A Level Economics Essay 7: Macroeconomic Objectives

Explain why it may be difficult for governments to achieve their macroeconomic policy objectives at the same time.

When governments set macroeconomic policy objectives, such as controlling inflation, promoting economic growth, and reducing unemployment, it can be challenging to achieve all these goals simultaneously. There are several reasons why this is the case:

1. Trade-Offs: Macroeconomic objectives often involve trade-offs, where pursuing one objective may come at the expense of another. For example, implementing expansionary fiscal policies, such as increasing government spending or cutting taxes to stimulate economic growth, can put upward pressure on inflation. On the other hand, pursuing contractionary policies, like reducing government spending or increasing taxes to curb inflation, may dampen economic growth and impact employment levels. Governments need to make difficult choices to strike a balance between conflicting objectives.

2. Time Lags: The impact of macroeconomic policies on the economy can take time to materialize. There are often lags between the implementation of policies and their effects on variables like inflation, economic growth, and unemployment. These time lags make it challenging to fine-tune policies to achieve multiple objectives simultaneously. By the time the impact of one policy becomes evident, the economic conditions or priorities may have shifted, requiring a reassessment of policy measures.

3. External Factors: Macroeconomic objectives can be influenced by external factors beyond the government's control. Global economic conditions, exchange rates, geopolitical events, and changes in commodity prices can all affect a country's macroeconomic performance. For instance, an unexpected rise in oil prices can increase production costs and inflation, making it harder for the government to achieve both price stability and economic growth simultaneously.

4. Conflicting Policy Tools: Different macroeconomic objectives often require the use of different policy tools. For example, to stimulate economic growth, governments may implement expansionary fiscal policies, such as tax cuts or increased government spending. However, these policies can put upward pressure on inflation. To counteract inflation, policymakers may need to implement contractionary monetary policies, such as raising interest rates. But higher interest rates can also slow down economic growth. It can be challenging to coordinate and reconcile the use of various policy tools to achieve multiple objectives simultaneously.

5. Structural Challenges: Macroeconomic objectives can be influenced by underlying structural challenges in an economy. For instance, reducing unemployment may require addressing issues such as skill mismatches, labor market rigidities, or structural changes due to technological advancements. These structural challenges often require long-term and targeted policies beyond the scope of short-term macroeconomic measures.

To illustrate the difficulties in achieving macroeconomic policy objectives simultaneously, a relevant diagram is the Phillips curve. The Phillips curve depicts the relationship between inflation and unemployment. It suggests that there is a trade-off between these two variables in the short run, meaning that policymakers face a challenge in reducing both inflation and unemployment simultaneously.

Overall, achieving multiple macroeconomic objectives at the same time is a complex task for governments. Trade-offs, time lags, external factors, conflicting policy tools, and structural challenges all contribute to the difficulty. Policymakers need to carefully analyze and prioritize objectives based on the prevailing economic conditions and make informed decisions that consider the long-term implications of their policies.

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Science is political

People who say “science is political” usually aren’t just stating facts - they’re trying to push something on you. Don’t let them

Stuart Ritchie
 

The statue of David Hume on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile


Imagine you heard a scientist saying the following:


I’m being paid massive consultation fees by a pharmaceutical company who want the results of my research to turn out in one specific way. And that’s a good thing. I’m proud of my conflicts of interest. I tell all my students that they should have conflicts if possible. On social media, I regularly post about how science is inevitably conflicted in one way or another, and how anyone criticising me for my conflicts is simply hopelessly naive.

I hope this would at least cause you to raise an eyebrow. And that’s because, whereas this scientist is right that conflicts of interest of some kind are probably inevitable, conflicts are a bad thing.

We all know how biases can affect scientists: failing to publish studies that don’t go their way; running or reporting the stats in ways that push the results in a favoured direction; harshly critiquing experiments they don’t like while letting equally-bad, but more sympathetic, ones off the hook. Insofar as a conflict of interest makes any of these (often unconscious) biases more likely, it’s not something to be proud of.

And that’s why we report conflicts of interest in scientific papers - both because it helps the reader understand where a particular study is coming from, and because it would be embarrassing if someone found out after the fact if nothing had been said. We also take steps to ensure that our conflicts don’t affect our research - we do double-blinding; we do replications; we post our data online; we try and show the world that the results would’ve been the results, regardless of what we were being paid by Big Pharma.

We can also all agree that conflicts of interest aren’t just financial. They can be personal - maybe you’re married to someone who would benefit if your results turn out a particular way. They can be reputational - maybe you’re the world’s no.1 proponent of Theory X, and would lose prestige if the results of this study didn’t support it. And they can be political - you can have a view of the world that comports with the research turning out one way, but not another.

When it comes to political conflicts of interest, I’ve noticed something very strange. I’ve noticed that, instead of treating them like other kinds of conflicts—where you put your hands up and admit to them but then do your best to make sure they don’t influence your science—scientists sometimes revel in political conflicts. Like the fictional conflicted scientist quoted above, they ostentatiously tell us that they’re being political and they don’t care: “don’t you know”, they scoff, “that science and politics are inseparable?”

Indeed, this phrase—“Science and Politics are Inseparable”—was the title of a Nature editorial in 2020, and it’s not hard to find other examples in popular-science publications:


Science Has Always Been Inseparable From Politics (Scientific American)


News Flash: Science Has Always Been Political (American Scientist)


Science Is Political (Chemistry World)


Yes, Science Is Political (Scientific American)

When Nature, Science, the New England Journal of Medicine, and Scientific American all either strongly criticised the Trump administration, or explicitly endorsed Joe Biden for US President during the 2020 election campaign, they were met with surprise from many who found it unsettling to see scientific publications so openly engaging in politics. The response from their defenders? “Don’t you know science is political?”.

What does “science is political” mean?

Here’s a (non-exhaustive) list of what people might mean when they say “science is political”:

The things scientists choose to study can be influenced by their political views of what’s important;

The way scientists interpret data from scientific research can often be in line with their pre-existing political views;

Since scientists are human, it’s impossible for them to be totally objective - anything they do is always going to be tainted by political views and assumptions;

It’s easy for scientists to forget that human subjectivity influences a great many aspects of science - even things like algorithms which might seem objective but often recapitulate the biases of their human creators;

Even the choice to use science—as opposed to some other way of knowing—in the first place is influenced by our political and cultural perspective;

A lot of science is funded by the taxpayer, via governments, which are run by political parties who set the agenda. Non-governmental funders of science can also have their own political agendas;

People of different political persuasions hold predictable views on controversial scientific topics (e.g. global warming, COVID vaccines, nuclear power, and so on);

Politicians, or those engaged in political debate, regularly use “science” to back up their points of view in a cynical, disingenuous way, often by cherry-picking studies or relying on any old thing that supports them, regardless of its quality.

There’s no argument from me about any of those points. These are all absolutely true. I wrote a whole book about how biases, some of them political, can dramatically affect research in all sorts of ways. But these are just factual statements - and I don’t think the people who always tell you that “science is political” are just idly chatting sociology-of-science for the fun of it. They want to make one of two points.

1. The argument from inevitability

The first point they might be making is what we might call the argument from inevitability. “There’s no way around it. You’re being naive if you think you could stop science from being political. It’s arrogance in the highest degree to think that you are somehow being ‘objective’, and aren’t a slave to your biases.”

But this is a weirdly black-and-white view. It’s not just that something “is political” (say, a piece of research done by the Pro-Life Campaign Against Abortion which concludes that the science proves human life starts at conception) or “is not political” (say, a piece of research on climate change run by Martians who have no idea about Earth politics). There are all sorts of shades of grey - and our job is to get as close to the “not political” end as possible, even in the knowledge that we might never get fully get there.

Indeed, there’s a weird reverse-arrogance in the argument from inevitability. As noted by Scott Alexander at Astral Codex Ten:

Talking about the impossibility of true rationality or objectivity might feel humble - you're admitting you can't do this difficult thing. But analyzed more carefully, it becomes really arrogant. You're admitting there are people worse than you - Alex Jones, the fossil fuel lobby, etc. You're just saying it's impossible to do better. You personally - or maybe your society, or some existing group who you trust - are butting up against the light speed limit of rationality and objectivity.

Let’s restate this using a scientific example. We can all agree that Trofim Lysenko’s Soviet agriculture is among the worst examples of politicised science in history - a whole pseudoscientific ideology that denied the basic realities of evolution and genetic transmission, and replaced them with techniques based on discredited ideas like the “inheritance of acquired characteristics”, helping to exacerbate famines that killed millions in the Soviet Union and China. That’s pretty much as bad as politicised science gets (you can bet your bottom ruble, by the way, that Lysenko himself thought that “science is political”).

If you think you’re better than Lysenko in terms of keeping politics out of your science (and let’s face it, you totally do think this), you’re already agreeing that there are gradations. And if you agree that there are gradations, it would be daft—or highly conceited—to think that nobody could ever to do a better job than you. Thus, you probably do agree that we could always try and improve our level of objectivity in science.

(By the way, by “objectivity” I mean scientific results that would look the same regardless of the observer, so long as that observer had the right level of training and/or equipment to see them. In the case of Lysenkoism, the “science” was highly idiosyncratic to Lysenko - things could’ve been entirely different if we ran the tape of history again with Lysenko removed. In the case of, say, the double-helix structure of DNA, we could be pretty confident that, were there to have been no Watson or Crick or Franklin or Wilkins, someone would’ve eventually still made that same discovery).

We already have a system that attempts to improve objectivity. The whole edifice of scientific review and publication—heck, the whole edifice of doing experiments, as opposed to just relying on your gut instinct—is an attempt to infuse some degree of objectivity into the process of discovering stuff about the world. I think that system of review and publication is a million miles from perfect (again, I wrote a book about this), but that’s just another way of saying: “the objectivity of the system could be improved”.

And it could be. If scientists shared all their code and data by default, the process would be a little more objective. If scientists publicly pre-registered their hypotheses before they looked at the data, the process would be a little more objective. If science funders used lotteries to award grant funding, the process would be a little more objective. And so on. In each of these cases—none of which give us perfect objectivity, of course, but which just inch us a little closer to it—we’d also move further away from a world where scientists’ subjective views, political or otherwise, influenced their science.

The fact that we can’t get rid of those subjective views altogether can serve a useful purpose: there’s a good argument for having a pluralist setup where people of all different views and perspectives and backgrounds contribute to the general scientific “commons”, and in doing so help debate, test, and refine each other’s ideas. But that’s still not an argument against each of those different people trying to be as objective as they can, within their own set of inevitable, human limitations.

After a decade of discussion about the replication crisis, open science, and all the ways we could reform the way we do research, we’re more aware than ever of how biases can distort things - but also how we can improve the system. So throwing up our hands and saying “science is always political! There’s nothing we can do!” is the very last thing we want to be telling aspiring scientists, who should be using and developing all these new techniques to improve their objectivity.

Not only is the argument from inevitability mistaken. Not only is it black-and-white thinking. It’s also cheems. Even if we can’t be perfect, it’s possible to be better - and that’s the kind of progressive message that all new scientists need to hear.


2. The activist’s argument

The second point that people might be making when they say that “science is political” is what we could call the activist’s argument. “The fact that science is political isn’t just an inevitability, but it’s good. We should all be using our science to make the world a better place (according to my political views), and to the extent that people are using science to make the world worse (according to my political views), we should stop them. All scientists should be political activists (who agree with my political views)”.

If my opening example of the scientist who’s proud of his or her conflict of interest moved you at all, you already have antibodies to this idea. You should ask what the difference is between a financial conflict of interest and an ideological one.

The activist’s argument is often invoked in response to other people politicising science. For example, after the recent mass shooting in Buffalo, New York, it was discovered that the white nationalist gunman had written a manifesto that referenced some papers from population- and behaviour-genetics research. This led to explicit calls to make genetics more political in the opposite direction (including banning some forms of research that are deemed too controversial). An article in WIRED argued that, in the wake of the killings:

…scientists can no longer justify silence in the name of objectivity or use the escape tactic of “leaving politics out of science.”

This argument—which is effectively stating that two wrongs do make a right—seems terribly misguided to me. If you think it’s bad that politics are being injected into science, it’s jarringly nonsensical to argue that “leaving politics out of science” is a bad thing. Isn’t the more obvious conclusion that we should endeavour to lessen the influence of politics and ideology on science across the board? If you think it’s bad when other people do it, you should think it’s bad when you do it yourself.

Of course, a lot of people don’t think it’s bad - they only think it’s bad when their opponents do it. They want to push their own political agenda and just happen to be working in science (witness all the biologists—why is it always biologists?—who advertise their socialism, or even include a little hammer and sickle, in their Twitter bio; or on the other hand, witness all the people complaining about “wokeness” invading science who don’t bat an eyelid when right-wingers push unscientific views about COVID or climate change). There’s probably little I can do to argue round anyone who is happy to mix up their politics and their science in this way.

But there are a lot of well-meaning, otherwise non-ideological people who use the argument too. At best, by repeating “science is political” like a mantra, they’re just engaging in the usual social conformism that we all do to some extent. At worst, they’re providing active cover for those who want to politicise science (“everyone says science is inevitably political, so why can’t I insert my ideology?”).

If you explicitly encourage scientists to be biased in a particular direction, don’t be surprised if you start getting biased results. We all know that publication bias and p-hacking occur when scientists care more about the results of a scientific study than the quality of its methods. Do we think that telling scientists that it’s okay to be ideological when doing research would make this better, or worse?

If you encourage scientists to focus on the “greater good” of their political ideology rather than the science itself, don’t be surprised if the incentives change. Don’t be surprised if they get sloppy - what are a few mistakes if it all goes toward making the world a better place? And don’t be surprised if some of them break the rules - I’ve heard enough stories of scientific fraudsters who had a strong, pre-existing belief in their theory, and after they couldn’t see it in the results from their experiment, proceeded to give the numbers a little “push” in the “right” direction. Do we think a similar dynamic is more, or less likely to evolve if we tell people it’s good to put their ideology first?

If we encourage scientists to bring their political ideology to the lab, do we think groupthink—a very common human problem which in at least some scientific fields seems to have stifled debate and held back progress—will get better, or worse?

And finally, think about the effect on people who aren’t scientists, but who read or rely on its results. Scientists loudly and explicitly endorsing political positions certainly isn’t going to help those on the opposite side of the political aisle to take science more seriously (there’s some polling evidence for this). Not only that, but the suggestion that some results might be being covered up for political reasons can be perfect tinder for conspiracy theories (remember what happened during the Climategate scandal).

A better way

When scientific research is misappropriated for political ends, either by extremists or by more mainstream figures, the answer isn’t to drop all attempts at objectivity. The answer is to get as far away from politics as we can. Instead of saying “science is political - get over it”, we could say:

We’ll redouble our efforts to make our results transparent and our interpretations clear - we’ll ensure that we explain in detail why the conclusions being drawn by political actors aren’t justified based on the evidence;

We’ll make sure that what we think are incorrect interpretations are clearly described and refuted;

We’ll do the scientific equivalent of putting our results in a blind trust, by using the kinds of practices discussed above (open data, pre-registration, code sharing) and others, to lessen the effect of our pre-existing views and ensure that others can easily check our results;

We’ll tighten up processes like peer-review so that there’s an even more rigorous quality filter on new scientific papers. If they’re subjected to more scrutiny, any bad or incorrect results that are the focus of political worries should be more likely to fall by the wayside;

We’ll expand our definition of a conflict of interest, and be more open about when our personal politics, affiliations, memberships, religious beliefs, employments, relationships, commitments, previous statements, diets, hobbies, or anything else relevant might influence the way we do our research;

We’ll stop broadcasting the idea that it’s good to be ideological in science, and in fact we’ll make being ostentatiously ideological about one’s results at least as shameful as p-hacking, or publishing a paper with a glaring typo in the title;

We’ll restate our commitment to open inquiry and academic freedom, making sure that we keep an open—though highly critical and sceptical—mind when assessing anyone’s scientific claims.

To repeat: I don’t think it’s possible to fully remove politics from science. But it’s not all-or-nothing - the point is to get as close to non-political science as we can. By following some of the above steps (and I’m sure you can think of many other ways - another one that’s been discussed is the idea of adversarial collaboration), we can combat misrepresentation of research by using high-quality research of our own.

This is all rather like the discussion of the “Mertonian norms” of science, which are supposed to be the ethos of the whole activity - universalism (no matter who says it, we evaluate a claim the same way), communalism (we share results and methods around the community), organised scepticism (we constantly subject all results to unforgiving scrutiny), and, most relevant to our discussion here, disinterestedness (scientists don’t have a stake in their results turning out one way or another). These aren’t necessarily descriptions of how science is right now, but they’re aspirational - we should do our best to organise the system so it leans towards them. The idea that we should loudly and proudly bring in our political ideologies does violence to these already-fragile norms.

And we really should aspire to disinterestedness. The ideal scientist shouldn’t care whether an hypothesis comes out one way or another. And since, because they’re human beings, the vast majority of them really do, we should set the system up so their views are kept at arms’ length from the results. At the same time, we should remind ourselves of some very basic philosophy via David Hume in 1739: “is” and “ought” questions are different things. The “is” answers we get from science don’t necessarily tell us what we “ought” to to, and just as importantly, the “ought” beliefs from our moral and political philosophy don’t tell us how the world “is”. To think otherwise is to make a category error.

Or as Tom Chivers put it, somewhat more recently:

Finding out whether the Earth revolves around the Sun is a different kind of question from asking whether humans have equal moral value. One is a question of fact about the world as it is; to answer it, you have to go out into the world and look. The other is a question of our moral system, and the answer comes from within.

The inspiring, resounding peroration

The view that scientists should do their best to be as objective as possible is a boring, default, commonly-believed, run-of-the-mill opinion. It also happens to be correct.

The problem with boring, default, commonly-believed, run-of-the-mill opinions is that you don’t get a thrill from reciting them or shocking people with their counterintuitiveness. The fire that powers so much online activism just isn’t there, and the whole thing comes across as rather dull. So in an attempt to remedy that, let me try and make my position sound as exciting as possible. Ahem:

Science is political - but that’s a bad thing! We must RESIST attempts to make our science less objective! We must PUSH BACK against attempts to insert ideology—any ideology—into our science! We must STRIVE to be as apolitical as we possibly can be! I know that I’m a human being with my own biases, and so are you - but objective science is humanity’s best tool for overcoming those biases, and arriving at SHARED KNOWLEDGE. We can do better - TOGETHER.

Hmm. I’m not much of a speech-writer, and that felt a little bit embarrassing. But remember well that cringey feeling: that’s exactly how you should feel the next time someone tells you—with a clear, yet unspoken, agenda—that “science is political”.

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'Cleaning up Indian cricket is a lost cause' Ramachandra Guha

Social historian Ramachandra Guha can easily cast a spell on the listener with his deep knowledge and his spontaneity. Guha, who was briefly, in 2017, a member of the Committee of Administrators appointed by the Supreme Court of India to oversee reforms in the BCCI, has written a cricket memoir, The Commonwealth of Cricket that traces his relationship with the sport from the time he was four. He says it will be his last cricket book, but as he reveals in the following interview, he will continue his love affair with the game - despite the way it is administered in India. Courtesy Cricinfo

This is your first cricket book in nearly two decades, after A Corner of the Foreign Field was published in 2002. Why did you decide to write it now?
Two things. One, I wanted to pay tribute to my uncle Dorai, my first cricketing mentor and an exemplary coach and lover of the game, who is still active at the age of 84, running his club. I knew at some stage I would like to pay tribute to him.

Paying tribute to people I admire, respect, have been influenced by, is something I have done through my writing career. I have written about environmentalists, scholars, biographers, civil liberties activists. So I also wanted to write about this cricketer [Dorai] who had inspired me.

And I did my stint at the board. That kind of completed the journey from cricket-mad boy through player and writer and spectator to actually being inside the belly of the beast. So I thought that the arc is complete and maybe I should write a book. 

In the book you have defined four types of superstars: 1. Crooks who consort with and pimp for bigger non-cricket-playing crooks. 2. Those who are willing and keen to practise conflict of interest explicitly. 3. Those who will try to be on the right side of the law but stay absolutely silent on […] those in categories 1 and 2. 4. Those who are themselves clean and also question those in categories 1 and 2." Bishan Bedi, you say, is the only one you can think of in that last category. Why is that?
Because he is a person of enormous character, integrity and principle. He never equivocates, he never makes excuses. And he calls it as it is. These kinds of people are rare in public life in India. They are rare in the film world, they are rare in the business world, and virtually invisible in politics. They are rare also in journalism, if you go by the ways in which editors in Delhi, for many years, have been intrigued with politicians, sought Rajya Sabha seats or favours, houses for themselves…

To find someone like Bishan Bedi, who is ramrod straight in his conduct, in any sphere of public life in India today is increasingly rare. He is also an incredibly generous man. When I first met him, at my uncle's house for dinner, he gave a cricket bat to my uncle - because he never wants to take freebies.

Bishan always has given back much more to youngsters he has nurtured. He is very blunt, he is abrasive, like me. He makes enemies because he sometimes says things in an indiscreet or impolite way. But it's really the quality and calibre of his character that compels admiration in me today. When I was young, it was the art and beauty of his spin bowling. Today, it's the kind of man he is. 

You write that the superstar culture "that afflicts the BCCI means that the more famous the player (former or present) the more leeway he is allowed in violating norms and procedures". How does that start?
Your question compels me to reflect on a time when players had too little power. When Bedi once gave a television interview where he said some sarcastic things, he was banned for a [Test] match in Bangalore in 1974. Players had to get more power, they had to get organised, they had to be noticed, they had to be paid properly, which took a very long time. The generation of Bedi and [Sunil] Gavaskar was not really paid well till the fag end of their careers.

But now to elevate them into demigods and icons… one of the things I talk about is [Virat] Kohli and [Anil] Kumble and their rift [Kumble was forced to step down as coach after the 2017 Champions Trophy]. How essentially Kohli had a veto over who could be his coach, which is not the case in any sporting team anywhere.

[MS] Dhoni had decided: I'm not going to play Test cricket. He was only playing one-day cricket. And I said [in the CoA] that he should not get a [Grade] A contract. Simple. That contract is for people who play throughout the year. He has said, "I'm not playing Test cricket." Fine. That's his choice and he can be picked for the shorter form if he is good enough. [They said] "No, we are too scared to demote him from A to B." And more than the board, the CoA, appointed by the Supreme Court, chaired by a senior IAS officer, was too scared. I thought it was hugely, hugely problematic. So I protested about it while I was there. And when I got nowhere, I wrote about it.

Is it the fans who create this culture?
Of course. They venerate cricketers. That's fine. Cricketers do things that they cannot do. It's the administrators who have to have a sense of balance and proportion. And not just with cricketing superstars who are active but also superstars who are retired. Again, to go back to one of the examples I talk about in my book: that [Rahul] Dravid could have an IPL contract, but other coaches in the NCA couldn't. Now, you can't have double standards like this. Cricket is supposed to be played with a straight bat.

It is not Dravid's fault. He just used the rules as they existed for him. It was the fault of the BCCI management that it created this kind of division and caste system within cricketers, within coaches, within umpires, within commentators. It offended my ethical sensibilities. So I protested. 

You recently told Mid-Day that "N Srinivasan and Amit Shah are effectively running Indian cricket today".
It is true.

Are they really running the board?
Yeah, that's my sense. Along with their sons and daughters and sycophants. That's what it is. And [Sourav] Ganguly [the BCCI president] has capitulated. I mean, there are things he should not be doing, given his extraordinary playing record and his credibility, whether he should be practising this shocking conflict of interest. The kind of example it sets is abysmal. I say this with some sadness because I admired Ganguly as a cricketer and as a captain. I'm glad I'm out of it and I'm just a fan again. I can just enjoy the game and not bother about the murkiness within the administration.

Things were meant to change under Ganguly.
Again, I go back to what I said about Bedi: people of principle are rare in any walk of life. And in India, particularly, there is a temptation for fame, for glory, to cosy up to who's powerful. It's very, very, very sad, but it happens. Maybe it's something to do with a deep flaw in our national character, that we lack a backbone in these matters.

In the book, where you address the topic across two chapters, as well as during your tenure in the CoA, you say you were frustrated by how deep the roots of conflict of interest have grown, not just in the BCCI and state associations but also across the player fraternity. Why is it so difficult for both administrators and players, some of whom are former greats, to understand conflict?
Because it's ubiquitous and everybody is practising it. Woh bhi kar raha hai, main bhi karoonga. Kya hai usme? [He's doing it, so I'll also do it. What's the big deal?] It's hard to resist, you know, especially [when] the moral compass of people around you is so low that you just kind of go along with it. 

Sunil Gavaskar is another person who said had multiple conflict of interests.
To Dravid's credit, he saw the point and gave up his Delhi Daredevils contract relatively quickly. He exploited the rules as they were and once I protested and it became public, he realised that he had probably erred and done a wrong thing. Maybe Ganguly could have learned from Dravid in what he's doing now. Cleaning up Indian cricket is a lost cause.

In 2018, the Supreme Court modified its original order of 2016, passed by Chief Justice TS Thakur concerning the Lodha reforms. In 2019, immediately after taking over, Ganguly's administration asked the court to relax key reforms, which would virtually wipe out the reforms. Is it now the responsibility of the court to decisively put the lid on the case?

I'm not losing any sleep. Cricket lovers have to live with a corrupt and nepotistic mode. We should just move on and enjoy the cricket.

In the book, you say you write on history for a living and on cricket to live. Can you tell us a bit more about that?
When I started writing this book, I had just finished the second volume of my Gandhi biography. It's a thousand pages long, inundated with millions of footnotes. And when you write a properly researched work of history, you have to have your sources at hand. So you compile a paragraph, which is based on material you gather, and then you have to scrupulously footnote that paragraph. One paragraph may be drawn from four different sources - a newspaper, an archival document, a book - and you have to put all that in.

Whereas I wanted to write this freely and spontaneously. I could only do that in the form of cricket memoir. So that's how it happened. I wanted a release from densely footnoted, closely argued, scrupulously researched scholarly work. And this came as a kind of liberation.

You call yourself a cricket fanatic. For me, on reading the book, it's the romantic in you that comes to life.
Yeah, I think I am more a romantic than a fanatic. I'm cricket-obsessed. I've been cricket-obsessed all my life, but more in a romantic way; "fanatic" may be slightly wrong because that assumes you always want your team to win. And that's certainly not the case with me anymore.

You write in the book about a fanboy moment you had: "On this evening I did something I almost never do - take a selfie, with Bishan Bedi and the coach of the Indian team, Anil Kumble." Can you recount that incident?
It was the BCCI's annual function. One of the few things I was able to do in my brief tenure at the board was accomplished on that day: to have [Padmakar] Shivalkar and [Rajinder] Goel, two great left-arm spinners, get the CK Nayudu [Lifetime Achievement] Award - the first time a non-Test cricketer had been honoured. And also to have Shanta Rangaswamy get the first Lifetime Achievement Award for Women.

So it was a happy occasion. It was in my home town [Bengaluru]. Bishan had come from Delhi. Kumble was then the coach of the [Indian] team. I know Bishan well and Anil a little bit. I don't know that many cricketers, actually. All these years running about the game, my only friend is really Bishan Bedi, apart from Arun Lal, who was my college captain.

Kumble, of course, would admire Bishan as a kind of sardar [chief] of Indian spin bowling. I saw them and I said I'll take a selfie. What I don't mention is that the selfie was taken by Anil, because he is technologically much more sophisticated than either Bishan or me. He took that selfie very artfully, which I would not have been able to do. It came out nicely. It is the only photograph in the book. 

I am a partisan of bowlers and of spin bowlers. For me, Kumble has always been underappreciated as a cricketer. To win a Test match you need to take 20 wickets. And, arguably, Kumble has therefore won more Test matches than Sachin Tendulkar. As I again say in the book, in 1999, when Tendulkar was about to be replaced as captain, they should really have had Kumble - he is a masterful cricketing mind, but there is a prejudice against bowlers. So in a sense, [the photo was with] someone who was a generation older than me, Bedi, and someone of a generation younger than me, Kumble - both cricketers I admire, both with big hearts, and both spin bowlers, as I was myself.

That's why the caption says: "two great spin bowlers and another" - kind of implying I was a spin bowler, but a rather ordinary one.

Is it true that this possibly could be your last cricket book?
Almost certainly. It would be, because I really have nothing else to say. This is a kind of cricketing autobiography and it has covered a lot. This is my fourth cricket book. I will watch the game. I will appreciate it.

Why don't more Indian cricketers write books?
I think Dravid has a great book in him because he is a thinking cricketer. So might Kumble. But my suspicion is, Kumble will not write a book. Dravid just might. He could write a book called The Art of Batsmanship. Bedi could have written a book because he is an intelligent person. He writes interesting articles, including on politics and public life. By the way, books don't sell. That's another reason. Occasionally, cricketers have thought, I will write a book and I will make Rs 30-40 lakhs (about US$50,000) on it. But cricket books don't really make that much money.

Scientific or Pseudo Knowledge? How Lancet's reputation was destroyed

The now retracted paper halted hydroxychloroquine trials. Studies like this determine how people live or die tomorrow writes James Heathers in The Guardian

 

‘At its best, peer review is a slow and careful evaluation of new research by appropriate experts. ... At its worst, it is merely window dressing that gives the unwarranted appearance of authority’. Photograph: George Frey/AFP/Getty Images


The Lancet is one of the oldest and most respected medical journals in the world. Recently, they published an article on Covid patients receiving hydroxychloroquine with a dire conclusion: the drug increases heartbeat irregularities and decreases hospital survival rates. This result was treated as authoritative, and major drug trials were immediately halted – because why treat anyone with an unsafe drug?

Now, that Lancet study has been retracted, withdrawn from the literature entirely, at the request of three of its authors who “can no longer vouch for the veracity of the primary data sources”. Given the seriousness of the topic and the consequences of the paper, this is one of the most consequential retractions in modern history.

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It is natural to ask how this is possible. How did a paper of such consequence get discarded like a used tissue by some of its authors only days after publication? If the authors don’t trust it now, how did it get published in the first place?

The answer is quite simple. It happened because peer review, the formal process of reviewing scientific work before it is accepted for publication, is not designed to detect anomalous data. It makes no difference if the anomalies are due to inaccuracies, miscalculations, or outright fraud. This is not what peer review is for. While it is the internationally recognised badge of “settled science”, its value is far more complicated.

At its best, peer review is a slow and careful evaluation of new research by appropriate experts. It involves multiple rounds of revision that removes errors, strengthens analyses, and noticeably improves manuscripts.

At its worst, it is merely window dressing that gives the unwarranted appearance of authority, a cursory process which confers no real value, enforces orthodoxy, and overlooks both obvious analytical problems and outright fraud entirely.

Regardless of how any individual paper is reviewed – and the experience is usually somewhere between the above extremes – the sad truth is peer review in its entirety is struggling, and retractions like this drag its flaws into an incredibly bright spotlight.

The ballistics of this problem are well known. To start with, peer review is entirely unrewarded. The internal currency of science consists entirely of producing new papers, which form the cornerstone of your scientific reputation. There is no emphasis on reviewing the work of others. If you spend several days in a continuous back-and-forth technical exchange with authors, trying to improve their manuscript, adding new analyses, shoring up conclusions, no one will ever know your name. Neither are you paid. Peer review originally fitted under an amorphous idea of academic “service” – the tasks that scientists were supposed to perform as members of their community. This is a nice idea, but is almost invariably maintained by researchers with excellent job security. Some senior scientists are notorious for peer reviewing manuscripts rarely or even never – because it interferes with the task of producing more of their own research.

However, even if reliable volunteers for peer review can be found, it is increasingly clear that it is insufficient. The vast majority of peer-reviewed articles are never checked for any form of analytical consistency, nor can they be – journals do not require manuscripts to have accompanying data or analytical code and often will not help you obtain them from authors if you wish to see them. Authors usually have zero formal, moral, or legal requirements to share the data and analytical methods behind their experiments. Finally, if you locate a problem in a published paper and bring it to either of these parties, often the median response is no response at all – silence.

This is usually not because authors or editors are negligent or uncaring. Usually, it is because they are trying to keep up with the component difficulties of keeping their scientific careers and journals respectively afloat. Unfortunately, those goals are directly in opposition – authors publishing as much as possible means back-breaking amounts of submissions for journals. Increasingly time-poor researchers, busy with their own publications, often decline invitations to review. Subsequently, peer review is then cursory or non-analytical.

And even still, we often muddle through. Until we encounter extraordinary circumstances.





Peer review during a pandemic faces a brutal dilemma – the moral importance of releasing important information with planetary consequences quickly, versus the scientific importance of evaluating the presented work fully – while trying to recruit scientists, already busier than usual due to their disrupted lives, to review work for free. And, after this process is complete, publications face immediate scrutiny by a much larger group of engaged scientific readers than usual, who treat publications which affect the health of every living human being with the scrutiny they deserve.

The consequences are extreme. The consequences for any of us, on discovering a persistent cough and respiratory difficulties, are directly determined by this research. Papers like today’s retraction determine how people live or die tomorrow. They affect what drugs are recommended, what treatments are available, and how we get them sooner.

The immediate solution to this problem of extreme opacity, which allows flawed papers to hide in plain sight, has been advocated for years: require more transparency, mandate more scrutiny. Prioritise publishing papers which present data and analytical code alongside a manuscript. Re-analyse papers for their accuracy before publication, instead of just assessing their potential importance. Engage expert statistical reviewers where necessary, pay them if you must. Be immediately responsive to criticism, and enforce this same standard on authors. The alternative is more retractions, more missteps, more wasted time, more loss of public trust … and more death.

How to burst your political filter bubble

Tim Harford in the FT 

There are certain resolutions that are easily made and easily broken: lose weight; drink less; be mindful. They all seem a cinch compared with the challenge of our age: think less tribally. Try meeting people who disagree with you. Try to understand both sides of the argument. Most of us instinctively feel that this is desirable. Each of us has something to learn from others. And even if we do not, even if the other side of the argument is utterly wrong, how are we to persuade them if we are not on speaking terms? And yet bursting our own bubbles is infuriatingly hard. 

Here’s one obvious approach: use social media to follow people with opposing opinions. If you see what they are saying, you can ponder their arguments and try to see the world from their point of view — at the very least, you can understand how best to convert them. 

To investigate this idea, a group of social scientists (Christopher Bail, Lisa Argyle and others) recently recruited several hundred people with Republican or Democrat leanings, and gave them a small financial incentive to follow a Twitter bot for a month that would expose them to the opposing point of view. Republicans followed a liberal bot that would retweet 24 messages from elected Democrats, left-leaning media outlets and non-profit groups; Democrats followed a conservative bot. 

But the Twitter bot’s efforts at fostering understanding backfired. Being exposed to opposing views on Twitter pushed people away from the centre ground. “Republicans who followed a liberal Twitter bot became substantially more conservative post treatment,” write the researchers. Democrats moved further left — although their moves were not as large nor as statistically reliable. 

This is a disappointing finding, but not entirely surprising. Some earlier research has found evidence of backfire effects in other contexts — perhaps because we find contrary views or inconvenient facts discomfiting and may immediately recall or invent reasons to demean or dismiss them. And Twitter is hardly the venue for a deep meeting of minds. 

Still, the conclusion is clear enough: if our aim is to find common ground or at least to foster mutual understanding, simply being exposed to the comments of our political opponents will not do it. It leads to aggravation, not understanding, and it is as counterproductive as it sometimes seems. 

What, then? Cass Sunstein, an academic who has served in the administrations of Presidents Ronald Reagan and Barack Obama, makes an intriguing suggestion in his new book The Cost-Benefit Revolution. He points out that we can protect ourselves from certain cognitive errors by translating arguments into an unfamiliar form — perhaps a second language, or perhaps a mathematical abstraction. When you see the argument thus rephrased, you are forced to stop and think. Your response is less emotional. 

I am persuaded that this exercise would slow me down and force me to think more with my brain and less with my gut. But it would not be easy to force myself to apply a cost-benefit framework as I pondered the appeal of a hard Brexit, say, the benefits of GM food or the winners and losers from restrictions on abortion. Alas, I doubt the prescription has broad appeal. 

So we are back to trying to appreciate the other side’s point of view by talking to them, and that probably means talking to them respectfully, attentively and at some length. To understand what is going on in the head of someone who sees the world very differently from me — say, an evangelical Christian, a diehard Trump fan, a Corbynista or a hard-Brexiter — I would need to spend proper, quality time with them. And they would need to spend proper, quality time with me. 

Unless one of us had the patience of a saint (and it would not be me), that would require some other social glue. If we could first spend time together as friends, neighbours, colleagues or teammates, we might later have a chance to talk in depth about politics and values. Starting with politics is likely to lead nowhere. 

Occasionally — rarely enough that each instance is memorable — I have sat and respectfully disagreed with someone for hours: listening to them, understanding their viewpoint, presenting my own ideas and searching for common ground. Without exception, these heart-to-hearts have been preceded by months of friendship built on some other shared interest or experience. You can have a civil debate with a political enemy, but it really helps if the political enemy is a friend in real life. 

It is sobering, then, to ponder the enthusiasm with which various activists on both sides are keen to make everything political. I do not object to anyone, on any side, who believes that there are deep political issues more important than entertainment, sport or music. 

But the cumulative effect of the polarisation of everything is not healthy. Paradoxically, a vibrant, thoughtful politics needs some parts of life that are free of politics, free of the idea of them-and-us. Otherwise we stop listening to each other. We often stop thinking entirely.

The financial scandal no one is talking about

Accountancy used to be boring – and safe. But today it’s neither. Have the ‘big four’ firms become too cosy with the system they’re supposed to be keeping in check?

By Richard Brooks in The Guardian


In the summer of 2015, seven years after the financial crisis and with no end in sight to the ensuing economic stagnation for millions of citizens, I visited a new club. Nestled among the hedge-fund managers on Grosvenor Street in Mayfair, Number Twenty had recently been opened by accountancy firm KPMG. It was, said the firm’s then UK chairman Simon Collins in the fluent corporate-speak favoured by today’s top accountants, “a West End space” for clients “to meet, mingle and touch down”. The cost of the 15-year lease on the five-storey building was undisclosed, but would have been many tens of millions of pounds. It was evidently a price worth paying to look after the right people.

Inside, Number Twenty is patrolled by a small army of attractive, sharply uniformed serving staff. On one floor are dining rooms and cabinets stocked with fine wines. On another, a cocktail bar leads out on to a roof terrace. Gazing down on the refreshed executives are neo-pop art portraits of the men whose initials form today’s KPMG: Piet Klynveld (an early 20th-century Amsterdam accountant), William Barclay Peat and James Marwick (Victorian Scottish accountants) and Reinhard Goerdeler (a German concentration-camp survivor who built his country’s leading accountancy firm).

KPMG’s founders had made their names forging a worldwide profession charged with accounting for business. They had been the watchdogs of capitalism who had exposed its excesses. Their 21st-century successors, by contrast, had been found badly wanting. They had allowed a series of US subprime mortgage companies to fuel the financial crisis from which the world was still reeling.

“What do they say about hubris and nemesis?” pondered the unconvinced insider who had taken me into the club. There was certainly hubris at Number Twenty. But by shaping the world in which they operate, the accountants have ensured that they are unlikely to face their own downfall. As the world stumbles from one crisis to the next, its economy precarious and its core financial markets inadequately reformed, it won’t be the accountants who pay the price of their failure to hold capitalism to account. It will once again be the millions who lose their jobs and their livelihoods. Such is the triumph of the bean counters.

The demise of sound accounting became a critical cause of the early 21st-century financial crisis. Auditing limited companies, made mandatory in Britain around a hundred years earlier, was intended as a check on the so-called “principal/agent problem” inherent in the corporate form of business. As Adam Smith once pointed out, “managers of other people’s money” could not be trusted to be as prudent with it as they were with their own. When late-20th-century bankers began gambling with eye-watering amounts of other people’s money, good accounting became more important than ever. But the bean counters now had more commercial priorities and – with limited liability of their own – less fear for the consequences of failure. “Negligence and profusion,” as Smith foretold, duly ensued.

After the fall of Lehman Brothers brought economies to their knees in 2008, it was apparent that Ernst & Young’s audits of that bank had been all but worthless. Similar failures on the other side of the Atlantic proved that balance sheets everywhere were full of dross signed off as gold. The chairman of HBOS, arguably Britain’s most dubious lender of the boom years, explained to a subsequent parliamentary enquiry: “I met alone with the auditors – the two main partners – at least once a year, and, in our meeting, they could air anything that they found difficult. Although we had interesting discussions – they were very helpful about the business – there were never any issues raised.”

 

A new ticker about the Lehman Brothers collapse in New York in 2008. Photograph: Alamy

This insouciance typified the state auditing had reached. Subsequent investigations showed that rank-and-file auditors at KPMG had indeed questioned how much the bank was setting aside for losses. But such unhelpful matters were not something for the senior partners to bother about when their firm was pocketing handsome consulting income – £45m on top of its £56m audit fees over about seven years – and the junior bean counters’ concerns were not followed up by their superiors.

Half a century earlier, economist JK Galbraith had ended his landmark history of the 1929 Great Crash by warning of the reluctance of “men of business” to speak up “if it means disturbance of orderly business and convenience in the present”. (In this, he thought, “at least equally with communism, lies the threat to capitalism”.) Galbraith could have been prophesying accountancy a few decades later, now led by men of business rather than watchdogs of business.

Another American writer of the same period caught the likely cause of the bean counters’ blindness to looming danger even more starkly. “It is difficult to get a man to understand something”, wrote Upton Sinclair, “when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.”
For centuries, accounting itself was a fairly rudimentary process of enabling the powerful and the landed to keep tabs on those managing their estates. But over time, that narrow task was transformed by commerce. In the process it has spawned a multi-billion-dollar industry and lifestyles for its leading practitioners that could hardly be more at odds with the image of a humble number-cruncher.

Just four major global firms – Deloitte, PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC), Ernst & Young (EY) and KPMG – audit 97% of US public companies and all the UK’s top 100 corporations, verifying that their accounts present a trustworthy and fair view of their business to investors, customers and workers. They are the only players large enough to check the numbers for these multinational organisations, and thus enjoy effective cartel status. Not that anything as improper as price-fixing would go on – with so few major players, there’s no need. “Everyone knows what everyone else’s rates are,” one of their recent former accountants told me with a smile. There are no serious rivals to undercut them. What’s more, since audits are a legal requirement almost everywhere, this is a state-guaranteed cartel.

Despite the economic risks posed by misleading accounting, the bean counters perform their duties with relative impunity. The big firms have persuaded governments that litigation against them is an existential threat to the economy. The unparalleled advantages of a guaranteed market with huge upside and strictly limited downside are the pillars on which the big four’s multi-billion-dollar businesses are built. They are free to make profit without fearing serious consequences of their abuses, whether it is the exploitation of tax laws, slanted consultancy advice or overlooking financial crime.

KPMG abandons controversial lending of researchers to MPs


Conscious of their extreme good fortune and desperate to protect it, the accountants sometimes like to protest the harshness of their business conditions. “The environment that we are dealing with today is challenging – whether it’s the global economy, the geopolitical issues, or the stiff competition,” claimed PwC’s global chairman Dennis Nally in 2015, as he revealed what was then the highest-ever income for an accounting firm: $35bn. The following year the number edged up – as it did for the other three big four firms despite the stiff competition – to $36bn. Although they are too shy to say how much profit their worldwide income translates into, figures from countries where they are required to disclose it suggest PwC’s would have been approaching $10bn.

Among the challenges PwC faced, said Nally, was the “compulsory rotation” of auditors in Europe, a new game of accountancy musical chairs in which the big four exchange clients every 10 years or so. This is what passes for competition at the top of world accountancy. Some companies have been audited by the same firms for more than a century: KPMG counts General Electric as a 109-year-old client; PwC stepped down from the Barclays audit in 2016 after a 120-year stint.

As professionals, accountants are generally trusted to self-regulate – with predictably self-indulgent outcomes. Where a degree of independent oversight does exist, such as from the regulator established in the US following the Enron scandal and the other major scandal of the time, WorldCom – in which the now-defunct firm Arthur Andersen was accused of conspiring with the companies to game accountancy rules and presenting inflated profits to the market – powers are circumscribed. When it comes to setting the critical rules of accounting itself – how industry and finance are audited – the big four are equally dominant. Their alumni control the international and national standard-setters, ensuring that the rules of the game suit the major accountancy firms and their clients.

The long reach of the bean counters extends into the heart of governments. In Britain, the big four’s consultants counsel ministers and officials on everything from healthcare to nuclear power. Although their advice is always labelled “independent”, it invariably suits a raft of corporate clients with direct interests in it. And, unsurprisingly, most of the consultants’ prescriptions – such as marketisation of public services – entail yet more demand for their services in the years ahead. Mix in the routine recruitment of senior public officials through a revolving door out of government, and the big four have become a solvent dissolving the boundary between public and private interests.
There are other reasons for governments to cosset the big four. The disappearance of one of the four major firms – for example through the loss of licences following a criminal conviction, as happened to Arthur Andersen & Co in 2002 – presents an unacceptable threat to auditing. So, in what one former big-four partner described to the FT as a “Faustian relationship” between government and the profession, the firms escape official scrutiny even at low points such as the aftermath of the financial crisis. They are too few to fail.

The major accountancy firms also avoid the level of public scrutiny that their importance warrants. Major scandals in which they are implicated invariably come with more colourful villains for the media to spotlight. When, for example, the Paradise Papers hit the headlines in November 2017, the big news was that racing driver Lewis Hamilton had avoided VAT on buying a private jet. The more important fact that one of the world’s largest accountancy firms and a supposed watchdog of capitalism, EY, had designed the scheme for him and others, including several oligarchs, went largely unnoticed. Moreover, covering every area of business and public service, the big four firms have become the reporter’s friends. They can be relied on to explain complex regulatory and economic developments as “independent” experts and provide easy copy on difficult subjects.

Left to prosper with minimal competition or accountability, the bean counters have become extremely comfortable. Partners in the big four charge their time at several hundred pounds per hour, but make their real money from selling the services of their staff. The result is sports-star-level incomes for men and women employing no special talent and taking no personal or entrepreneurial risk. In the UK, partners’ profit shares progress from around £300,000 to incomes that at the top have reached £5m a year. Figures in the US are undeclared, because the firms are registered in Delaware and don’t have to publish accounts, but are thought to be similar. (In 2016, when I asked a senior partner at Deloitte what justified these riches, he sheepishly admitted that it was “a difficult question”.)

Targeting growth like any multinational corporation, despite their professional status, the big four continue to expand much faster than the world they serve. In their oldest markets, the UK and US, the firms are growing at more than twice the rate of those countries’ economies. By 2016, across 150 countries, the big four employed 890,000 people, which was more than the five most valuable companies in the world combined.

The big four are supremely talented at turning any change into an opportunity to earn more fees. For the past decade, all the firms’ real-terms global growth has come from selling more consulting services. Advising on post-crisis financial regulation has more than made up for the minor setback of 2008. KPMG starred in the ultimate “nothing succeeds like failure” story. Although – more than any other firm – it had missed the devaluation of subprime mortgages that led to a world banking collapse, before long it was brought in by the European Central Bank for a “major role in the asset quality review process” of most of the banks that now needed to be “stress-tested”.

The big four now style themselves as all-encompassing purveyors of “professional services”, offering the answers on everything from complying with regulations to IT systems, mergers and acquisitions and corporate strategy. The result is that, worldwide, they now make less than half of their income from auditing and related “assurance” services. They are consultancy firms with auditing sidelines, rather than the other way round.

The big firms’ senior partners, aware of the foundations on which their fortunes are built, nevertheless insist that auditing and getting the numbers right remains their core business. “I would trade any advisory relationship to save us from doing a bad audit,” KPMG’s UK head Simon Collins told the FT in 2015. “Our life hangs by the thread of whether we do a good-quality audit or not.” The evidence suggests otherwise. With so many inadequate audits sitting on the record alongside near-unremitting growth, it is clear that in a market with very few firms to choose from, poor performance is not a matter of life or death.

 

The ‘big four’ accountancy firms. Composite: Getty / Alamy / Reuters

These days, EY’s motto is “Building a better working world” (having ditched “Quality in everything we do” as part of a rebrand following its implication in the 2008 collapse of Lehman Brothers). Yet there is vanishingly little evidence that the world is any better for the consultancy advice that now provides most of the big four’s income. Still, all spew out reams of “thought leadership” to create more work. A snapshot of KPMG’s offerings in 2017 throws up: “Price is not as important as you think”; “Four ways incumbents can partner with disruptors”; and “Customer centricity”. EY adds insights such as “Positioning communities of practice for success”, while PwC can help big finance with “Banking’s biggest hurdle: its own strategy”.

The appeal of all this hot air to executives is often based on no more than fear of missing out and the comfort of believing they’re keeping up with business trends. Unsurprisingly, while their companies effectively outsource strategic thinking to the big four and other consultancy firms, productivity flatlines in the economies they command.

The commercial imperatives behind the consultancy big sell are explicit in the firms’ own targets. KPMG UK’s first two “key performance indicators”, for example, are “revenue growth” and “improving profit margin”, followed by measures of staff and customer satisfaction (which won’t be won by giving them a hard time). Exposing false accounting, fraud, tax evasion and risks to economies – everything that society might actually want from its accountants – do not feature.

Few graduate employees at the big four arrive with a passion for rooting out financial irregularity and making capitalism safe. They are motivated by good income prospects even for moderate performers, plus maybe a vague interest in the world of business. Many want to keep their options open, noticing the prevalence of qualified accountants at the top of the corporate world; nearly a quarter of chief executives of the FTSE100 largest UK companies are chartered accountants.

When it comes to integrity and honesty, there is nothing unusual about this breed. They have a similar range of susceptibility to social, psychological and financial pressures as any other group. It would be tempting to infer from tales such as that of the senior KPMG audit partner caught in a Californian car park in 2013 trading inside information in return for a Rolex watch and thousands of dollars in cash that accountancy is a dishonest profession. But such blatant corruption is exceptional. The real problem is that the profession’s unique privileges and conflicts distil ordinary human foibles into less criminal but equally corrosive practice.

A newly qualified accountant in a major firm will generally slip into a career of what the academic Matthew Gill has called “technocratism”, applying standards lawfully but to the advantage of clients, not breaking the rules but not making a stand for truth and objectivity either. Progression to the partner ranks requires “fitting in” above all else. With serious financial incentives to get to the top, the major firms end up run by the more materially rather than ethically motivated bean counters. In the UK in 2017, none of the senior partners of the big firms had built their careers in what should be the firms’ core business of auditing. Worldwide, two of the big four were led by men who were not even qualified accountants.

The core accountancy task of auditing can seem dull next to sexier alternatives, and many a bean counter yearns for excitement that the traditional role doesn’t offer. As long ago as 1969, Monty Python captured this frustration in a sketch featuring Michael Palin as an accountant and John Cleese as his careers adviser. “Our experts describe you as an appallingly dull fellow, unimaginative, timid, lacking in initiative, spineless, easily dominated, no sense of humour, tedious company and irredeemably drab and awful,” Cleese tells Palin. “And whereas in most professions these would be considerable drawbacks, in chartered accountancy they’re a positive boon.” Palin’s character, alas, wants to become a lion tamer.

The bean counter’s quest for something more exciting can be seen running through modern scandals like Enron and some of the racy early-21st-century bank accounting. One ex-big four accountant told me that if there was a single thing that would improve his profession, it would be to “make it boring again”.

Where once they were outsiders scrutinising the commercial world, the big four are now insiders burrowing ever deeper into it. All mimic the famous alumni system of the past century’s pre-eminent management consultancy, McKinsey, ensuring that when their own consultants and bean counters move on, they stay close to the old firm and bring it more work. The threat of an already too-close relationship with business becoming even more intimate is ignored. In 2016, EY’s “global brand and external communications leader” waxed biblical on the point: “You think about the right hand of greatness; actually the alumni could be the right hand of our greatness.”

The top bean counter’s self-image is no longer a modest one. “Whether serving as a steward of the proper functioning of global financial markets in the role of auditor, or solving client or societal challenges, we ask our professionals to think big about the impact they make through their work at Deloitte,” say the firm’s leaders in their “Global Impact Report”. The appreciation of the profound importance of their core auditing role does not, alas, translate into a sharp focus on the task. EY’s worldwide boss, Mark Weinberger, personifies how the top bean counters see their place in the world. He co-chairs a Russian investment committee with prime minister and Putin placeman Dmitry Medvedev; does something similar in Shanghai; sat on Donald Trump’s strategy forum until it disbanded in 2017 when the US president went fully toxic by appeasing neo-Nazis; and revels in the status of “Global Agenda Trustee” for the World Economic Forum in Davos.

The price of seats at all the top tables is a calamitous failure to account. In decades to come, without drastic reform, it will only become more expensive. If the supposed watchdogs overlook new threats, the fallout could be as cataclysmic as the last financial crisis threatened to be. Bean counting is too important to be left to today’s bean counters.