Audit firms should ditch sales culture

UK watchdog flags up concerns.

I have no problem with audit firms providing some consulting services to audit clients provided it does not impair an auditor’s independence but there’s one thing that grates me about the audit profession. It’s when firms use audit as a lead-in to sell more lucrative consulting services. What is icing to this distasteful cake is when audit staff are praised for their role in winning consulting work.

This month, a UK watchdog responsible for checking the quality of audit firms released inspection reports of a few larger firms, flagging concerns PKF and Mazars had been praising and/or rewarding audit staff that successfully sold ‘non-audit’ or consulting services to audit clients. There reports apply to inspections carried out in 2010.

In the PKF report, the AIU warned the firm should: "Ensure credit is not sought or given in appraisals for success in selling non-audit services to audited entities."

In the Mazars report, it was recommended the firm: "Ensure that staff and partner remuneration and evaluation decisions do not reflect success in selling non-audit services to audit clients… [and] there is greater focus on audit quality indicators in appraisals for audit partners and staff."

To single out Mazars and PKF based on one inspection report is unfair. Rumours about auditors up-selling consulting have been rife for many years. Consulting is more lucrative and less labour intensive than audit, and firms all over the world, particularly the Big Four – PwC, Deloitte, Ernst & Young and KPMG – are beefing up their consulting arms like never before.

The problem with firms providing too much consulting to audit clients is the fear that they become reliant on that revenue and it will affects an auditor’s ability to exercise professional judgement. There’s also the argument that auditor’s might feel uncomfortable auditing a colleague’s consulting or tax work.

Although most consulting services are prohibited to audit clients, firms are still earning a significant amount of revenue from this practice. In 2011, PwC UK earned £363m from non-audit services to audit clients, which is about 40 per cent of the fees it earns from audit, while Deloitte made £185m, which is 36 per cent of its audit revenue.

The independence of auditors is a big issue for the accounting profession because, rightly or wrongly, questions are being raised as to why auditors gave a clean bill of health to banks such as Lehman Brothers just before they collapsed.

The EC has proposed radical reforms that could force the largest accounting firms in Europe to break up their audit businesses from advisory and tax. If such a proposal were to pass into law, it could threaten the existence of the four major brands – PwC, Deloitte, Ernst & Young and KPMG – although intensive lobbying from the ‘Big Four’ should derail this idea.

Nevertheless, auditors of all sizes could make their lives a whole lot easier if they ditched the sales culture and focussed on ensuring their clients accounts are in check, rather than worrying about their own.

Arvind Hickman is the editor of the International Accounting Bulletin.

Photograph: Getty Images

Arvind Hickman is the editor of the International Accounting Bulletin.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad