Were two private equity buyouts the real cause of the horse meat scandal?

A series of buyouts went all the way up the food chain.

A note on the horse meat scandal that only seems to have flagged up so far: Findus, the most recent company under fire for horsemeat-contaminated products, was bought out by private equity firm Lion Capital in 2008.

Private equity firms make companies more efficient then re-sell, turning a profit in the process. They are also known for piling the companies they buy with debt and forcing them into radical cost-cutting measures - and a quick scan of Findus's last half decade suggests this is exactly what happened here. Findus struggled after the buyout, and recently needed a £220m cash injection to stay afloat. It was also forced into "major restructuring" last year. Was there a point at which using cheaper meat became necessary?

On Friday attention turned to Comigel - the company that supplies meat to Findus, as well as Aldi, another company which is even now hastily clearing its shelves of "mislabelled" bolognaise and lasangne. Surprise, surprise: in 2007, Comigel was bought by French private equity firm Céréa Capital.

Private equity firms are used to being the villain of the piece: post 2008, some argued that their penchant for cheap credit would be the cause of the next financial crisis. It's not all bad though - as this Moody's report suggests, companies which have been bought out are much more likely to survive when the going gets tough.

But the key point here is that some companies can't afford to be radically restructured to the point at which the product is compromised. And this includes food companies. Forget DNA tests - we should be keeping an eye out for food with chains of bought-out companies in their supply lines - that's where the next food scandal'll come from.

Horse meat scandal could be rooted in private equity. Photograph: Getty Images

Martha Gill writes the weekly Irrational Animals column. You can follow her on Twitter here: @Martha_Gill.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge