the next few weeks. It won’t be easy – as an Olympic fan my match fitness peaked in 1972 (the men’s rowing eight) and 1976 (John Walker). Over the decades the malaise has spread to my interest in all sports. I no longer follow cricket, tennis, motor racing, the horses or even rugby. I’m not so much out of shape as off the planet.
Looking back, my single greatest error as a sports fan was my failure to make the shift from free-to-air television. Over a period of about a decade I shunned the enticements of subscriber TV and satisfied myself with the dwindling offerings on the traditional channels. Eventually my diet was reduced to crumbs and I turned off completely.
A couple of years ago I realised that, quite unintentionally, I had stopped watching television altogether. Like old friends we had sort of drifted apart and it became too much of an effort to get back together. My television sits in the corner of the lounge draped with a colourful scarf. It is now so out of date it ranks as ‘legacy’ equipment because it needs a special adaptor to connect a DVD player.
My relationships with other media follow a similar, though perhaps less final, trend. I do a bit of newspaper browsing and occasionally ping the sports headlines on National Radio. I use the internet constantly in my work but almost never for recreation or news.
On the rare occasions when I confront sporting events in the media, especially radio and television, it all seems too clamorous. The grace, the finesse, the dignity of the athlete vanish beneath self-indulgent broadcasting, mind-numbing advertisements and truly blithering commentaries.
You can see what I’m up against if I want to pull my weight as an Olympic supporter.
But I’m making a start. To regain the TV habit I’ve rented a few videos of ploughing competitions from the library. I can manage about 8 minutes of this - more with carbohydrate loading. This weekend I’m stepping up to a highlights package from the 1986 Ashes and I plan to spend a bit of time with my ear to the neighbour’s front door during the rugby test.
I figure some high altitude training will do me good so I’ve booked a couple of evenings watching Sky at a friend’s bach at Castle Hill.
With my limited build-up I will inevitably resort to doping like everybody else. My preferred option would be a live-feed internet implant. That should reduce my broad band and give me a passing chance of surviving the opening ceremony. I’ll see you there.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Anti-Smacking law proves its worth
28th June 2008
One year after the notorious “anti-smacking” law came into force the screaming and shouting has begun all over again. Strident demands for a referendum to be held at this year’s general election are batted away by the government; the Opposition is gleeful, sensing another opportunity to bag Labour; Helen Clark reminds them they voted for the legislation in the first place; and somewhere in the depths of Parliament a clerk patiently works his way through politic’s answer to the New World Longest Docket Competition.
So, what has happened in the twelve months since Sue Bradford robbed us of the right to hit our kids? Have the wheels fallen off? Has the thin fabric of society been torn asunder? Yes! shout the law’s opponents. Innocent mums, dads and grannies are suffering the wrath of the state for the slightest rebukes, while a generation of children spared the rod are growing wild and lawless as a consequence.
The truth is more modest. In the past six months police have responded to 82 callouts under the legislation, which have resulted in just 4 prosecutions and, to date, no convictions. This is no upheaval.
The Child Discipline Bill had a single purpose: to remove the defence of ‘reasonable force’ in prosecutions of physical violence against children. As far as I’m aware it was never intended to outlaw physical disciplining of children, but this arose as a public perception during the passage of the bill, where it became the ‘anti-smacking law’, and so it remains in most people’s minds. The insertion of a clause in the bill giving police the power to disregard inconsequential complaints has done nothing to pacify its opponents.
‘Reasonable force’ is a fine legal precedent but, with reference to the disciplining of children, it is an oxymoron – a contradiction. Using force against children marks the departure of reason. When adults hit children they are, at least for that moment, neither reasoned nor reasonable - they have taken leave of their senses.
Some opponents of the law have tried to tell us otherwise. They claim to smack or hit their children in a calm and reasonable way, after patiently explaining to the child why they are about to undertake such an insane act. Who are they kidding? Children get hit when adults lose their temper and can’t think of anything else to do.
‘Reasonable force’ is often accompanied by cries of provocation: “the little bugger drove me to it,” “you can’t reason with kids.” I work with children every day. In my experience there are almost no occasions when children cannot reason or be reasoned with.
The only times I can imagine reasonable force being necessary with children is to restrain them when they are about to endanger themselves or others. No police officer would ever prosecute this.
The issue here is not the behaviour of children but the behaviour of adults. Most of us are kind and caring parents but New Zealand has one of the highest rates of child abuse in the world. Some of us enact the abuse, others observe it and do nothing while the rest of us look on with mild concern or fuel radio talkback with forced outrage. We scream against the Kahui family while failing to understand that the roots of evil lie in society’s general acceptance that it’s okay to hit kids. So important is this belief that thousands of us have signed a petition to restore it as a parental right. This is crazy.
We are told the anti-smacking law will never stop the worst cases of child abuse. I disagree. This law sets a standard. It places the safety and care of children above poor parenting. If the effect of the act is to make adults think twice before hitting children it will, in time, contribute to social change that will reduce even the worst violence.
The deputy police commissioner, Rob Pope, said this week that the act “provides another check in terms of alerting police to different standards of parental behaviour.” For years we have cried out for more police powers to intervene before extreme family violence occurs. It’s odd that, now we finally have something that does just this, so many of us want to get rid of it.
28th June 2008
One year after the notorious “anti-smacking” law came into force the screaming and shouting has begun all over again. Strident demands for a referendum to be held at this year’s general election are batted away by the government; the Opposition is gleeful, sensing another opportunity to bag Labour; Helen Clark reminds them they voted for the legislation in the first place; and somewhere in the depths of Parliament a clerk patiently works his way through politic’s answer to the New World Longest Docket Competition.
So, what has happened in the twelve months since Sue Bradford robbed us of the right to hit our kids? Have the wheels fallen off? Has the thin fabric of society been torn asunder? Yes! shout the law’s opponents. Innocent mums, dads and grannies are suffering the wrath of the state for the slightest rebukes, while a generation of children spared the rod are growing wild and lawless as a consequence.
The truth is more modest. In the past six months police have responded to 82 callouts under the legislation, which have resulted in just 4 prosecutions and, to date, no convictions. This is no upheaval.
The Child Discipline Bill had a single purpose: to remove the defence of ‘reasonable force’ in prosecutions of physical violence against children. As far as I’m aware it was never intended to outlaw physical disciplining of children, but this arose as a public perception during the passage of the bill, where it became the ‘anti-smacking law’, and so it remains in most people’s minds. The insertion of a clause in the bill giving police the power to disregard inconsequential complaints has done nothing to pacify its opponents.
‘Reasonable force’ is a fine legal precedent but, with reference to the disciplining of children, it is an oxymoron – a contradiction. Using force against children marks the departure of reason. When adults hit children they are, at least for that moment, neither reasoned nor reasonable - they have taken leave of their senses.
Some opponents of the law have tried to tell us otherwise. They claim to smack or hit their children in a calm and reasonable way, after patiently explaining to the child why they are about to undertake such an insane act. Who are they kidding? Children get hit when adults lose their temper and can’t think of anything else to do.
‘Reasonable force’ is often accompanied by cries of provocation: “the little bugger drove me to it,” “you can’t reason with kids.” I work with children every day. In my experience there are almost no occasions when children cannot reason or be reasoned with.
The only times I can imagine reasonable force being necessary with children is to restrain them when they are about to endanger themselves or others. No police officer would ever prosecute this.
The issue here is not the behaviour of children but the behaviour of adults. Most of us are kind and caring parents but New Zealand has one of the highest rates of child abuse in the world. Some of us enact the abuse, others observe it and do nothing while the rest of us look on with mild concern or fuel radio talkback with forced outrage. We scream against the Kahui family while failing to understand that the roots of evil lie in society’s general acceptance that it’s okay to hit kids. So important is this belief that thousands of us have signed a petition to restore it as a parental right. This is crazy.
We are told the anti-smacking law will never stop the worst cases of child abuse. I disagree. This law sets a standard. It places the safety and care of children above poor parenting. If the effect of the act is to make adults think twice before hitting children it will, in time, contribute to social change that will reduce even the worst violence.
The deputy police commissioner, Rob Pope, said this week that the act “provides another check in terms of alerting police to different standards of parental behaviour.” For years we have cried out for more police powers to intervene before extreme family violence occurs. It’s odd that, now we finally have something that does just this, so many of us want to get rid of it.
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