The Iron Ore Insurance Policy: How Australia's Richest Person Bought a Populist Party — and Why a "Battler" Movement Is Quietly Working for a Mining Magnate

Transcript

Alex: Here's the line I can't shake. Australia's richest person is worth about thirty-nine billion dollars — and the thing actually protecting that money isn't the iron ore in the ground.

Sam: Wait. The iron ore billionaire's fortune isn't protected by the iron ore?

Alex: It's protected by politics. And right now she's buying herself a permanent piece of it — wrapped in a battler's flag.

Sam: Okay, that's the kind of sentence I need explained slowly, because on its face it makes no sense.

Alex: Welcome to Follow the Money.

Sam: This is the show where we try to work out who actually holds power in Australia — the people, the money, and the machinery quietly shaping the country's politics. Because the official story of who's in charge and the real story are almost never the same thing.

Alex: I'm Alex, here with Sam, and today we're getting into Gina Rinehart — and a puzzle that sounds like a contradiction until you see how it's built. The iron ore insurance policy: how Australia's richest person bought a populist party, and why a "battler" movement is quietly working for a mining magnate.

Sam: And I want to flag the obvious objection up front, because I think a lot of people listening have it too. One Nation, Pauline Hanson — that's the forgotten-worker, anti-elite, "Aussie battler" party. The country's richest woman is more or less the definition of the elite. How are those two on the same side?

Alex: That's exactly the knot. And here's the trigger that pulls it tight — in the last few months that party started flying around on a brand-new two-million-dollar private jet. Guess who paid for it.

Sam: I have a feeling.

Alex: So the question I couldn't put down isn't really "does she donate to them." It's the deeper one underneath: in a country that lives off digging things up, what does a fortune actually need to survive — and what is the cheapest thing a billionaire can buy to guarantee it? We're going to travel from a royalty signed in nineteen sixty-three, to a flatbed truck at a Perth rally, to a cruise ship docked in Brisbane where someone auctioned dinner with Donald Trump.

Sam: And by the end we should understand the trick — why the disguise isn't a flaw in the plan.

Alex: Why the disguise is the product. If you find yourself wanting to know how power really works in this country, follow the show on Spotify or Apple so the next one finds you.

Sam: Okay. You said it's a power story, not a wealth story. But I want to start with the wealth, because I genuinely don't know how she got it. The shorthand is "self-made mining magnate." Is that fair?

Alex: It's the part of the story that's been sanded smooth, and the real version matters, because it explains every fight she's ever picked. She did not start from nothing. She inherited a legal instrument.

Sam: A legal instrument. Not a mine.

Alex: Not a mine. In nineteen sixty-three her father — Lang Hancock, the prospector — and his partner Peter Wright signed a deal with the British miner that grew into Rio Tinto. And that deal gave them a royalty: two and a half percent of the value of the ore mined from certain patches of the Pilbara. In perpetuity.

Sam: Hang on — two and a half percent of the ore, forever? Just for having signed a piece of paper in nineteen sixty-three?

Alex: Forever. And I want you to really sit with what a perpetual royalty is, because it's the strangest, most beautiful asset in this whole story. Think of it like owning the toll booth instead of building the road. You don't drive a single truck. You don't run the mine, you don't take the price risk in any normal way — every car that goes through, you take your cut. Iron price up, you get paid. Iron price down, you still get paid. Operator's brilliant, operator's hopeless — doesn't matter. The toll just keeps coming.

Sam: So the family's deepest wealth isn't really "mining." It's "owning the right to be paid by miners."

Alex: That's the foundation. Now — when Lang died in nineteen ninety-two, the company he left Gina was actually a mess. Asset-rich, cash-poor, buried in litigation. So the fortune she has now is genuinely her achievement, and it runs on two engines. The first engine is other people's mines. There's a deposit called Hope Downs — fifty-fifty joint venture, Rio Tinto develops it, Rio Tinto operates it, and her company collects half the profit.

Sam: How much does half look like?

Alex: Estimated around eight hundred and seventy million dollars a year. For work that Rio Tinto does.

Sam: I'm sorry — eight hundred and seventy million a year, and the deal is essentially "you mine it, I'll take half"? That's the toll booth again, just bigger.

Alex: It's the toll booth again. Which is why the second engine is the one that actually tells you who she is — because it's the one she built herself. It's called Roy Hill, and she basically willed it into existence. Her company grabbed the tenements back in nineteen ninety-three, sat on them, and two decades later she went and assembled a ten-billion-dollar-class mine.

Sam: How do you even finance something that size?

Alex: This is the bit that genuinely impressed me. In March twenty-fourteen she put together a debt package of seven-point-two billion US dollars — at the time the biggest project-finance deal in the history of global mining. Five export-credit agencies, nineteen banks. Her company holding seventy percent, alongside Japan's Marubeni, Korea's POSCO, and China Steel. First ore shipped December twenty-fifteen.

Sam: So this isn't a woman who just clips a coupon. She built a genuinely enormous thing.

Alex: She did, and you have to be fair about that. As of last year she folded Roy Hill and another miner, Atlas Iron, into a single company — Hancock Iron Ore — shipping on the order of seventy-four million tonnes of ore a year. So from a near-bankrupt inheritance, she built a top-tier global exporter. And the fortune now? The main rich list puts it at about thirty-nine billion. Another list puts it even higher, north of forty-one.

Sam: Right, but you keep promising me a power story, and so far this is just a very large business story. Where's the turn?

Alex: Here's the turn. And it's the single most important idea in the whole episode, so let me say it carefully. A fortune shaped like this — almost all in one commodity, anchored by those perpetual royalties and one flagship mine — is exquisitely sensitive to exactly two government decisions. Only two.

Sam: Which two?

Alex: One: tax the resource rent — put a real tax on the windfall profits of mining — and that royalty-and-profit machine loses a slice of every tonne, forever. Two: put a serious price on carbon, and the economics of digging and shipping iron ore — and the coal and gas she also champions — tilt against her. And here's the thing — almost nothing else Canberra does touches her like those two levers do. Interest rates, foreign policy, most regulation — barely a scratch. Those two? Existential.

Sam: So if you're her, and there are exactly two policies in the entire universe that can really hurt you…

Alex: …then your most important investment was never going to be another mine. It was going to be keeping those two policies off the table. And that — for fifteen years — is what she's actually been buying.

Sam: Okay, so before we get to the private jet, you said this trick has a prototype. There was a first version of it.

Alex: There was, and it's the founding case study of money versus democracy in modern Australia. Twenty-ten. The Rudd Labor government proposes a Resource Super Profits Tax — a forty percent levy on the windfall profits of the mining boom.

Sam: Forty percent of the windfall. That's not nothing.

Alex: For the industry it's an existential threat. For the public, honestly, it's a way to actually bank a once-in-a-generation boom instead of watching it ship overseas. And what happens next is the part everyone should know. The industry mounts a multi-million-dollar advertising blitz — the figure people cite is around twenty-two million dollars. And Rinehart doesn't just write a cheque; she physically climbs onto the back of a flatbed truck at a Perth rally and chants "axe the tax" — alongside two other mining billionaires, Andrew Forrest and Clive Palmer.

Sam: The billionaire on the truck. That's a real image.

Alex: Within weeks, Rudd's support collapses, and his own party knifes him and installs Julia Gillard. Gillard renegotiates the tax down into something called the Minerals Resource Rent Tax — so watered down, so full of deductions, it raised almost nothing. And it got repealed in twenty-fourteen anyway.

Sam: So let me make sure I've got the sequence. A forty percent tax gets proposed. A few weeks and a few million dollars of advertising later, the tax is basically gone — and the Prime Minister is gone too?

Alex: And here's where I have to be careful and fair, because this is contested. People have argued for fifteen years over how much that campaign actually caused Rudd's fall versus just happening at the same time. The honest answer is: it was one big factor among several. Don't let anyone tell you the miners single-handedly toppled a PM.

Sam: That's a fair hedge. But the lesson the industry took from it — that's not hedged at all, is it?

Alex: No. The lesson was crystal clear, and it's the key to literally everything that comes next. You do not have to win an election to win a policy. You just have to make a government afraid.

Sam: Ohh. So it's not "buy the outcome." It's "scare the people who decide the outcome."

Alex: Exactly. And think about the math of that, because it's brutal. A few weeks, a few million dollars — and you've turned a forty percent tax into a rounding error and helped end a prime ministership. As a return on capital, that is absurd. It taught her something most people never quite let themselves believe: political risk is just another risk. And risk can be hedged.

Sam: And I'm guessing she didn't stop at the one ad campaign.

Alex: She spent the next decade building out the rest of the toolkit. She set up a lobby group pushing a low-tax, low-regulation "special economic zone" across northern Australia. She bankrolled Australian visits by a well-known climate-science contrarian and revived a lecture series to give him a stage. And — this is the interesting failure — she tried to buy the media directly. A stake in the Ten Network, and by mid twenty-twelve nearly nineteen percent of Fairfax, which back then published the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.

Sam: Owning the newspapers. That's the classic billionaire move. Did it work?

Alex: It flopped. She couldn't get the board seats or the editorial control she wanted, and she sold out by twenty-fifteen. And that failure is genuinely instructive — owning the printing press turned out to be expensive, clumsy, and slow. So if you're her, sitting there in twenty-fifteen, you've now learned two things. The truck works. The newspaper doesn't. So what's the cheaper, more reliable instrument?

Sam: …a political party.

Alex: A political party. And that's where this whole thing has been heading.

Sam: Right, so this is the part I've been waiting for, because this is where "she influences One Nation" usually turns into a vibe — guilt by association, she went to a dinner once, whatever. You're telling me it's more concrete than that.

Alex: It's a set of transactions. Not a vibe. Let me give you three, and watch the pattern. One. April twenty-twenty-six: Hanson unveils a brand-new private aircraft — a Cirrus, valued at around two-point-one million dollars — donated to One Nation by a company inside Rinehart's empire. Hanson announced it herself on social media. She called the plane "sexy."

Sam: She called it sexy. Okay.

Alex: Two. Around the same time, two executives in Rinehart's corporate orbit each donate five hundred thousand dollars to the party.

Sam: Half a million each.

Alex: Three — and this is the scene I can't get out of my head. December seventeenth, twenty-twenty-five. There's a ship called The World — the largest privately-owned residential cruise ship on the planet, where Rinehart keeps a multimillion-dollar apartment. It docks in Brisbane. And on board, Rinehart hosts Hanson and a crowd of former Liberal donors, and personally auctions off a dinner with Donald Trump at Mar-a-Lago — plus some bejewelled Trump-branded handbags — to raise a reported three hundred thousand dollars for One Nation.

Sam: I need to stop you, because that's a lot of nouns at once. A billionaire, on a private cruise ship, in Brisbane, auctioning dinner with Trump and Trump handbags, to fund Pauline Hanson. Is that — is that real?

Alex: I'll be straight with you, because it matters: that three-hundred-thousand auction figure rests on a single reporting chain, so I'd hold it as "reported," not nailed down. Everything else — the jet, the five-hundred-thousand cheques — that's solid.

Sam: I appreciate that. But even the solid parts are wild. So who actually confirms any of this? Because she could just deny the whole thing.

Alex: This is my favourite detail. Barnaby Joyce — former deputy Prime Minister, who defected from the Nationals to become One Nation's only member of the House of Representatives in December twenty-twenty-five — he just… confirmed it. On the record. Said yes, Rinehart funds the party, yes he brought other donors along, treats turning up to her fundraisers as, quote, "just part of the job."

Sam: He's not even hiding it.

Alex: Not even a little. He and Hanson both billed taxpayers more than three thousand dollars in travel to attend her donor events in December. And One Nation has repeatedly failed to properly declare free flights on her jet — which, multiply that across enough flights, is exactly how influence stays invisible.

Sam: Okay, but here's what's nagging me. Everything you've listed — the jet, the cheques, the cruise — none of it is "Gina Rinehart writes One Nation a giant donation from her main company." Where's that cheque?

Alex: That's the sharpest possible question, and the answer is the whole architecture. There is no such headline cheque on the public record. Notably. Because she's not giving them money in the obvious sense — she's giving them capability.

Sam: Capability. Unpack that.

Alex: Think about the difference between giving a politician a fish and buying them the boat. A disclosed million-dollar donation is a fish — visible, countable, gone. What she's actually supplying is the boat. An aircraft, so a tiny party can campaign across an entire continent. A venue and a network for fundraising. Auction items only a billionaire could possibly provide. And a pipeline of other like-minded rich people who follow her in. You don't fund the campaign. You build the thing the campaign runs on.

Sam: And the boat doesn't show up as a line item the way a cheque does.

Alex: That's the elegance of it. And it sets up the question that I think is the actual heart of this whole story — which is not "is she funding them." It's: why on earth would a party for forgotten battlers say yes to all this from the richest person in the country?

Sam: Right — because that's still the contradiction I can't get past. She is the elite. They are the anti-elite party. This should be radioactive for them.

Alex: So let's do the trade honestly, both sides, because it's a real exchange — Hanson is not a puppet. Start with what One Nation gets, because it's simple. Every small populist party starves for the same three things: money, infrastructure, and a bit of credibility. They won six-point-four percent of the House vote at the May twenty-twenty-five election — second-best result they've ever had — they absorbed a former deputy PM, and they're trying to grow up from a protest vehicle into something that could actually govern. They're openly modelling themselves on Trump — they literally sell "MAGA — Make Albo Go Away" merch.

Sam: Make Albo Go Away. Albanese. Okay.

Alex: And all of that costs money the party doesn't generate on its own. So she supplies it. That half's easy. The interesting half is what she gets — and this is where the contradiction stops being a contradiction.

Sam: Go on, because to me it still looks like an own-goal for them.

Alex: Look at the actual One Nation platform. Abolish the net-zero target. Pull out of the Paris Agreement. Defend "baseload coal." Expand coal and gas. Restructure how resources get taxed. Now put that next to her own public campaign — in August twenty-twenty-five she explicitly called for Australia to ditch net-zero, said the costs would wreck the economy, while she was increasing her stake in Trump's Truth Social.

Sam: So the overlap isn't, like, a coincidence in one or two areas.

Alex: It's not partial overlap. It's the agenda. Line by line, the One Nation platform reads like the wish-list of the country's biggest private miner. Remember the two levers — resource tax, and carbon. Their platform attacks both.

Sam: Okay, but that makes the contradiction worse, not better. If their policy is literally her policy, isn't it more obvious that the battler party is doing the billionaire's bidding? People can see that.

Alex: And this is the turn — this is the thing I needed to actually sit and think about before it clicked. Yes, critics see it. The Treasurer, Jim Chalmers, has flat-out accused Hanson of acting in Rinehart's interests instead of workers'. The Greens point out how badly the lavish gifts sit against the battler brand. And they're right that the interests genuinely diverge. But here's the move: that divergence is exactly why the arrangement is valuable instead of embarrassing.

Sam: …say that again, because that's counterintuitive.

Alex: Picture two versions of the same party. Version one: a party that openly calls itself "the miners' party." Could it ever sell net-zero repeal to a worried, ordinary electorate? Never. It's transparently self-serving — everyone tunes it out.

Sam: Right, it's just a billionaire shouting "lower my taxes," nobody's buying that.

Alex: Now version two: a party that takes the exact same policy — repeal net-zero — and reframes it as protecting battlers from elite climate ideology and foreign-made solar panels. Suddenly that same policy can walk straight into the mainstream.

Sam: Oh. So the costume isn't covering up the agenda. The costume is how you deliver the agenda.

Alex: That's it. That's the whole thing. The "battler" is the brand. The policy underneath is the mine's. A party that openly served her would be useless to her — useless. A party that serves her while waving the battler's flag is worth a fortune, because it can carry an unpopular billionaire's agenda into the one room she can't buy her way into.

Sam: Which is?

Alex: The floor of Parliament. She can buy newspapers, jets, lobby groups, dinners — she cannot buy a vote on the floor. A party can.

Sam: Okay, that genuinely reframes it for me. But I want to push on one thing, because if it were that seamless it'd feel too neat. Is there anywhere the fit actually breaks?

Alex: Good instinct, and yes — there's one real seam, and it's worth naming because it shows this is a marriage of convenience, not a perfect machine. It's immigration. Rinehart's businesses have historically wanted more access to cheap and foreign labour — she's lobbied for foreign-worker visas. And there's an ugly moment from twenty-twelve where she mused that Africans would work for under two dollars a day —

Sam: Two dollars a day. That's grim.

Alex: — which prompted Gillard's famous line, that it is "not the Australian way to toss people a gold coin and ask them to work for a day." Meanwhile One Nation's signature policy is cutting immigration, hard. So she wants more labour in; their whole brand is keeping people out. That is a genuine conflict.

Sam: So how does that not just blow the alliance apart?

Alex: Because they each tend their own corner. One Nation goes after the politically loud categories — permanent migration, humanitarian arrivals, "illegal" boats. But the quiet, temporary, employer-sponsored workers who actually staff a remote mine site? That lives in a boring corner of policy nobody campaigns on. So the populist gets to be tough on immigration, and the miner keeps the workforce pipeline she needs. The contradiction doesn't get resolved. It gets managed.

Sam: So let me make sure I've banked the shape of it so far. Two government levers can hurt her — resource tax and carbon. In twenty-ten she learns scaring a government is dirt cheap. The newspapers flop. So now she's buying a party that carries her policy under a battler's flag. That's the spine.

Alex: That's the spine, perfectly.

Sam: But you keep saying "iron ore." Is this just an iron ore story? Because if it is, it's contained — it's one industry's politics.

Alex: That's the perfect bridge, because the answer is no — and that's what should actually worry you. Follow the diversification, because every new asset she buys adds another policy she now needs to defend. Start with land. In twenty-seventeen she went in on the S. Kidman cattle empire — one of the most storied landholdings in the country — three hundred and eighty-six and a half million dollars, in a joint venture with a Chinese partner, her company holding sixty-seven percent.

Sam: Cattle. From iron ore to cattle.

Alex: And here's the tell on scale: an earlier all-Chinese bid for Kidman had been blocked on national-interest grounds — the buyers had to carve off one enormous station, Anna Creek, just to get a deal through. That's how big and how sensitive this land is. She now owns cattle stations across Western Australia and the Northern Territory, and she's pushed into lithium, rare earths, copper, potash, gas — even taken stakes in US critical-minerals companies.

Sam: So she's not just in "iron ore politics" anymore. She's in land politics, water politics, foreign-investment politics, critical-minerals politics —

Alex: — energy, tax, all of it. Every commodity Western governments now treat as strategic, she's positioned in. And then there's the other half, which is the mirror image. She's spent a reported eighty million dollars-plus since twenty-twelve backing Australia's Olympians — patron of rowing, big in swimming and beach volleyball, paying athletes directly, even dangling a three-million-dollar bonus pool at the Paris Games.

Sam: Wait — why does the iron ore and political-party person care about beach volleyball?

Alex: Because think about what the sport money is, versus the One Nation money. They're opposites. The One Nation funding is the influence she'd rather keep in the dark. The Olympic funding is the goodwill she's delighted for you to see. It's a national-hero halo. And that halo makes the harder edges easier to live alongside.

Sam: What harder edges?

Alex: The climate denial. A moment in twenty-twenty-four where she demanded the National Gallery take down an unflattering portrait of her. And the long shadow of her father's nineteen-eighty-four remarks about Indigenous Australians, which she's declined to disavow. The Olympic glow sits on top of all of that.

Sam: So the takeaway isn't "she's a cartoon villain."

Alex: No — and I want to be really clear, it isn't. The point is structural. The bigger the empire gets, the wider the slice of Australian policy that now runs straight into one private interest. Energy, tax, foreign investment, land, water — even the politics of national pride. The bigger the empire, the more reasons to own a piece of the machine that regulates it.

Sam: Okay. We've been building a pretty damning case. I want to do the thing this show should always do — give her the strongest version of her own defence. Because she has one, right?

Alex: She has one, and it's not frivolous, and I'd be a coward to skip it. She genuinely built Roy Hill. She genuinely created thousands of jobs and tens of billions in export earnings. And her actual arguments overlap with things plenty of economists across the spectrum concede — that Australia's project-approval system really is slow, that energy policy really has pushed up power prices, and that a country that lives off resource exports should think hard before taxing or regulating itself into uncompetitiveness.

Sam: So the net-zero critique isn't just pure self-interest in a costume.

Alex: It isn't pure self-interest dressed up. It overlaps with real anxieties about industrial electricity costs and supply security. And — this matters — people are entitled to fund parties they actually agree with. The evidence suggests she genuinely agrees with One Nation. She's not merely using them; she believes a lot of it.

Sam: And on the influence itself — how far does the evidence really stretch? Because I don't want us to overclaim.

Alex: Then let's be disciplined about it, because the limits are real. There is no public evidence of a quid-pro-quo. No smoking gun — no specific policy bought with a named cheque. One Nation is still a minor party; it can't pass a law on its own. A lot of what looks like control is better described as deep alignment that happens to be richly resourced.

Sam: So what's the claim that actually survives all the caveats?

Alex: The honest version is narrower than the headlines, and it's stronger for it. It's not "Rinehart controls Australian policy." It's this: she has built the most effective private apparatus in the country for keeping two specific policies off the table — resource-rent tax, and serious carbon pricing — and she is now hardening that apparatus into something permanent. That's the claim the evidence actually carries. And honestly, it's scarier than the cartoon, because it's true.

Sam: So if I'm walking away from this and I want to actually watch this play out — not just nod along — what do I keep my eye on?

Alex: Three hinges. And the first one is the reason all this money is moving right now, this minute. January first, twenty-twenty-seven.

Sam: What happens then?

Alex: Australia's new political donation rules finally switch on. Caps — fifty thousand dollars per donor to a party — plus rapid, near-real-time disclosure. Right now we're in the dark window. After that date, the lights come on.

Sam: Ohh. So the cruise ship, the jet, the cheques — the rush isn't a coincidence.

Alex: That's the whole point. You move the money now, while the machinery is still dark. And the real question on that date is sneaky: do the new rules even capture in-kind gifts — a jet, an auction lot — or do they only count cash? Because if they only count cash, the money just reroutes into boats and planes and dinners, and the law is theatre.

Sam: That's the boat-not-the-fish thing again. Hand me the second hinge.

Alex: Second is electoral. Whether One Nation — now carrying Joyce and Rinehart's money — can convert that six-point-four percent protest vote into the actual balance of power. Because that's the exact moment alignment turns into leverage. A six percent party you can ignore. A party that decides whether your bill passes, you cannot.

Sam: And the third?

Alex: The third is the quiet one — the courts and the commodity. There was a Western Australia Supreme Court ruling last year that her company has to share those Hope Downs royalties — remember the toll booth — with two other families. Potentially fourteen million a year to one, four million a year to another, and hundreds of millions in back-payments at stake.

Sam: So the toll booth she doesn't fully own after all.

Alex: Not entirely. And that ruling, plus any sustained fall in the iron ore price, would squeeze the very fortune that pays for all the politics. The fortress has a crack in its own foundation.

Sam: Okay. Let me try to say back the whole thing, because I think I actually have it now, and it's not the story I walked in with.

Alex: Go for it.

Sam: We came in thinking this was a wealth story — inheritance, feuds, richest-person headlines. It's a power story. A fortune that's exposed to exactly two government decisions has spent fifteen years buying insurance against them. First by renting influence for a single election, back in twenty-ten with the truck and the ad blitz. And now by buying something permanent — an actual party.

Alex: And the genius and the danger of this current phase —

Sam: — is the disguise. The billionaire's agenda wrapped in a battler's flag. Because that's the only packaging in which "repeal net-zero" and "go easy on mining taxes" can be sold to the very people it might not help.

Alex: That's it exactly. And if you remember three things from today, make it these. One: her wealth isn't really protected by ore in the ground, it's protected by the absence of two policies. Two: in a resource democracy, you don't have to win the election — you just have to scare the government, and that's astonishingly cheap. And three — the one I keep turning over — the costume isn't hiding the agenda. The costume is how the agenda gets delivered.

Sam: And the line that's going to stick with me is the cheapest mine to own.

Alex: That's where it lands. The country's richest person seems to have worked out something most of us would honestly rather not believe: in a resource democracy, the cheapest mine to own is a political party — as long as nobody can quite see who's holding the deed.

Sam: That's genuinely a different way of looking at how this country runs.

Alex: And that's the whole reason this show exists. I hope you come away seeing a little more clearly how power in Australia actually moves — who's holding the money, and who's holding the machine. It's a picture that's deliberately kept hard to see, and that's exactly what makes it worth following closely.

Sam: And a quick, honest note about how this gets made, for full transparency: this show is AI-generated. Dan builds a custom stack of AI tools to chase the questions he can't stop thinking about — it started out made with NotebookLM and now runs on his own engine — mostly so he can understand this stuff himself, and he publishes it for anyone who wants to follow along.

Alex: So if today made the picture even a bit clearer, please consider giving us a follow — on Spotify, Apple, wherever you're listening. It's the thing that keeps the next one coming.

Sam: Thanks for following the money with us. We'll see you next time.