Cricket Captains aren't that important anymore. Same for high paid Business Leaders

Tim Wigmore in Cricinfo

It has been a seminal fortnight for the England cricket team. The country has a new Test match captain, and Joe Root's appointment could herald obvious changes to the team's approach, on and off the field. Yet whether the change of captaincy will have any positive or negative effect on results is an altogether different matter.

How much does individual leadership really matter? It's a question valid in cricket, sport and beyond.

"Being in charge isn't what it used to be," writes Moisés Naím in The End of Power. He shows how, for all the focus on the figureheads of teams, the powers of leaders are being eroded, in everything from business to politics and the military. "In the 21st century, power is easier to get, harder to use - and easier to lose," Naím says, arguing that, because of the digital revolution, the collapse of deference, and increased accountability within organisations, the powerful now face more limitations on their power than ever before. In the second half of the 20th century, weaker sides (in terms of soldiers and weapons) achieved their strategic goals in the majority of wars. The tenures of chief executives are becoming shorter, and those in charge also face more internal constraints on their power than ever before.

The most successful leaders have never been more venerated: the leadership-coaching industry is worth an estimated US$50 billion every year, brimming with corporate bigwigs attempting to learn the "lessons" of other leaders' success. Yet there is no real evidence of the enduring superstar qualities of those who cash in. Award-winning chief executives subsequently underperform, both against their own performance and against non-prize-winning CEOs, as research by Ulrike Malmendier and Geoffrey Tate shows. A lot of the lauded CEOs' previous success, in other words, might have been simply luck, and their subsequent underperformance regression to the mean.

The obsession with leadership extends to sport, yet leaders' power is being reduced here also. "In early-modern sports - the late 19th century - there was little or no coaching and hence the captain on the field had a significant leadership role to play," explains the sports economist and historian Stefan Szymanski. "As sport became more organised and coaching strategy developed, the role of the captain on the field diminished."

Compared with other sports, cricket is unusual in giving as much power to the captain as it does. Yet the cricket captain has not been immune to the wider erosion in the importance of leadership across sport. "The role is declining as the potential of coaches to add analytical support based on data analysis has increased," Szymanski says.

It is instructive to compare the responsibility of Mike Brearley to that of Root today. While Root will be supported by a coterie of coaches, physiologists and analysts, Brearley operated before the modern coach, and had to oversee warming up and stretching before each day. In the days of amateurism, captains even had to motivate amateurs to play at all. Today the captain is far more important in club cricket, where they have no coaches to aid them and often face an arduous task to even get a full team together, than in the professional game.

The power of individual coaches has also been diminished, because the responsibilities that were once the preserve of one man are now divided up among a multitude of personnel. In international cricket teams today, what were, 25 years ago, the sole functions of the coach are now divided up among what often amounts to a 2nd XI of support staff.

While the narrative of football's Premier League now revolves around managers, each result explored through the prism of their success or failure, perhaps they have never mattered less. In the 1930s, Arsenal manager Herbert Chapman not merely coached innovatively but led Arsenal to introduce numbered shirts, and build floodlights and a new stand. Unless they are named Arsene Wenger, the average Premier League manager now lasts a year in the job. Given the complexities of modern sport, there is a limit to what they can do. Indeed, studies of poorly performing clubs find that performances improve by an almost identical amount whether or not a new manager is appointed. The new boss, then, is rarely much better or worse than the old boss.

The book Soccernomics finds a 90% correlation between wage bills and league finishes over a ten-year period; just 10% of top-flight managers consistently overachieve when wages are factored into account. So, brilliant leadership can make a difference, but only in exceptional cases. It was not merely modesty that led Yogi Berra, when asked what made a great baseball coach, to reply: "A great ball team."



Joe Root will enjoy the services of several coaches, analysts and managers in his role as England's Test captain, thereby diffusing his leadership responsibilities © Getty Images





The captain in golf's Ryder Cup has a job akin to the coach in other sports. It offers a prime example of how narratives are constructed around the leader, assigning them more power than they really have. In The Captain Myth, Richard Gillis explores how victories or defeats are retrospectively explained through a captain's mistakes or shrewd decisions. Every match must consist of a Good Captain and Bad Captain, and the Good Captain is always the victor. The trouble with this simplistic narrative is that, as Paul Azinger, who led the US to victory in the 2008 Ryder Cup, reflects, "There have been some captains who have micro-managed everything and lost. There have been captains who were drunk every night and won. There is no blueprint on winning."

There is a paradox to leadership in modern sport. Leaders have never faced more scrutiny - but most have never had less power. Professionalism and the explosion of money in sport means that decisions once the sole preserve of a captain or head coach are now influenced by dozens of others behind the scenes: specialist coaches, performance analysts who mine data, dieticians, psychologists and those responsible for nurturing academy players. Perhaps the cricket team that has performed most above themselves in recent years is Northamptonshire in the T20 Blast. Reaching three finals in four years has not just been a triumph for Alex Wakely's astute captaincy, but also for the coaching staff, the data analyst, the physio and all those involved in player recruitment.

The reluctance to recognise the limits of leadership has deep roots. We are a storytelling species. People make for much better stories than underlying, impersonal factors; Soccernomics shows that success in international football can broadly be explained by three factors - population size, GDP, and experience playing the sport - that have nothing to do with leadership. In The Captain Myth, Gillis writes that, because of psychological biases "meshed with our obsession with celebrity, it's easy to understand how the captain has become such a prominent figure in the sports world". In cricket, he tells me that "the decisions of the captain can be significant, but the relationship between the decisions and the outcome is not linear, it's far messier than that, and makes a far less enjoyable tale".

As much as coaches and fans crave inspirational leadership, in modern sport, with huge and complex professional structures to manage, perhaps it is easier for a single leader to make a negative difference than a positive one. "Good captaincy and coaching have far less of an impact on outcomes than bad captaincy and coaching does," believes Trent Woodhill, a leading T20 coach. Bad leadership can marginalise and disempower the backroom team, effectively preventing support staff from doing their jobs properly. Beyond sport, Naím believes that we are in an age of "heightened vulnerability to bad ideas and bad leaders". The analysis extends beyond sport. Disruptive technology has not only changed the nature of power, Naím believes, but also led to an age of "heightened vulnerability to bad ideas and bad leaders".

Root has captained in just four first-class games, yet this is in keeping with modern norms. That Virat Kohli, Steven Smith and Kane Williamson have all been successful after their appointments as captain, despite a derisory amount of prior leadership experience in professional sport, suggests that captaincy experience - and, by implication, captaincy skill - is simply not that important. The absence of specialist captains, at both domestic and international level, also reflects a recognition of the limits of what a skipper can achieve.

"Playing in the middle and understanding the demands is more important than captaincy," Andrew Strauss said when Root was unveiled. The greatest potential boon of a Root captaincy lies not in a new culture he might create, or more enterprising leadership, but the possibility of greater run-scoring: if Alastair Cook is reinvigorated without the leadership, while, in keeping with recent England captains, Root's own batting initially enjoys an upswing.

Leadership is not irrelevant. Occasionally cricketers are particularly suited to a leadership role - Brearley, Graeme Smith, or Misbah-ul-Haq, say; some, like Kevin Pietersen, might be the opposite. But the overwhelming majority of captains are bunched in the middle - and, in any case, a captain's ability to do good is marginal, now more than ever. For all the tendency to focus on a team's figurehead, great leadership is a collective endeavour, and operates against wider limitations. Perhaps this is why Strauss is so unperturbed by Root's lack of captaincy experience. Only rarely does the identity of a captain really matter.

Celebrity isn’t just harmless fun – it’s the smiling face of the corporate machine

Our failure to understand the link between fame and big business made the rise of Trump inevitable

George Monbiot in The Guardian


‘It is pointless to ask what Kim Kardashian does to earn her living: her role is to exist in our minds’. Photograph: Eduardo Munoz/Reuters

Now that a reality TV star is preparing to become president of the United States, can we agree that celebrity culture is more than just harmless fun – that it might, in fact, be an essential component of the systems that govern our lives?
The rise of celebrity culture did not happen by itself. It has long been cultivated by advertisers, marketers and the media. And it has a function. The more distant and impersonal corporations become, the more they rely on other people’s faces to connect them to their customers.
Corporation means body; capital means head. But corporate capital has neither head nor body. It is hard for people to attach themselves to a homogenised franchise owned by a hedge fund whose corporate identity consists of a filing cabinet in Panama City. So the machine needs a mask. It must wear the face of someone we see as often as we see our next-door neighbours. It is pointless to ask what Kim Kardashian does to earn her living: her role is to exist in our minds. By playing our virtual neighbour, she induces a click of recognition on behalf of whatever grey monolith sits behind her this week.

An obsession with celebrity does not lie quietly beside the other things we value; it takes their place. A study published in the journal Cyberpsychology reveals that an extraordinary shift appears to have taken place between 1997 and 2007 in the US. In 1997, the dominant values (as judged by an adult audience) expressed by the shows most popular among nine- to 11 year-olds were community feeling, followed by benevolence. Fame came 15th out of the 16 values tested. By 2007, when shows such as Hannah Montana prevailed, fame came first, followed by achievement, image, popularity and financial success. Community feeling had fallen to 11th, benevolence to 12th.

A paper in the International Journal of Cultural Studies found that, among the people it surveyed in the UK, those who follow celebrity gossip most closely are three times less likely than people interested in other forms of news to be involved in local organisations, and half as likely to volunteer. Virtual neighbours replace real ones.

The blander and more homogenised the product, the more distinctive the mask it needs to wear. This is why Iggy Pop was used to promote motor insurance and Benicio del Toro is used to sell Heineken. The role of such people is to suggest that there is something more exciting behind the logo than office blocks and spreadsheets. They transfer their edginess to the company they represent. As soon they take the cheque that buys their identity, they become as processed and meaningless as the item they are promoting.

The celebrities you see most often are the most lucrative products, extruded through a willing media by a marketing industry whose power no one seeks to check. This is why actors and models now receive such disproportionate attention, capturing much of the space once occupied by people with their own ideas: their expertise lies in channelling other people’s visions.

A database search by the anthropologist Grant McCracken reveals that in the US actors received 17% of the cultural attention accorded to famous people between 1900 and 1910: slightly less than physicists, chemists and biologists combined. Film directors received 6% and writers 11%. Between 1900 and 1950, actors had 24% of the coverage, and writers 9%. By 2010, actors accounted for 37% (over four times the attention natural scientists received), while the proportion allocated to both film directors and writers fell to 3%.

You don’t have to read or watch many interviews to see that the principal qualities now sought in a celebrity are vapidity, vacuity and physical beauty. They can be used as a blank screen on to which anything can be projected. With a few exceptions, those who have least to say are granted the greatest number of platforms on which to say it.

This helps to explain the mass delusion among young people that they have a reasonable chance of becoming famous. A survey of 16-year-olds in the UKrevealed that 54% of them intend to become celebrities.

As soon as celebrities forget their allotted role, the hounds of hell are let loose upon them. Lily Allen was the media’s darling when she was advertising John Lewis. Gary Lineker couldn’t put a foot wrong when he stuck to selling junk food to children. But when they expressed sympathy for refugees, they were torn to shreds. When you take the corporate shilling, you are supposed to stop thinking for yourself.

Celebrity has a second major role: as a weapon of mass distraction. The survey published in the IJCS I mentioned earlier also reveals that people who are the most interested in celebrity are the least engaged in politics, the least likely to protest and the least likely to vote. This appears to shatter the media’s frequent, self-justifying claim that celebrities connect us to public life.

The survey found that people fixated by celebrity watch the news on average as much as others do, but they appear to exist in a state of permanent diversion. If you want people to remain quiescent and unengaged, show them the faces of Taylor Swift, Shia LaBeouf and Cara Delevingne several times a day.

In Trump we see a perfect fusion of the two main uses of celebrity culture: corporate personification and mass distraction. His celebrity became a mask for his own chaotic, outsourced and unscrupulous business empire. His public image was the perfect inversion of everything he and his companies represent. As presenter of the US version of The Apprentice, this spoilt heir to humongous wealth became the face of enterprise and social mobility. During the presidential elections, his noisy persona distracted people from the intellectual void behind the mask, a void now filled by more lucid representatives of global capital.

Celebrities might inhabit your life, but they are not your friends. Regardless of the intentions of those on whom it is bequeathed, celebrity is the lieutenant of exploitation. Let’s turn our neighbours back into our neighbours, and turn our backs on those who impersonate them.

India's small businesses facing 'apocalypse' amid biggest financial experiment in history

Michael Safi in The Guardian



Down one of the hundreds of dusty lanes that make up Gandhi Nagar market, Delhi’s largest textile bazaar, the small factory where Neeraj Sharma produces girls’ jeans is quiet.

“Normally you couldn’t walk in here,” he says, ambling across the concrete shop floor, past dormant sowing machines and piles of unfinished denim.


Sharma estimates around 80% of his workforce have left Delhi for their villages in the past month. “It’s good that they left,” he adds. “Because of this demonetisation problem, there’s no work for us either.”

India’s vast informal economy has been reeling since 8 November, the morning after India’s prime minister, Narendra Modi, announced the sudden voiding of the country’s two most-used cash bills.

Your money's no good: rupee note cancellation plunges India into panic


It is the largest-scale financial experiment in Indian history: gutting 14 trillion rupees – 86% of the currency in circulation – from the most cash-dependent major economy in the world.

More than a month on, India’s Reserve Bank has issued around 1.7 billion new notes, with less than one-third the value of what was removed. The sixth-largest economy in the world is running on 60% less currency than before. Lines outside banks continue to stretch, and India’s small business lobby says its members are facing an “apocalypse”. But Modi insists he isn’t done.

Initially intended to flush out the “black money” said to be hoarded by elites and criminals, the government now frames demonetisation as the first step in a “cashless” revolution to shift the billions of transactions undertaken each day in India online – and onto the radar of tax authorities.

This week, labour minister Bandaru Dattatreya announced it would soon be mandatory for employers to pay their staff into bank accounts, a hugely ambitious step in a country where as many as 90% of workers are paid in cash.

Already struggling, businessmen such as Sharma are dreading the prospect of more enforced digital migration.


“How do you think I can pay the workers with a cheque if they don’t have a bank account?” he asks, in a tiny office thick with incense smoke. “And it takes three days to clear a cheque. What will they eat during those days?” 

His reasons are not just altruistic. Apart from potentially raising his tax bill – in a country where just 1% pay income tax – paying salaries electronically would mean giving staff Delhi’s mandated minimum wage, currently 9,724 rupees (£114) per month for unskilled workers.
“Right now no one pays the minimum wage that the government decides,” Sharma says. “It will only make things expensive: we will charge the customer.”

Outside his workers’ earshot, he adds: “If someone is doing the work of Rs.2000, why should we pay them Rs.15,000?”

But workers too are wary of the big push online. Tens of millions of Indians have been given zero-deposit bank accounts in the past two years under a government scheme to boost financial inclusion. But even after demonetisation prompted a rush of new deposits, 23% of the accounts still lie empty.

Asha Devi sits spread-legged on the Sharma factory’s floor, using fine scissors to cut loose threads from piles of jeans. A migrant labourer from Bihar state, she has a bank account, but has not been able to access her money since early November.

“I’ve been standing in [bank] queues from 7am until 5.30 in the evening,” she says. “I still cannot withdraw money, and I lose a day of work each time.”

The experience has heightened her scepticism about being paid online. “I am a daily wage worker and I’m not sure if I’ll have a job tomorrow,” she says. “If I get [the cash] in hand, I know I have the money.”

Cash has a cold, hard certainty that still matters to itinerant workers. “There are many factory owners who will make these daily wage workers into fools,” Devi adds. “They’ll tell them they have deposited the money when they haven’t.”

“In theory, it’s a great idea to actually ensure that workers actually get the wage they’ve been promised,” says Aparna, the president of the Indian Federation of Trade Unions, who like many Indians uses only one name.

“The downside is: we can’t do it. It’s a bit like say the government has announced the end to all poverty by tomorrow. It’s not taking into account any of the obvious constraints that even a child in India could see.”

Around one in three Indians still don’t have bank accounts, she says, many of them put off by the need to navigate banking bureaucracy. “For people who don’t have matching identity cards – say, if somebody made a mistake typing their name – then it’s a nightmare,” she says.

Nagendra Sarkar, another of Sharma’s employees, has been trying to open an account in Delhi, but keeps running into an obstacle: he has no fixed address. “The bank people are asking for papers to prove that it’s my account,” he says.

It is one of many points at which the digital salary plan, and the entire “cashless” vision, butt up against the stubborn reality of Indian working life.

“Take an example of rickshaw puller who transfers goods from my shop to the factories,” says Pyarlal, a lace factory owner in Gandhi Nagar.

“For one trip I pay him 100 rupees. Does the government expect me to give him a cheque? I mean, how do I pay him?”

Such a major reform, even one that might benefit workers, can’t be enforced overnight, Aparna says. “You have to do it gradually, let the system be put in place, create the infrastructure first.”

Mihir Sharma, a senior fellow at the Delhi-based Observer Research Foundation, agrees. “The law might well be passed,” he says. “But it would likely be widely ignored, which is the fare of most labour regulation in India.”

Digital payments might be novel, but the ambitious plan is “an old Indian pathology”, he says. “The belief that if you legislate something, it happens.”

Buddha in a Traffic Jam

Management is a ‘dinosaur’ whose time is up

Shubha Sharma in The Hindu

Adman Prahlad Kakkar’s school of entrepreneurship throws participants into the deep right from the word go

Here are some things they will never teach you at Harvard Business School. To begin with, be prepared to throw your Peter Drucker manuals out. Learn from the horses, the sharks, the Himalayas, the tribals of Bastar, at the feet of a spiritual master and the biggest guru of them all: Mr Murphy. He of the Murphy’s Law canon.

Learn that money is not everything. The value you create is just as important to a business. As an entrepreneur, understand your connectedness with all of life.

This unusual curriculum at a Mumbai-based institute of branding and entrepreneurship has been scripted by advertising filmmaker Prahlad Kakkar, a man reputed to break every rule in the book. The Prahlad Kakkar School of Branding and Entrepreneurship offers a one-year course on ad filmmaking and branding as well as a two-year fellowship in business and entrepreneurship. It is run in association with Whistling Woods International, a media and communications institute started by filmmaker Subhash Ghai, and is located in an area that churns out more illusions in a year than you can ever imagine: Film City, Goregaon.

This school is for real, though, and has the hard knocks built in. At the core of its curriculum is fear, and learning to ride it. Fear, says Kakkar, prevents the young and old from taking decisions and responsibility. And failure goes in tandem with fear. Kakkar takes pride in the fact that his curriculum does not have a single success story. All success stories, according to him, are doctored in hindsight. “And therefore they are lies. Failure is something nobody wants to be associated with. It is the truth. So we select, for our teaching, almost success stories.”
He believes in throwing the participants into the deep, from the word go. The course begins with a bootcamp. “You go down to survival level. You’re going to come back with new perceptions, alliances, friends and new teams, all of which will last a lifetime,” says Kakkar.

Flying

The next fear it aims to tackle is that of flying. The course requires participants to jump out of a plane in South Africa, and go on a safari down the Zambezi. They will camp in the dark and survive on meagre rations. The next day, students have to find their way back with the help of a map.

Learning to fall from a horse is also part of the class. The students face an animal that is 10 times stronger than they are. And when they fall, they learn that they never ‘remain fallen’. “If we teach you how to fall, then you lose the fear of falling.”

In the larger scheme of things, either you conquer a challenge through sheer strength or join in – in this case, you merge your being with that of the horse. “But don’t join it and lose your personality. So when you do mergers with other companies, it’s not to destroy them and sell. The whole idea is, is it going to take you 10 years to develop the company of that size, that momentum and those clients, or would you rather buy it over and make it a part of your company?”

And then, there’s the mother of all fears: navigating the ocean. “It’s the fear of the unknown. The only two unknowns left on the planet today are space and the ocean,” says Kakkar. The course requires you to go through a deep-sea diving course in the Andaman Islands, qualify as an internationally-certified diver, and just when you think you’ve conquered it all, you go into a cage and face the great white sharks under water.

Legendary shark

The legendary shark is far more fearsome in our imagination, says Kakkar. “We put you in a safe, controlled environment to overcome your illogical fear of these magnificent creatures. Behind the safety of the cage your mind opens up to the possibilities of their strength, aggression, instinct and beauty and the ability to survive under any circumstances.”

The next big phobia after the sea is snakes. So the curriculum requires you to spend four to five days in a snake farm, handling the species. “There are rules of engagement with them too. Most of the time they’re aggressive because they think you’re aggressive. We call this the reptile sensitisation programme,” says Kakkar.

The stillness quotient comes from the Isha Foundation’s Inner Engineering course. “When you need leadership and you don’t have the stillness that yoga teaches you, you can never ever command respect,” says Kakkar.

And to cap it all, is a tryst with the mountains. Jamling Norgay, who climbed the Everest, will take participants on hiking. “The mountains and the sea are two most humbling experiences. They knock the hell out of your ego. Norgay teaches you rock climbing, leadership and team building,” says Kakkar. The students will also learn how a restaurant runs, because as Kakkar says, Murphy’s Law, which says if something can go wrong it will, is hugely prevalent in a restaurant.

Kakkar himself has dived into various oceans. Besides Genesis Film Production, one of India’s oldest ad film production houses, he runs a scuba diving school and has also been running restaurants. He broke even with his scuba diving school only after 10 years, so “failure” and “falling” aren't new to him either. The curriculum, then, is born out of his experience — notably his 25 years at Genesis.

One of the key things he realised at Genesis was that youngsters need to be trained to own their jobs, and not just do them. No one, MBAs included, are encouraged to own their jobs. They are simply cogs in a larger machine and everybody works them by remote, he says. At Genesis, Kakkar got mostly “misfits” —16-year-olds whose parents used to ‘dump’ them on him — and he had to mould them. “I knew I had to empower them very early to make decisions. I didn’t believe in people who procrastinated.”

Management, he says, is “like a dinosaur” whose time is up. A company like Google is flat, and everyone will need to become like them to survive. Decisions need to be taken at the low end. “Middle management people are afraid because they’ll lose their jobs. Youngsters couldn’t care, because it’s their first job anyway.”

Train young people

The institute will train young people to fight for responsibility, to want to own their jobs, to be territorial about what they do, and take decisions fearlessly. Importantly, it will break one big management practice: there will be no summer training. Instead, participants get to form a management company and take over a sick company from banks. They have one year to turn it around. “If they manage to keep it afloat, let alone turn it around, they will be the most wanted people in any organisation.”

The larger idea is to add value. “They have to be independent and confident, highly motivated and flexible on the ground, understand the difference between value and money. To give back as much as they take. If they add value to whatever they do the money will come.”

With this paradigm shift, it’s only logical that the institute keeps the curriculum flexible. For the first year, students will learn the rules of engagement as they exist – this comprises the theory component of the course, built upon by the practical part. The next year, they will be tested on how they want to change the rules for the future, and this will form the basis of the curriculum for the next batch. He compares the process to a commando’s final test — blindfolded, he takes a sophisticated weapon, dismantles it to its last spring, puts it back together within the timeframe and fires it.

The faculty is drawn from the commando-in-action pool. Apart from Norgay and South African cricketer Gary Kirsten, there’s Dhiraj Rajaram, founder of MuSigma — a frontrunner in the analytics space. The course, which costs close to Rs.13 lakh, is a combination of Kakkar’s passions, whether it’s scuba diving or cooking. At the final graduation dinner, the students will even cook for their parents.

“I’ve never worked a single day in my life. I converted all my hobbies into work,” says the institute’s founder-chairperson. And it looks like some of those are still being stirred. “I’ve suddenly decided to have some more fun,” he says. He plans a line of T-shirts that will be “highly abrasive to everybody.”

“We’re doing a whole line on Papa Pancho (the restaurant he runs). Or on sports. There is also an entire line on Savita Bhabhi, which is all you wanted to know about sex but were too scared to ask.”

Convention can go for a run. Or if you’re afraid of the idea, go ride a horse. Because for Kakkar, this is simply about playing it different. “Somebody says, ‘Where do you think of these ideas? How can you make them a business? I say the business happens. First let’s get a product out that is unique.”

That is perhaps why he is clear his course will create “warriors, not wimps”. From a man who has always dared to pursue his innermost calling, this isn’t surprising.

We need a new language to talk about the economy - With determined effort, the terms in which policies get discussed can be changed.

Tom Clark in The Guardian

The images used by politicians can simplify difficult theories, but they are also being used to mislead us

 

‘The big ideas that might make a difference – targeting higher inflation, printing money, or ploughing public funds into infrastructure – remain too contentious for politicians to voice out loud.’ Illustration: Ben Jennings


Banks trembling, shares tumbling and gathering fears of a new slump. The start of 2016 has been chilling for a global economy that has still to shake off the crisis of 2008. Worse, there is no agreement on what to do should the worst happen again. The big ideas that might make a difference – targeting higher inflation, printing money to give consumers something to spend with, or ploughing serious public funds into infrastructure – remain too contentious for politicians to voice out loud. That is a shame, because history suggests that the words they use matter.

 Of course policies and theories have to pass muster, but just as significant in determining which ones end up being pursued are the language in which they are discussed. A smart metaphor can do more to shift the sense of the possible than the negative interest rates that increasingly desperate central bankers are relying on to alter the mood.

From economics seminar rooms to rage-pumped Donald Trump rallies there is a consensus on one thing: we need to do better next time. The last recession was followed by years of anaemic growth and squeezed pay, and taxpayers saddled with the bill for bailing out the banks. Nobody is going to be thrilled with that mix, but the despair is most acute on the left.

A crisis caused by footloose finance and preceded by decades in which the rich had raced ahead of the rest might have ushered in a new order of stability and fair shares. Instead we have quantitative easing – which puffs up asset prices for the haves and renders homes less affordable for the have-nots – and fiscal austerity, which makes the poor poorer and also leaves them more exposed, by knocking down the old storm defences of the welfare state. In the US, the top 1% grabbed more than half the total growth in the first five years of recovery, while in the UK, George Osborne, a chancellor who saw no choice to imposing the bedroom tax, still found room to trim the tax rate on top incomes.

None of this should have been possible, but it was successfully sold as necessary. To understand how, we must reckon with the deep foundations of economic orthodoxy in our culture, especially the language.

It was, RH Tawney explained, the genius of the Reformation, the ideological revolution that readied the way for capitalism, to reimagine the “natural frailty” of human greed “into a resounding virtue”. Whereas poverty, in medieval religious theory at least, had been next to godliness, early modern thinkers from Hobbes to Smith equated wealth with worth. Trade became respectable, and lending money for profit, which had been sinful usury, became a fruitful outlet for thrift. Credit became interwoven with honour and pride, while debt was shot through with weighty moral obligations.

These are the orthodox financial prejudices that have, with brief exceptions, held sway ever since – in Gladstone’s red box as much as Thatcher’s handbag. When the 2008 economic storm hit (a metaphor which itself does ideological work, implying an act of nature rather than a crisis of human folly) the then shadow chancellor Osborne reached for a tried and tested script. “The cupboard is bare,”he sternly announced, likening bankrupt Britain to an over-indebted home.

Economists have objected to lazy comparisons between domestic and national finances for the best part of a century: governments can tax, grow or even print their way out of debt, three important escape routes not open to individuals. In the 30 years after the second world war there were deficits in all but six. But far from this leaving Britain’s cupboard bare, the national debt dwindled from 250% to 50% of GDP.

So the household metaphor is deeply misleading but it remains irresistible to politicians and powerful with the public. It offers a way to make sense of the otherwise baffling billions in national debt through analogy with everyday experience. Furthermore, explains Jonathan Charteris-Black, an expert on rhetoric at the University of the West of England, it embeds “one of the most widely used of all political images: the nation as family, with the government as responsible parent”. 

It is all so familiar that only restless, malcontent minds will argue back against the claim that There Is No Alternative. But the awkward squad should not lose heart: with determined effort, the terms in which policies get discussed can sometimes be changed. One modest example was the one-off charge made on the utilities soon after Labour came to power in 1997. Few taxes are popular, but by being badged a “windfall levy” this one came to be seen as a fair way to share good fortune that had dropped into the lap of these firms.

Looking further back, Keynes was a master of the disruptive metaphor. He described the “animal spirits” of investors whose rationality he questioned, and dismissed the self-styled “wolves and tiger” of industry as pathetically “domesticated” beasts. He was even credited with livening technical debate about the efficacy of monetary policy in a liquidity trap by talking of “pushing on a piece of string”. Keynesians across the Atlantic, such as Lauchlin Currie, rationalised the deficits of Roosevelt’s New Deal as “pump priming” the economy. The image here is of an old-fashioned well, where you have to pour in a little fluid to clear air from the valve, which then allows you to pump out a far larger volume of water. It had intuitive appeal for the very many Americans who had then been raised on farms, but hydraulics remains a promising source of imagery. Where orthodox economics and the moralising that goes with it emphasises solid “stocks”, assets and liabilities of particular values – a nasty debt, a nice nest egg or indeed an empty cupboard – the real economy operates through continuous “flows” of payment and activity.

John Maynard Keynes with Harry Dexter White in 1946. ‘Keynes was a master of the disruptive metaphor.’ Photograph: Thomas D McAvoy/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Image

The engineer-turned-economist Bill Phillips illustrated this insight by building a marvellous machine that shunted coloured water about to illustrate how the components of national income related to one another. But there is no need to go to the lengths of constructing a physical metaphor to make the point about how the bubbling stream of a healthy economy can wash away the debris of debt. Or, indeed, how decisive interventions can be required to clear blockages in the arteries of finance.

The question endlessly put to the Labour opposition is whether it can put together a “credible, costed package of alternative economic plans”, and doing that will, of course, have to be part of the answer – but only part. For no such programme, whether it stacks up or not, will compete with Osborne’s until the public can be persuaded to talk about the economy differently.

John McDonnell, the shadow chancellor, has put great effort into assembling brainy economists to help refine his detailed commitments, but the results of their deliberations will likely attract even less attention than his one rhetorical flourish to date – “socialism with an iPad”. A creative writing competition might do more to help him prevail in the battles ahead.

Who only sport know

For Marqusee, sport was always a part of the wider world© Mark Ray


Letter from... Washington DC

DAVE ZIRIN in Cricinfo

Dear Cricket Monthly,

The late, great writer Mike Marqusee accomplished something for me that my younger self would not have considered remotely possible: he made cricket fascinating. I first read Marqusee, who passed away in January following a long battle with cancer, in his seminal book Redemption Song, about the political life of Muhammad Ali. I was so overwhelmed by the way Marqusee made the outside world come as alive as the electricity Ali conjured inside the ring, I mined his other works. Many of his columns and books were about this sport, unfamiliar to me, known as cricket. Titles included War Minus the Shooting, which was a deep look at the 1996 World Cup, and Anyone But England.

I did not understand the rules, the references or even the basic language of this newly discovered, globally adored section of the sports world. (For a cricket novice, hearing that someone is "the next Viv Richards" doesn't exactly pack a big punch.) But just as someone who knows nothing of boxing would immediately find Redemption Song riveting, these were books I could not put down. The reason was simple: unlike in the United States, where every conceivable effort is made to bleach the politics out of our games, the political alliances in cricket beg to be understood. In Marqusee, we had a writer not only willing but eager to explain the various colonial roots of the sport and the tensions that manifest and mushroom when a one-time coloniser faces off on the pitch against their one-time colonial ward.

In this regard, Marqusee was our successor to the legendary West Indian socialist CLR James. In a writing life that included numberless Marxist pamphlets and articles, and a masterwork on the Haitian Revolution - The Black Jacobins - James also wrote what Sports Illustrated honoured as one of the 100 greatest sports books of all time: Beyond a Boundary. This 1963 classic, which I read after picking up the works of Marqusee, is like the blueprint for all political sports books that would come in the decades since. James uses cricket as a lens to not only understand colonial relationships in the West Indies but to comprehend what it is that makes the sport so remarkable, so intoxicating and so - heaven forfend - fun in its own right.

Marqusee has sometimes been accused of being doctrinaire - in other words, slathering all of sport in a red political gloss to match an unmoving ideology - but I disagree. I believe it to be far more doctrinaire to pretend that sports somehow operate in a space independent of the outside world. That works for the business of sport, but it fails if we truly want to understand the context of the games we live and love.

This methodology is something that I apply to my own writing. When I was writing from Brazil about the 2014 World Cup, I told the stories of the families that were displaced in the name of sports facilities. I interviewed victims of the police-military build-up in the favelas. I spoke about the social cost I witnessed. Yet I also spoke about the joy of seeing Lionel Messi play in person. I spoke about the electricity in the crowd. If you don't tell this side of sports, it is impossible to explain the other. Similarly, when I have reported on the construction boom of new sports stadiums in the United States, I have found it's impossible to tell that story without looking at it through a political lens. You need to understand the deindustrialisation of US cities and how taxpayer-funded arenas have become a substitute for anything resembling an urban policy in this country.

James and Marqusee are willing to embrace what is beautiful about the games we love while not removing them from their social context. Cricket is in so many ways uniquely suitable for this kind of analysis, but it is also not exclusively able to shoulder that burden. Through any sport we can gain insight into the world. The question in 2015 is more about the courage of the sports journalist to make that leap.

Mike Marqusee and CLR James exemplify that courage. Their greatest lesson for me is not merely that they made cricket matter. It is that they showed how sports matter as well. This is critical especially if we hope to understand just what is happening in the world off the field.

Sincerely,
Dave Zirin

VW is further evidence that global business has become a law unto itself

Will Hutton in The Guardian

A well-functioning capitalism has, and will always need, multiple and powerfully embedded checks and balances – not just on its conduct but on how it defines its purpose. Sometimes those checks are strong, uncompromised unions; sometimes tough regulation; sometimes rigorous external shareholders; sometimes independent non-executive directors and sometimes demanding, empowered consumers. Or a combination of all of the above.

CEOs, company boards and their cheerleaders in a culture which so uncritically wants to be pro-business do not welcome any of this: checks and balances get in the way of “wealth generation”. They are dismissed as the work of liberal interferers and apostles of the nanny state.

Germany’s economy has been a good example of how checks and balances work well. But the existential crisis at Volkswagen following its systematic cheating of US regulators over dangerous diesel exhaust emissions shows that any society or company forgets the truth at its peril.

Volkswagen abused the system of which it was part. It became an autocratic fiefdom in which environmental sustainability took second place to production – an approach apparently backed by the majority family shareholder, with no independent scrutiny by other shareholders, regulators, directors or consumers. Even its unions became co-opted to the cause. Worse, the insiders at the top paid themselves, ever more disproportionately, in bonuses linked to metrics that advanced the fiefdom’s interests. But they never had to answer tough questions about whether the fiefdom was on the right track. The capacity to ignore views other than your own, no external sanction and the temptation for boundless self-enrichment can emerge in any capitalism – and when they do the result is toxic. VW, facing astounding fines and costs, may pay with its very existence.

So why did a company with a great brand, passionate belief in engineering excellence and commitment to building great cars knowingly game the American regulatory system, to suppress measured emissions of nitrogen dioxide to a phenomenal degree? Plainly, there were commercial and production benefits. It could thus sell the diesel engines it manufactured for Europe in the much tougher regulatory environment – at least for diesel – of the US and challenge Toyota as the world’s largest car manufacturer. Directors, with their bonuses geared to growth, employment and profits, could become very rich indeed.
Nor did the risks seem so outlandish. It was an open secret that car emission tests are artificial constructs, with special tyres, lubricants and measures to reduce car weight and air drag all allowed with the connivance of the regulators. To create a special piece of software that closed down nitrogen dioxide emissions during a test must have seemed to the executives involved only an extension of this artificiality. In any case, regulations are for busybodies, especially in areas as controversial as climate change and air quality. The software ruse was merely taking the game of cat and mouse between regulator and car maker to another level.

Former CEO Martin Winterkorn, who resigned last week over the scandal, claims he knew nothing of what was going on, blaming a few unnamed executives for making a catastrophic error of judgment. Winterkorn was the consummate German engineer, knowing every dimension of engine performance; if he did not know how the dirty diesel engines of some popular VW brands were successfully passing US emission tests it was only because he chose not to ask. He did not need to. He had the backing of the Porsche family, who own just over 50% per cent of VW’s shares and who agree to vote as a block; the support too of the state of Saxony with a further 20% per cent –and of union members on the supervisory board. Winterkorn could run a company of 600,000, as Süddeutsche Zeitungremarked, as if it were North Korea.

VW is about production and jobs which trumps concerns about environmental sustainability – a culture than unites unions as much as the Porsche family. And Winterkorn was its standardbearer, leading the charge against the tightening of EU emission regulations – urging weaker targets and a longer timetable. Despite a vast R and D budget, VW is far from a leader in the electrical car or hybrid market. Mr Winterkorn’s bonuses were based on his capacity to deliver production, jobs and profits: environmental sustainability or engaging with wider stakeholders did not get a look-in.

Make your god the share price, as so many British and US companies do, and you create one basket of problems – under-investment, excess deal-making and cutting corners. Abuse the stakeholder system, as did VW, and make your god production on any terms, damning the concerns of outsiders as irrelevant, and your end can be equally grisly. Capitalism, in short, may have boundless creative and innovative energy – but it also has boundless ways to go wrong. Intriguingly, recent work by a group of researchers at Harvard and the London Business School compared 90 American companies that took sustainability seriously with 90 who did not. Over 18 years the 90 committed to sustainability delivered annual financial returns 4.8% higher than the other 90.

In order to deliver sustainability they had to organise themselves around a core purpose, and then embed checks and balances to keep themselves honest. They shaped the way they were governed to open up to outside stakeholders with whom they checked their strategy. Their reporting measures embraced many metrics beyond share price and they rewarded directors for meeting them. Sustainability was a route to more open governance and rounded strategy – and it delivered.

VW did not believe in this any more than the British government does, now steadily rolling back “green crap” and efforts to promote sustainability as “anti-enterprise”. Transport secretary Patrick McLoughlin, under fire for doing nothing when he was sent the same damning report as the Americans 11 months ago, will have known that in Tory terms there would be no rewards for being cast as a bleeding-heart green. Enterprise is about getting regulators off car-makers’ backs and disempowering meddling stakeholders, especially trade unions.

Yet nor is it right in Corbynesque style to damn capitalism with a reflex call for stronger unions and public ownership. The government of Saxony and union members of VW’s supervisory board proved ineffective whistleblowers. They were not sufficiently interested in human betterment or the fatal consequences of excess nitrogen dioxide emissions. They just wanted jobs at any cost. Checks and balances alone don’t work: they have to be animated by an honest acceptance of mutual responsibility between firms and society – a moral ethic that must inform unions, regulators, shareholders and systems of corporate governance alike. VW lost the plot. But so, in a more profound way, have both the apologists and critics of western capitalism.

Syriza stood up to the money men – the UK left must do the same

Just imagine: if Labour wasn’t so in thrall to economic bodies and their predictions, we might have a radical left of our own

• 
• • Zoe Williams
  • The Guardian, Sunday 25 January 2015 18.57 GMT

‘A leftwing party that cannot face down the risks raised by investors will never be credible.’ Illustration: Robert G Fresson

‘When you study the successful experiences of transformative movements,” said Pablo Iglesias of Podemos, the new party of the Spanish left, “you realise that the key to success is to achieve a connection between the reality you have diagnosed and what the majority actually feels.”

This statement is more than bleedin’ obvious. It is crying out for a response that includes an expletive and Sherlock Holmes. Yet that’s what Iglesias has built: a successful, transformative movement. And in Greece, that’s what Syriza has built too, as demonstrated on Sunday, when a country that only a few years ago saw the rise of the fascist Golden Dawn party, went to the polls with a majority supporting the radical left. That, to a degree, is also what the yes campaign built in Scotland. So we know it is possible, to diagnose a reality that so many people actually feel. It should be possible, also, to decipher how these movements did it.

What they and others like them – the successful German campaign for free higher education, for example – have in common, first of all, is that they reject the prevailing economic verities. Conventional political debate in the UK has parties thrashing out positions, which they then justify and defend with reference to the International Monetary Fund or the Office for Budget Responsibility or the Bank of England. Economic projections, or rather the bodies who make them, stand as the final authority on what constitutes a good decision.

Grant Shapps, the Tory party chairman, provided a bland but elegant example of this on Sunday, when touting the election message – “Conservatives or chaos” – around the BBC. “The IMF says we can be the biggest economy in Europe in 15 years, but only if we stay on the road to growth.” Here, the IMF is presented as authority, godhead and visionary. It can see into the future. It cannot be questioned. In this worldview, party differences are simply practical, problem-solving ones: who can best do what the IMF wants? Who understands growth and how to deliver it? It is ironic that this has become the burning question for democracy, when history shows that growth is pretty unrelated to which party is in government.

Politicians are cast in a fairly minor role by this rationale. They take on a sort of valet position, there to arrange things the way the economy needs them. It is extremely difficult as this kind of politician to make any diagnosis of reality that people might recognise. The last thing you want to do when your hands are tied is to describe a situation – low wages for instance, high housing costs, unliveable lives – that demands action.

One of the fascinating things about the Greek election campaign has been listening to Syriza candidates reply to questions about what to do if the European Central Bank (ECB) becomes angry, or the markets panic. Miranda Xafa, a former IMF board member and supporter of the centrist Potami party, said in an emollient voice (in a Radio 5 Live interview), “I am sure the ECB will be patient.” The gulf between Syriza and all the other parties was suddenly, dramatically clear: the leftwing party no longer thinks of the ECB as its dad. It does not seek its patience. It will not take its terms at any price. This is the necessary precondition for credible leftism: a rejection of the bodies, mostly central banks and attendant forecasting agencies, currently in charge. You can’t build a new game to their rules.

The backstop position for centrists (I call it the centre, but many of its assumptions are what we once called hard right) is that any change invites instability, which is enough to undo the prosperity that all the sensible people are working towards. Whatever happens, money must not be frightened away; investors must not be threatened; job creators must remain secure. During the Scottish referendum this argument took the form of CEOs, standing in front of HQs, proclaiming their intention to leave Scotland forever should it fall into the wrong hands. A leftwing party that cannot face down the risks raised by investors will never be able to make a believable case for anything; their argument is a tinderbox, ready to ignite at the first fiery word from Alan Sugar.

PFI is a classic example of the failings of the UK left: every party agrees these contracts were a rip-off – the coalition is still signing them, while fulminating about Labour’s track record; Labour thinks radicalism means admitting that perhaps they weren’t a good idea. Nigel Farage (again on Radio 5) said to my face that Ukip would “get hospitals out from under the yoke of PFI”. This means tearing up the contracts, doesn’t it? What else could it mean? There is only one other group in the country with an idea so radical, and that’s The People vs PFI.

Why would Labour never dare? Because when people call it anti-business, it hasn’t got the apparatus to cope. Farage dares partly, I think, because he has no intention of carrying it out; but also because, in a bizarre twist to the new multiparty politics, Ukip is often saying something similar to the Greens: business interests aren’t everything. That’s a reality that the majority feels, but that you never hear described; that’s how the Greens overtook the Liberal Democrats, while all eyes were on Ukip.

Back in Greece, exit polls suggest Syriza is on course to form a majority government. We don’t yet know whether or not this spells Grexit, or what it all means for the eurozone. But we do now know, before anybody starts diagnosing anything, the most important thing about building a successful transformative movement: that it is possible. Eminently.

Our ‘impartial’ broadcasters have become mouthpieces of the elite

If you think the news is balanced, think again. Journalists who should challenge power are doing its dirty work

• 
• • George Monbiot
  • The Guardian, Tuesday 20 January 2015 20.07 GMT

'Every weekday morning the BBC's Today programme grovels to business leaders.' Photograph: Graeme Robertson

When people say they have no politics, it means that their politics aligns with the status quo. None of us are unbiased, none removed from the question of power. We are social creatures who absorb the outlook and opinions of those with whom we associate, and unconsciously echo them. Objectivity is impossible.

The illusion of neutrality is one of the reasons for the rotten state of journalism, as those who might have been expected to hold power to account drift thoughtlessly into its arms. But until I came across the scandal currently erupting in Canada, I hadn’t understood just how quickly standards are falling.

In 2013 reporters at CBC, Canada’s equivalent of the BBC, broke a major story. They discovered that RBC – Royal Bank of Canada – had done something cruel and unusual even by banking standards. It was obliging junior staff to train a group of temporary foreign workers, who would then be given the staff’s jobs. Just after the first report was aired, according to the website Canadaland, something odd happened: journalists preparing to expand on the investigation were summoned to a conference call with Amanda Lang, CBC’s senior business correspondent and a star presenter. The reporters she spoke to say she repeatedly attempted to scuttle the story, dismissing it as trivial and dull.

They were astonished. But not half as astonished as when they discovered the following, unpublished facts. First, that Lang had spoken at a series of events run or sponsored by RBC – for which she appears, on one occasion, to have been paid around 15,000 Canadian dollars. Second, that she was booked to speak at an event sponsored by the outsourcing company the bank had hired to implement the cruel practice exposed by her colleagues. Third, that her partner is a board member at RBC.

Lang then interviewed the bank’s chief executive on her own show. When he dismissed the story as unfair and misleading, she did not challenge him. That evening she uncritically repeated his talking points on CBC’s main current affairs programme. Her interests, again, were not revealed. Then she wrote a comment article for the Globe and Mail newspaper suggesting that her colleagues’ story arose from an outdated suspicion of business, was dangerous to Canada’s interests, and was nothing but “a sideshow”. Here’s what she said about the bank’s employment practices: “It’s called capitalism, and it isn’t a dirty word.”

Canadaland, which exposed Lang’s conflicts last week, found that other journalists at the broadcaster were furious, but too frightened to speak on the record. But after CBC tried to dismiss the scandal as “half-truths based on anonymous sources”, Kathy Tomlinson, the reporter who had broken the story about the bank, bravely spoke publicly to the website. The following morning, staff in her office arrived to find this message spelt out in magnets on their fridge: “Jesse Brown snitches get stitches”. Jesse Brown is Canadaland’s founder.

CBC refused to answer my questions, and I have not had a response from Lang. It amazes me that she remains employed by CBC, which has so far done nothing but bluster and berate its critics.

This is grotesque. But it’s symptomatic of a much wider problem in journalism: those who are supposed to scrutinise the financial and political elite are embedded within it. Many belong to a service-sector aristocracy, wedded metaphorically (sometimes literally) to finance. Often unwittingly, they amplify the voices of the elite, while muffling those raised against it.

A study by academics at the Cardiff School of Journalism examined the BBC Today programme’s reporting of the bank bailouts in 2008. It discovered that the contributors it chose were “almost completely dominated by stockbrokers, investment bankers, hedge fund managers and other City voices. Civil society voices or commentators who questioned the benefits of having such a large finance sector were almost completely absent from coverage.” The financiers who had caused the crisis were asked to interpret it.

The same goes for discussions about the deficit and the perceived need for austerity. The debate has been dominated by political and economic elites, while alternative voices – arguing that the crisis has been exaggerated, or that instead of cuts, the government should respond with Keynesian spending programmes or taxes on financial transactions, wealth or land – have scarcely been heard. Those priorities have changed your life: the BBC helped to shape the political consensus under which so many are now suffering.

The BBC’s business reporting breaks its editorial guidelines every day by failing to provide alternative viewpoints. Every weekday morning, the Today programme grovels to business leaders for 10 minutes. It might occasionally challenge them on the value or viability of their companies, but hardly ever on their ethics. Corporate critics are shut out of its business coverage – and almost all the rest.

On BBC News at Six, the Cardiff researchers found, business representatives outnumbered trade union representatives by 19 to one. “The BBC tends to reproduce a Conservative, Eurosceptic, pro-business version of the world,” the study said. This, remember, is where people turn when they don’t trust the corporate press.

While the way in which the media handle the stories that are covered is bad enough, the absence of coverage is even worse. If an issue does not divide the main political parties, it vanishes from view, though the parties now disagree on hardly anything. Another study reveals a near total collapse of environmental coverage on ITV and BBC news: it declined from 2.5% (ITV) and 1.6% (BBC) of total airtime in 2007 to, respectively, 0.2% and 0.3% in 2014. There were as many news stories on these outlets about Madeleine McCann in 2014 – seven years after her disappearance – as there were about all environmental issues put together.

Those entrusted to challenge power are the loyalists of power. They rage against social media and people such as Russell Brand, without seeing that the popularity of alternatives is a response to their own failures: their failure to expose the claims of the haut monde, their failure to enlist a diversity of opinion, their failure to permit the audience to see that another world is possible. If even the public sector broadcasters parrot the talking points of the elite, what hope is there for informed democratic choice?

Business giants walk off with our billions. No more something for nothing

The state has the powers to make business serve us better. A north London borough is leading the way

•  
• • Aditya Chakrabortty
  • The Guardian, Tuesday 9 December 2014

Illustration by Matt Kenyon

A few weeks ago, I had the disconcerting experience of sitting in a smart room full of clever people who sincerely held a silly idea. We had been gathered together by a big charity to discuss its research on inequality, and talk naturally turned to Britain’s free-market economy. Some praised the free market, others longed to reform it: all agreed it was central to the UK being one of the most unequal economies in the rich world.

The famous political philosopher worried whether the free market was eroding our ethics; the gentle wonk from a rightwing thinktank thought that tempering it would turn a dynamic economy into an arthritic one. The British people now saw themselves as free-marketeers, argued the strategist from a giant consultancy; try telling that to the Occupy protesters in Parliament Square, retorted the environmentalist at his elbow.

Economists, politicians, academics: all well read and well meaning. But what was this free market they each took for granted? It had nothing to do with the tap water in our glasses – that came from the local monopoly, Thames Water. Nor did it apply to the trains that delivered some of my fellow diners – many rail services face no direct competition.

And what about the lights and heating? Nearly three decades on from the start of liberalisation, 90% of the gas and electricity piped into our homes is still controlled by an oligopoly of six huge suppliers who contend for our custom by trying to bamboozle us with their tariffs.

Few conceits are more cherished by our political classes than the notion that this is a free-market economy. To the right it is what makes Britain great. For the left it is what they are up against. And for the rich it is what justifies their huge pay packets: after all, they have earned it.

When asked for his view of western civilisation, Gandhi said he thought it would be a very good idea. I feel much the same way about the free market: I’m genuinely curious to see what such a mythical beast looks like. But that term, however widely accepted and advertised, has little to do with today’s Britain. The economy most of us experience – everything from who collects our bins, to how we commute to work, to that new school attended by the kids – is often not a free market at all. Instead, it’s a bog of privately run monopolies; of public projects and services outsourced to businesses for years, even decades, at a time; and massive taxpayer subsidies handed to the corporate sector with fewer questions asked than of disabled people wondering where their living allowance has gone.

Grasp that, and the question of how to tame corporate power becomes easier to answer. If corporations rely on the public for a sizeable chunk of their revenues and power, then we should start asking what they are doing for us in return. Do businesses deserve the privileges given them by society?

You almost never hear this question from any politician. What you get instead is the kind of cant served up by David Cameron at last year’s Conservative conference: “It’s not the government that creates jobs. It’s businesses that get wages in people’s pockets, food on their tables, hope for their families and success for our country.”

Really? Cameron can’t be looking at the same economy as the rest of us. In Britain businesses take £85bn a year from the public in grants, subsidies, insurance schemes, preferential credit and government services. That’s the corporate welfare bill as totted up by Kevin Farnsworth, senior lecturer in social policy at the University of York, and he admits it’s on the conservative side. Add on the various subsidies for too-big-to-fail banks and you’re well in excess of a hundred billion. Nor does he include the most fundamental privilege society affords the investors in a business such as Tesco: that of limited liability, which means they only stand to lose the value of their shares, and no more. We could argue for limited liability, but let’s not pretend it’s anything less than a substantial underwriting of shareholder enterprises.

If it is business that gives, and government that takes, then how does Cameron account for privatisation and outsourcing? Take the farce that is the rail industry, where taxpayers stump up billions for the infrastructure and the upgrades, while tycoons such as Richard Branson and Brian Souter put in hardly any investment, and always have the option in hard times of walking away. That is what GNER did with the East coast mainline that the public had to step in and save – and which the government has justawarded to Branson and Souter.

The same wacky logic of low risk, low investment applies in outsourcing. G4S can’t provide the security for the Olympics, Serco can’t lay on the staff for an out-of-hours GP service in Cornwall – but never mind, both still get to bid and win more public sector work. Under this coalition the money spent on outsourcing has doubled to £88bn,creating a whole string of what Margaret Hodge at the public accounts committee calls “quasi-monopolies”.

The fashionable thing to say is that in a globalised economy states can’t keep up with businesses. That is to get the relationship the wrong way round. The reality is that states often give businesses their revenues and so their power. More than that: markets are created by states, who provide the infrastructure, the transports and the rule of law.

So let’s start asking businesses what they’ve done for us recently. If the state is going to subsidise the rail industry (and we will, until it’s eventually renationalised), ministers should insist not just on an intermittently punctual train service and a token contribution to the Treasury, but also better pay and conditions for staff, decent training, and a commitment to sourcing equipment in Britain.

This is what the Centre for Research in Socio-Cultural Change terms “social licensing” in its latest book, The End of the Experiment. The academics’ suggestions have been followed by one council in north London, Enfield. Officers and researchers sat down and worked out how much money its 300,000 residents sent the way of big businesses: 11 Tesco stores, for instance, provided the PLC with around £8m of its annual profit. And what did the area get back? Not very much, but the highlight included a community toilet scheme and some charitable giving from the supermarket’s corporate social responsibility department.

And so the council has started asking big businesses, such as utility firms, what they had done for Enfield recently. They’ve begun hassling banks to lend more to local businesses, the likes of British Gas to give more of their local work to local contractors with local staff – or run the risk of being named and shamed in the local press. It may sound small, but imagine if the same approach were taken by Holyrood or Cardiff – or by Westminster.