Don Gonzalo Mecha-Espoleta de Muchahambre resides on the Argentinian branch of the Fuse family tree. He is a scion of the line descended from Sir Brent Fuse's paternal grandfather, Brian; Brian's second son, after Sir Brent's philandering father (who won't be mentioned again), Vincent, sailed away to the southern American continent with a group of utopian idealists who hoped to set up the perfect society in the innards of Paraguay.

Vincent Fuse, who had mistakenly believed "utopian" to be the currency of the idyllic republic, soon left the pioneers even as they were surrounded by a large group of Quechua natives, with poison arrows and ideals of their own, and travelled hot-foot to Buenos Aires in the Argentine Republic. There he quickly accumulated a better knowledge of the language and of the currency and believed he had made the better deal at the going exchange rate: 120 dead utopians equals one maravedi (today worth about 0.0001 pesos).

Slithershanks' teacher, Frustrated Poleaxe, leaned over the VCE papers he was marking and wondered whether what he was witnessing was a mysterious puzzle concealing a secret at the very heart of Western civilisation, or a pile of old rubbish that may or may not have been possum droppings. Or perhaps just some sort of data blip from a parallel universe that is not all that parallel.

He should have asked Slithershanks. He would have told him that VCE howlers are clearly a subtle insight from future investment bankers, who are trying to tell us something, such as that they should get paid a whole lot of fees for doing even less than they usually don't do.

For instance, this howler: "In order to preserve power the Party ensures there are no martadors" is obviously a reference to the bull market and how it has lost a bit of steam of late (i.e. tanked completely). "He was ridiculed with contradictions" is clearly a reference to the proper way to torture economists, before putting them out of their misery.

Sir Brent Fuse has finally gotten around to the immense task of cataloguing the books in his extensive library. Many of them are still in their shrink-wrap packaging (he's careful of his books) and all are in mint condition.

So far, he has created cards for the following volumes and set them in close idiosyncratic order on his shelves:

Rubbery under Arms, by Relf Boldrewude

Brown-nosing for Fools and Public Servants, by Anne Onimus

Where's My Chardonnay? By Pierre Trudeau

Ghosts and Poltergeists, by Herbert Thurston

Introductory Crawling, by A Manager

Advanced Crawling, by A Manager

Crawling as an Art, by A Manager

Slithershanks leaned back and rested uncertainly on his core competency, otherwise known as his bald spot. "Just how am I to leverage my human capital in a strategically focused way, going forward?" he asked his knowledge base, otherwise known as his ability to remember his own name when sober (which wasn't all that often). No answer was forthcoming, or even fifth coming.

But just when all seemed lost, Slithershanks suddenly had a brain wave in his intellectual property, otherwise known as a vacant lot that had seen better days. "I know what I can offer the wonderful, highly paid world of senior management in the Australian mateocracy of our glorious corporations,' he told his digital convergence, otherwise known as the finger he was using to pick his nose. "Nothing. When other chief executives are saying they are answerable to the shareholders, I can say that I am answerable to the short-sellers. You want a company's share price to tank? Ask me. I know exactly how to ignore customers, shareholders, staff, suppliers, the organisation, anyone but myself. You want to destroy value? I'm your caricature."

Warning! This blog entry contains scenes and language indigestible to the non-banking public, being part II of No more nonsense

The story so far (for those whose mouse arms are too heavy to allow them to scroll down a few centimetres and read the next entry bar two below): Sir Brent Fuse has awoken to a nightmare. Surrounded by bankers at an oblong roundtable, he has been charged with furnishing profits to shareholders while playing blind man's bluff with customers' deposits. Not being a funambulist, he fears plunging to oblivion from his off-balance sheet deals. But, ASIC comes to his rescue, turns about the telescope and reduced $12 trillion to a mere $500 million. Read on ...

The following day, ASIC chairwoman Charmian Feete strode around the room, dealing out cuffs to the backs of heads that would have warmed the heart of a nasty old school marm and the ears of the recipients. Annibale Chianti's eyes were shining even as his ear was glowing; Stephen Mumble muttered something inconsequential; Sally Curdell fumed; Trent Bottle behaved like a broken man; Ali Qaad pursed his lips and fumed; and Fulsome Bright saw stars.

Slithershanks looked across the table at his financial adviser, Roddy Selfput. It was an important moment. "I recommend that you minimise your tax exposure, and diversify your portfolio with respect to your particular risk profile going forward,"said Selfput, looking confident.

An impressive statement, and Slithershanks was quick to register his response. "Actually, I was thinking of maximising my tax, punting all my money into one investment that has very little chance of paying off and paying no attention at all to my risk profile. Going backwards. What do you think of that as a strategy?"

"Devious. Yes, quite clever," replied Selfput. "Obviously you are thinking of starting up a hedge fund. I must say, you have all the necessary idiocies. All you need to add is a fee structure to make Shylock blush, and, in a year or two, you should never have to work again (unlike your clients). Remember, a hedge fund is just like nuclear waste. It poisons anyone who goes near it, and costs an absolute fortune to dispose of. That fortune could be yours. Mine, too, as I will be providing you with the relevant financial and tax advice -- going forward."

Slithershanks couldn't believe his eyes. There it was. On his desk, in between his core skill set and his key performance personal inadequacies, was an invite to join the Australian Mates Club at The Big End of Town. He had always thought that, as a revolting, mostly implausible management caricature, there was no way that the Inner Sanctum of Matehood (Australian branch) would ever usher him into their congress. But life was made to be surprising, except for when it is not, a