In this current boom, the super-rich are making such extraordinary fortunes that they are not just stoking the suspicion of the working class, but the well-paid middle classes, too. The battle lines in Britain’s class war are shifting: it is no longer Citizen Smith and the Tooting Popular Front agitating for change, but Mr and Mrs Smith and the Wimbledon Neighbourhood Watch scheme who are crying “Power to the People!”

University-educated men and women working hard and enjoying successful careers in public companies are finding themselves frozen out of swaths of the London property market by a new breed of wealth: hedge fund managers, private equity partners and investment bankers. There are signs of a new kind of fissure between the reasonably well-off and the absurdly wealthy – not a blue-collar/white-collar divide, but suit-and-tie versus open-necked shirt; not over how much you are paid, but how: are you someone who measures your earnings in salary or capital gains?

In this context, Nicholas Ferguson’s observation that many private equity executives are “paying less tax than a cleaning lady” has only played to the politics of middle-class envy. Mr Ferguson, the SVG Capital chairman, who has spent more than a quarter of a century in private equity, told the FT that “any common-sense person would say that a highly paid private equity executive paying less tax than a cleaning lady or other low-paid workers . . . can’t be right”.

An explanation: the Treasury agreed special terms with the private equity industry in 2003, which mean that the “carry” on a deal – i.e. the partners’ profits on an investment – can be taxed at just 10 per cent. The partners have to have held the investment for two years and employ taper relief, but the fact is that Mr Ferguson is right: it is possible that buyout executives can end up paying an even lower rate of tax on a multimillion-pound payout than a cleaning lady pays on a minimum wage salary.

Private equity is, no doubt, a boon to Britain. But the political pressure will inevitably grow for the reform of special tax treatment of private equity’s earnings. Some in the industry will make the case that if the tax treatment changes, they will leave the country. The vast majority will stay. Others will say that these tax rules apply to other business. A few and, anyway, it is not the point.

Private equity’s long-term future, not to mention its capacity to make innovative, value-creating deals, will depend on public confidence. (CVC’s bid for Sainsbury’s failed, at least in part, as a result of the suspicion surrounding private equity.)

Few in the private equity world have shown Mr Ferguson’s courage in broaching the tax taboo. But he should be thanked for it. Special tax treatment is not only unjustifiable, it undermines the credibility of the industry. Senior figures in private equity know that their role in the economy is not just to grow the cake, but to share it, too. Indeed, listening to some of them yesterday, they have already come to terms with the fact that on the 10 per cent tax rate, the clock is ticking . . .

Hardy’s pratfall

There was a sense yesterday of life imitating art – and not high art.

Russell Hardy, the chief executive of Blacks Leisure, was ousted after losing the confidence of the company’s nonexecutive directors. Mr Hardy is said to have had a falling out with Claude Littner, a Blacks nonexecutive better known for being a protégé of Sir Alan Sugar and a bit-part on The Apprentice. It was as if Mr Littner wanted to try out Sir Alan’s catchphrase in the real world.

To be fair to Mr Littner and the Blacks’ board, Mr Hardy had an infuriating tendency to blame the weather. When he reported last month that profits at the camping equipment and outdoor gear stores had fallen from £22 million to £100,000 and slashed the dividend by 75 per cent, he said that climate change was the problem.

But Mr Hardy had put in a strategy that has just begun to turn the tide at Blacks and Millets. He imposed a pay freeze, which has stuck. He has started to invigorate the company’s own-label brands. He has expanded Blacks’ presence in out-of-town shopping centres. And he has begun the process of differentiating Blacks from Millets.

When questioned about his strategy in the past, Mr Hardy used to say that if he was proved wrong, people could call him a wazzock. And, he liked to add, “Russell Hardy is no wazzock.” The signs are that the camping season has got off to a terrific start at Blacks and, while April was warm and sales were weak, a wet May has resulted in surging like-for-like sales.

He may have been fired, but Russell Hardy is no wazzock.

Poor suffer

It’s hard not to have a soft spot for counterfeit goods.

A study by the OECD puts the annual international trade in pirated physical goods at up to $200 billion, not counting downloads or, for instance, Chinese counterfeit software sold in China. It calls for sterner action all round.

In many parts of the world, however, this illegal activity puts (fake) luxury goods within reach of ordinary people who could not afford the real thing. A few people may be duped, but most know there is something fishy when they are buying a Rolex for less than £100 or a designer T-shirt at Tesco prices.

In many developing countries, the manufacture of fakes is the first step on the international industrial ladder. It creates not just jobs, but technical expertise.

In Yiwu, the counterfeit capital of China, the range and ambition of the fakery is quite impressive: not just Nike shoes are counterfeit, but the odd BMW car.

Car parts, a bigger item in the Middle East than Europe, raise trickier issues. Poor ones can cause vehicles to fail and crash. Yet they will force manufacturers to pull down the monopoly prices they charge to recoup low margins on new cars.

At its worst, in drugs, piracy can kill people in droves.

But, of course, all these arguments miss the point.

Piracy is a fundamental threat to market economies, which rely on property rights. A society that allows the rich to be robbed makes the poor the worst victims of crime.

Wolff Olins has delivered an unconventional brand for the 2012 Olympics. It looks like it was inspired by Tizwas and coloured in by the makers of Play-Doh. But the Olympic movement has an ageing fan base and needs to reach out to the young. The 2012 logo is not a piece of nostalgia, but a canvas that must endure five years, endless exposure and countless different uses. Wolff Olins has come up with the goods. james.harding@thetimes.co.uk

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