Should we kill off unproductive companies?

The out-of-business business.

The out-of-business business has done a roaring trade this month, as a walk down any high street will testify.  But the staff of one closed store using their empty shop window to advertise themselves as available for work was a heartbreakingly public illustration of what each redundancy actually represents. Stories like that one have been painful to read, but it was both right and necessary that the media (including this newspaper) made space for the victims of these events.

Amid the concern for the newly-jobless, however, has come new talk around an old idea: the notion that some insolvencies can actually promote recovery in the economy. The theory is that labour and capital can be released from fundamentally unproductive companies, to re-enter the system in some more productive context.

For that to hold true in practice, however, the conditions must be in place for capital and labour to be reabsorbed into the economy. That means strong growth – assets find a market, staff find new jobs, creditors can offset loss. But an economy which is currently only adding new jobs at the rate of a few thousand a month will struggle to place the newly-redundant back into work. Therefore, one must sound a note of caution before we decide that unproductive companies should all be killed off.  If the current rash of large-scale insolvencies was indeed a side-effect of the recovery, there would be no cause to worry, but that is clearly not the case.  The economy is simply not adding enough jobs to re-employ those left without work.

By the time a business enters administration, it is generally beyond all help, but the end should not come as a surprise to those in charge. One reason that it might, is that the means used to measure productivity within companies are often inadequate, and provide an incomplete picture at best.  It’s fairly easy for the leader of a small business to look around his or her office and, from the ringing of the phone alone, gain a fairly clear grasp of the productivity of their company.  It’s far harder for the management of a retail chain with hundreds of locations and thousands of employees. That’s a major problem because, if business leaders cannot analyse productivity effectively, then many of their decisions will be based on little more than guesswork.

When attempting to arrest a slide in revenue, or a loss of market share, it ought to be relatively simple to identify the points at which productivity and effectiveness can be improved.  These might include things like closer centralised control of planned absences like holidays, to reduce reliance on costly agency staff; another might be better assessment of the peaks and troughs of customer demand.  Indicators like these allow a much clearer insight into whether problems are internal or external, and whether internal reforms, or more radical measures, are required to return the organisation to health. 

Similarly, the measurement (and projection) of customer loyalty is often left to the most basic analysis, while the factors affecting it are multifarious and complex. No business’s cashflow is immune from the impact of customer loyalty, whether positive or negative, and any kind of long-term planning demands some means to accurately predict what will motivate customers to keep spending.  Indeed, research suggests business leaders are not doing enough to impress their customers: less than half of UK consumers say they are satisfied with the service they receive from organisations including retailers, banks and phone companies.

Of course, some firms do fall victim to truly exogenic factors, and not all businesses can succeed, but those are largely the exception rather than the rule.  Bosses should not be spared blame if they do not do all they can to identify and fix inefficiencies within their business or, indeed, if they pretend to be surprised when their creditors finally run out of patience.

One of the most horrid features of the recent series of bankruptcies was the extent to which staff were kept in ignorance of the state of the company.  At the shop mentioned previously, employees only found out that the company had folded when a journalist phoned the store to ask for comment. That’s unforgiveable – when the writing is on the wall, executives should recognise it, and seek to wind up their company in an orderly fashion. 

Equally unforgivable is if they never made an effort to read that writing in the first place. Business leaders carry an inherent responsibility for those that work for them, ensuring that they stay productive and that the business keeps competing. That entails a duty to make mature decisions about the future of the business, and a duty to do so in full possession of the facts.

Claire Richardson is a VP at customer relations consultants Verint.

Closing down. Photograph: Getty Images
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Mister Lizard is not at home to bailiffs – he is eating salmon pâté by the river

Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”?

Summer’s nearly over. I look at the angle of the sunlight as it strikes the back terrace of the Hovel. I have been here long enough to use the terrace as a gnomon marking the passage of the year. I need, like the protagonists of Withnail and I, to go to the countryside to rejuvenate.

Last week when the Perseids were meant to be in full flow I asked frantically on a social medium for people to chum me along on a midnight walk on Hampstead Heath. In the end my new friends A— and her husband, C—, together with his new friend (whose initial I have forgotten, but he is Australian, if that helps), stepped up to the plate and after a couple at the Flask we went on a wide-ranging tour, which was a bust as far as seeing meteors – or my favourite tree – went, but was still hugely enjoyable. At about 2 am they packed me into an Uber and I went home happy, but I still felt as if I could do with more countryside.

The next few days made me even more anxious to get out of London. There are ominous signs that some serious roadworks are going to be taking place outside my bedroom window any day now. A bailiff came and rang the doorbell and I didn’t have the heart, or the nerve, to say that Nicholas Lezard was not at home at the moment and, is, in fact, on a walking tour of Patagonia now I come to think of it, due back some time next year. I just took the piece of paper into my hands as if it were a chicken come home to roost.

The previous day, presumably the same bailiff had come round and asked if Mr Lizard was in, and my housemate gallantly – and quite truthfully – said “no”. (Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”? Maybe it’s because they haven’t ever been.) In addition, as I said last week, the cleaning lady is on holiday and the Hovel is starting to look distinctly seedy.

So, then I get a call from a person who once featured quite prominently in this column, some time ago. This person is bored and wants me to go to his or her town and alleviate his or her boredom. This person and I parted company in circumstances that were far from ideal some time ago, and only recently have diplomatic relations been resumed.

It is too late, I say, for me to get on the train now; but when I have reviewed the book I am meant to be reviewing, I will hop on the train tomorrow around noon. And so I do, despite some monkey business from the departures board at King’s Cross, which tells passengers the 12:44 has been cancelled, then hasn’t been, then has, then hasn’t after all, while the 12:14 has slipped away like a thief in the night without telling anyone it was doing so.

I wonder if my return to the town of ——— is wise. As a dog returneth to its vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly. And the burnt hand fears the fire. Look, I say to myself, all we’re doing is going to have a picnic by the river. As we buy our supplies, the stallholder at the market asks if I am my companion’s husband. “No, he’s my picnic buddy,” he or she replies. “Never heard it called that before,” says the stallholder.

And the day passes perfectly pleasantly. We have two bottles of wine, cheese and smoked salmon pâté with crusty bread. People in punts drift past us, with varying degrees of competence. I remember it is A-level results day and call the eldest boy to ask how he’s done. He’s done well enough, it turns out, to get a place at university, though he feels obliged to point out that his results came in exactly a year ago. This is the kind of thing that happens when the number of children you have exceeds your mental bandwidth.

Later on, a porter from the college behind which we are picnicking asks me if I am a member, or an alumni. “Alumnus,” I correct him gently, hoping that this should establish my credentials. He asks for my name, and he radios the porters’ lodge to check my veracity. For some reason it takes him several goes to get my name right.

One of these goes is “Lizard”. We offer him some cheese, but he refuses, on the grounds that he has just had a banana and a cup of tea. I could live in a guest room here, I reflect, at not much higher rent than one pays in London. And the beauty of it is that the police, and presumably bailiffs, have to ask permission to go through the gates. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser