Why is everything a team? Email through the other day from the student finance team; gleefully announcing that the fees team would be ready and waiting in the refectory (sounded a lot more sinister than I think they intended), whilst the funding team would be set up elsewhere, presumably at the other end of the pitch, to answer queries on whatever the hell it is they do that the fees team don’t.
Point being, where did all this team crap come from? There seems to have been a tragically management-speak led campaign to incorporate everyone who might possibly have some interaction with each other into ‘teams’. The turn down team, the customer enquiries team, the A-team. Loosely affiliated blocks of people are lumped together into one homogeneous and beautifully patronising ‘team’. It’s hilarious and sad at the same time, a bit like a clown jumping off a roof. Except less messy.
It would be an easier lie to maintain if there was a semblance of team spirit in any business-related team, anywhere. Instead, it’s the same as ever; a thin professional veneer, a fixed and incredibly eerie smile, and a look behind the eyes that wonders how many people they could take down before the police sharpshooting team gets their act together.
Ultimately, it’s probably for the best that teams aren’t like real teams. They’d all have to wear the same distinctive outfit for a start, perhaps with their own name and number if they’re any good. That would be hell for a start, as the world would start to resemble a large bag of skittles. Then they’d have to be wild celebrations and high fives all round whenever any member of the team did something even remotely positive, like opening an email or getting coffee. Fuck all would get done. Then there would be the inter-team rivalries; marketing would start playing down accounting’s title credentials and then an angry war of words would ensue culminating in a leading pundit commenting that both teams “should do their talking on the pitch/in the boardroom”. Fans would be an issue, hordes of replica shirted men waiting outside to mob the rising star of the fees team’s Nissan Micra as he leaves the office, fishtailing away under a barrage of flash photography.
Essentially the point is this. Barcelona are a team. McLaren are a team. The All-Blacks are a fucking team. The people who tell me how much money they’re going to remove from my bank account or kidneys to pay for my increasingly over-priced degree are not. They know it, I know it. Stop lying.
Rant! Rave! Relax. 