Ronald Coase died earlier this month. He’d had a good innings, he was 102 when he passed away. I never met him; I never saw him speak. But he influenced me greatly nevertheless, an influence that continues to this day and is the reason for this post. Thank you Ronald Coase.

Coase, together with Peter Drucker and Jerome Garcia, formed an unlikely triumvirate in my (then) teenage head. Drucker helped me understand what the purpose of business was and what management meant. Coase let me see how and why firms organised and operated. And Garcia showed me what it meant to bring the customer into the equation. Between them they set the basis of how I approached business life, a basis that itself was founded on the accidents of my birth and upbringing: born in an India just ten years into independent existence, growing up in a libertarian closely-knit loosely-Hindu journalist family and home, educated by Jesuits over the best part of fifteen years, all in a Calcutta that could at best be described as a democratically elected communist city with an imperial past and an imperious present.

You can see why I found the stuff people like Stewart Brand, Larry Brilliant, Howard Rheingold and Kevin Kelly were doing heady and exciting. Of particular interest to me was how they took the empowerment of the individual and made it both individual as well as collective, something that sat well with my roots. You can see why I found The Cluetrain Manifesto unputdownable.

Ah, Cluetrain. That brings me nicely round to why I wrote this post, the topic of the “constant customer”.

The constant customer is a theme that’s been running through my mind for some decades now. Coase’s work helped me understand why a firm formed, how firms could lower transaction costs, what those transaction costs were. Drucker, with his purpose-of-business-is-to-create-a-customer approach, made sure I realised that without the customer, the firm meant nothing. And Garcia et al came along and showed me that in days to come, there would be no such thing as customer lock-in. That they would be free to leave. That they could and would choose to stay, if the circumstances were right. Cluetrain then reminded me that it wasn’t happening, and that it would.

And it is.

Now. Finally.

When I watched Marc Benioff talking about the Customer Company, he spoke about customers being connected in whole new ways, and about companies needing to “pivot” to the customer. And it made me think even harder about the “constant customer” theme. [Disclosure: As most of you know by now, I work for salesforce.com; this is just in case you didn’t].

When customers have neither choice nor mobility, they can, to a large extent, be ignored. And so they were ignored. Focus was placed instead on optimising products, on reducing transaction costs associated with products. Companies that built experience in a particular product set could then scale up both volume as well as reach, and everyone was happy. Model T happy. Any colour you like as long as it’s black. Focus on the product, not the customer.

Being a product company made sense. Products didn’t complain or talk back. And customers had nowhere else to go anyway.

I’d been a keen follower of John Hagel and John Seely Brown for some years when I came across their “Big Shift” work, which later culminated in the publication of The Power of Pull.

In it, they spoke about a number of key shifts; here I focus on two: from stocks to flows, from experience curves to learning curves. When trying to understand what they meant, I found myself going back to the theme of the constant customer. A “stocks” world was one where you worked on optimising products, occasionally (hallelujah!) changing them, staying incremental as much as possible, looking hard at reducing unit costs. The market moved slowly, the customer couldn’t move anyway. And so in a stocks world it was natural that companies that could scale experience did so and did so successfully.

In a “flows” world, the market is no longer static, and the customer is free to move. There is no “constant customer” any more. Keeping unit costs down is important, but not as important as reducing the cost of change. Because change you must. That’s what pivoting to the customer requires. That’s what is implied in moving from the experience curve to the learning curve.

In a stocks world you can focus on the product and not care about the customer; the skills that matter are principally related to engaging with the product. You worried about what the product “wanted”, you “listened” to the product, you “related” to the product. And all your communications were product-centric.

In a flows world, the skills that matter are radically different, they’re now about engaging with the customer. Flesh-and-blood people. You now have to care about what customers want, you have to learn to listen to them, you need to understand how to relate to them. And your communications need to become customer-centric.

This movement from stocks to flows, from experience to learning, it’s not easy. For one thing you have to value different things. You have to learn how to value the cost of change, not just unit costs. For decades we’ve been building monolithic systems — people, process and technology — that had as their prime objective reducing unit costs. Standardise the hell out of everything. Tariff up the cost of change. And throw volume at it until blood emerges from stones. At a level of abstraction, that’s what the outsourcing model was, that’s why private equity likes stable-market cash cows.

If products can’t adapt at the speed demanded by customers, they will die. From a customer’s perspective, their transaction costs have gone down rapidly with the advent of the web, and, more recently, their costs of change have zoomed downwards as well. They can find what they want more easily, whenever, wherever. They can discover the price to pay, quickly, easily. And they can move away with ease. Lock-ins get scarcer every day.

So when the customer’s cost of change is low, the company needs to adapt and learn. Companies need to move from monolithic architectures to platforms and ecosystems, so that they can begin to move at the pace of the customer and the market.

When companies move at customer speed, when companies are aware of customer needs, when companies listen to customers, when companies value the relationship with a customer, the customer becomes a constant. Again.

The constant customer existed once. Because she had nowhere else to go.

The constant customer can exist again. Because she chooses to stay.

But this requires a “flows” mind, a “learning” approach, adaptive platforms and ecosystems, an ability to listen to the customer, an ability to respond.

An ability to pivot to the customer, perhaps.

 

 

 

Institutions will try to preserve the problem to which they are the solution.

One of my favourite Clay Shirky sayings. As Kevin Kelly remarked a few years ago, we should all be referring to it as the Shirky Principle.

I’d spent decades involved in financial technology, but it was only in early 1997 that I crossed the divide and actually started working for a bank. I was still there a decade later, but that’s another story. That decade at Dresdner Kleinwort Wasserstein was an incredible learning curve, I was privileged to work with many really talented people, and I’m delighted that so many of them have remained in touch. Wonderful times.

As with any other place I worked at, the first thing I did was to spend time quietly picking up the “carpet tiles” and observing what was happening below the surface. What were the creepy-crawlies that were peculiar to that institution, needing radically different approaches and attitude? I remember picking my jaw gently off the carpet when I was told that until a few weeks earlier, IT costs were allocated on the basis of floor area used. It’s important to do this, to check out the creepy-crawlies, because you then get the chance to figure out some parts of the form and shape of the organisational immune system. Immune to what? Immune to change. Any change.

Sometimes the creepy-crawly is somewhat larger than the metaphorical carpet tile. At least that’s how I felt when I began to understand the size and shape of the teams working on reference data. It just didn’t make sense to me. [My brain was going: let me understand this: low-volatility data, data that does not undergo much change; data that relates to things outside the firm, data that is used by all participants in the market; data that does not have any competitive value except by being timely and accurate and thereby reducing process breaks; and this required veritable armies?].

I’d just about got my head around the veritable army piece when I realised that there were many veritable armies, that every market participant had replicated what I’d just seen. Years later, I could put a label on such things. Shirky Principle.

It made my life a lot easier. When my plane is coming in to land and the pilot says the usual “There’s a lot of congestion around Heathrow so we’ve been asked to hold our pattern for another 20 minutes” I think to myself : air traffic controllers, Shirky Principle, and my head stops hurting.

In fact my head stopped hurting so often that I began to start looking actively for Shirky Principle in action, underneath the carpet tiles.

And after a while I saw a pattern emerge. The naysayers begin by pretending you don’t exist, that the change you are seeking to wreak is a figment of your personal imagination. Once that ploy fails, the enterprise immune system kicks into gear, and reports, presentations, spreadsheets and white papers begin to wend their weary way around the place. Take open source as an example. The immune system response starts with Open source is unAmerican, Steve Ballmer said so. The hidden costs of open source far outweigh the benefits. Open source was the reason Apollo 1 killed the three astronauts. And so on and so forth. Soon it switches to full-frontal attack. The CIO has a big short position on Microsoft. His sister owns the world’s biggest open source company.

I then saw the same process with Skype. It’s a joke. It doesn’t work. It’s a toy. Kill it. Years later, I see that sequence being repeated with discussions about the cloud. Same sequence. Cloud? What cloud? It’s just a marketing buzzword, just hype. Oh yeah, it exists, but all you can do is make illegal downloads, you couldn’t do real work using it. Where’s the performance? It’s insecure, it’s unAmerican, it’s downright communist.

Mobility. Open source. VoIP. Cloud. Same story.

Same beginning. Same ending.

It made me realise something else, something I’ve written about before. That the problem-preserving Shirky-Principle institutions are following a sequence that has been noticed in society many times before, whenever radical change is sought.

First they ignore you. Then they ridicule you. Then they fight you.

And then you win.

So (apparently) said Mahatma Gandhi. I never bothered to go to Snopes.com and dig into every line of debate on this. Suffice it to say that there are many reasons to believe he said it. Whoever said it, what really matters is what was said.

Ignore. Ridicule. Fight. Lose. That’s what happens to the institutions that seek to preserve the problems for which they were created.

So it is with collaboration. We’ve heard the word many times. And we’ve seen it paid lip service many times. But so long as it was not centre-stage, the immune system didn’t care.

Now things are changing. Studies are coming out indicating that networked organisations don’t work, that command and control is needed. That open-plan doesn’t work, we need cubicles with high walls. That too much collaboration can cause problems.

All that says to me is that the immune system is switching from ignore and ridicule to fight.

Which means that not collaborating will soon come to an end.

 

 

 

I seem to move house every ten years or so. I keep telling myself “This is the last time”; my appetite for the wholesale upheaval that a house move represents has waned somewhat. There was a time when people didn’t move much, they tended to live and die close to where they were born. I have a brother-in-law, about the same age as me, and he continues to live in the house he was born in. Rare today, but commonplace not that long ago.

I left India in 1980. At that time I knew one divorced person, and knew of just one other within my parents’ circle of friends. Now I hear of people getting divorced after 10, 20, 25 years. When I was at the cricket last week, there was a couple behind me celebrating their 49th, and a couple next to me whose parents had  just celebrated their 50th. Very rare today, but commonplace not that long ago.

Names and professions have been closely linked ever since men had professions; if you weren’t named after your lineage or your environment, then your line of work sufficed. So we had people with surnames like Carpenter and Fletcher and Butcher and Baker here in England; the Parsees in India had comparable equivalents, calling themselves Contractor and Doctor and Palkhivala and the legendary SodaBottleOpenerWallah (I confess I’ve never met one). It made sense, at a time when people didn’t change jobs often, when your occupation came with security of tenure. In fact this created an enjoyable variant during my formative years: people were differentiated by corporate label. If you had two Subramaniams in your social network, one would be “named” Reserve Bank and the other Steel Balls (since he worked for a ball bearing company). And yes, I have known a Steel Balls Subramaniam.

Migrations have been happening since the dawn of mankind. We’re learning more about human migration every day, as we begin to piece together what our neanderthal and Denisovan antecedents were up to, and as we try and make sense of where to fit Flores Man in. When I was growing up, there was little such evidence in my social circle. Some of my Anglo-Indian friends went to Australia or Canada; one of my uncles did a stint in the UK, another settled in Chicago (he’s still there). Such migrations were few and far between. And yet today my wife and I have siblings in all five continents, and I’ve met classmates who have settled in eight countries (I think the real count is 19, but I can’t be sure. We move around).

There was a time when we didn’t change where we lived, who we lived with, what we did, where we did it. Changing such things wasn’t easy, the “cost of change” was high. Sometimes the cost was an economic one, sometimes it was a social one, sometimes it just couldn’t be done.

Some things used to be really hard to change. I was born black-haired. Pretty early on, using my childhood powers of observation, I worked out that in years to come, my hair could take one or more of three colours, in a series of combinations: black, the original; black-and-white, the transition style; white, with the expectation of a distinguished look; or scalp-coloured, where you don’t see the hair because it’s no longer there. Nowadays I see even black-haired people change their hair to a plethora of shades, mostly from the purple family. I’ve never been tempted to change my hair colour, and my teenage plans to grow my hair long stayed, like most other things, in the Vegas of life where teenagers hang out.

As a teenager I read Gore Vidal’s Myra Breckinridge, and it opened my eyes to all the transgender possibilities the world was then conceiving of. It was no longer a certainty that the gender you were born with was the gender you would die with. I’ve never been tempted to change, but I was old enough to recognise that the cost of change of something so basic and “permanent” also appeared to be dropping.

I understood that people could and did change nationality. As a cricket fan, I was aware of a number of Indians who had played for England before modern India existed, and it made me think. Did my grandfather have a British passport? An Indian one? Both? Yet, while I knew that nationality could be changed, it wasn’t something I saw often. And now I regularly meet people who’ve changed nationality; some have taken this further, and started collecting multiple nationalities rather than just changing them one for another.

In the 23 years I lived in India, I can only remember going to two barbershops. There were probably more, but for sure between 1966 and 1980 I frequented just two. I went to a nursery (Hindusthan Park School); a primary school (Miss P Hartley) and then, from 1966 to 1979, I was with the Jesuits at St Xavier’s. To all intents and purposes I went to one school. Nowadays parents move their children to what they consider the best school in the area, sometimes even moving areas to achieve their goals.

Names. Addresses. Gender. Marital status. Nationality. Occupation. Place of work. Country of residence. Things that are easy to change now, things that were hard to change in times past. It is not just the ability to change that has itself changed, the ability to afford that change has also changed.

An affordable freedom of choice, touching on areas where there was no such choice historically.

We all need to understand what this freedom of choice represents, what this affordable right to change represents, in all these forms and shapes. Each of us will have formed views as to whether this freedom to change is good or bad; that is not what I write about here; I’m concentrating on the fact of change, of the freedom of choice in that change, and not making any value judgments.

Some changes are less affordable, but the choice remains. Companies can now decide to incorporate themselves somewhere else in order to take advantage of the tax structures. And it’s not just companies, individual citizens also exercise their freedom of choice and move their tax domicile. These changes tend to be expensive and complex to carry out; as a result, it’s only the large company and the high-net-worth individual that are able to exercise choices such as these. In other words, these choices are only available to the high end of the taxpayer spectrum, and therefore can really affect the countries they leave.

And so we come to the customer. A customer who has more choice than he or she has ever had before, and who can exercise that choice more easily than has ever been the case. We get to choose what we buy, where we buy it from, how we pay for it, how we get the goods/services.

When customers have that freedom of choice, many things influence that choice. What they know and like/dislike about the company making the product or service, the “brand” and reputation and values. What they know about the product or service from past experience, either directly or vicariously, sometimes through their friend network, sometimes beyond even that. The softer “sustainable” elements related to the product or service: origin, transport costs, carbon footprint, ease of replenishment, additives and subtractives. If you make it through all that, then you may just get to traditional discriminators like price or availability.

When it comes to the customer, everything’s changed. Everything.

Which is why it’s really important for companies to have relationships with their customers. If their customers will let them. Not everyone wants to have a relationship with the companies they deal with, often because they’ve been let down time after time. So it’s hard going.

There was a time when a commodity was defined as something that is standardised, fungible, provided without differentiation. And companies moved heaven and earth to try and find a way to differentiate.

There’s a new definition of commodity emerging: a product or service where there is no relationship between customer and company. Companies in that position will go the way of all flesh.

Many years ago, I wrote:

We need to be in the business of providing the customer what she wants when she wants it, where she wants it, how she wants it. We need to focus on making things that the customer wants to buy, rather than trying to get customers to pay for things they neither want nor need.

There was a time when we could decide for the customer. There was a time when we could constrain the customer’s voice and choice. There was a time when dinosaurs ruled the earth.

Now is not that time. Now is the time for faster horses.

 

I was reminded of that post when I watched Kevin Spacey’s excellent talk on what’s happening with Netflix, House of Cards and customer choice. If you haven’t seen it, you must.

I’m singing this note ’cause it fits in well
With the chords I’m playing
I can’t pretend there’s any meaning here
Or in the things I’m saying

But I’m in tune
Right in tune
I’m in tune
And I’m gonna tune
Right in on you

Getting In Tune, The Who, 1971

 

I admit it. I wrote this post just to have an excuse to refer to this song. Not really. I don’t need an excuse to refer to this song. Nobody needs an excuse to do that. Or to listen to it. Great song.

This is a post about collaboration, about people working together. Not just in your own team or department (although it can be that). Not just in your own company (although it can be that). Not just in your own country, or language, or timezone, or culture.

The problems of a new paradigm cannot be solved with the tools of the old. If we really want to make headway on issues ranging from climate change to availability of water; if we really want to deal with medical conditions that migrate at speed and mutate even faster; if we really want to resolve today’s versions of age-old problems to do with poverty and hunger; and if we want to do all this in a world heading serenely for 10 billion people and dwindling resources, we’re going to have to get better at doing at least one thing.

Collaborating.

Across culture, timezone, language, jurisdiction.

While having objectives that are not just not aligned, but often in conflict.

And while figuring out what went wrong the last time and plugging in those lessons learnt as quickly and as effectively as possible.

Iteratively.

And at scale, at a scale we have never known about before. Facebook scale.

This is a post about those things.

 

Collaboration requires many things, starting with the heart. You must want to collaborate, to work together. Even though there are many conflicts to be resolved.

Collaboration at scale requires many people to have a common understanding of the basics; in most cases, this common understanding will need codification so that the sharing can happen digitally. Otherwise we will not be able to work at the right speed. And what is that right speed? One that is faster than the pace of change in the environment, in the market, in the context.

I think this common understanding begins with labels and descriptors.

Like “when”. Synchronisation of watches wasn’t necessary until the locomotive arrived, it is a function of people in different locations treating time differently, looking at time in the context of their sunrises and sunsets. A perfectly reasonable thing to do. Unless you want people to work across timezones. So yes, there was a time when Manchester and London were in different timezones, and they had to sort that out before train timetables could mean anything.

Like “where”. Location labels are very important, as important as time labels. In many countries, the “ownership” of maps and mapping has been given away by some benighted government in the past to some agency or other, sometimes public, often private. In the process, monopolies were formed, and monopolies never get given up easily. Wailing and gnashing of teeth all the way to the grave. A shame, since it holds up progress; open data activists the world over are trying to resolve this. If the monopolists aren’t careful, they will watch stupefied as new commonses emerge, labelling every GPS location using collective intelligence and the latest digital tools. Too late, it’s already happening.

 

A monopoly on place names and information is like having a monopoly on the word Tuesday.

 

Like “who”. Identity is much more than a name, it’s about relationships. Relationships with people, with beliefs, with activities, with aspirations, with intentions. In singular or in plural, in pairs, in large groups. The name itself is commodity, a label.

Like “what”. Plant names, creature names. Part numbers and SKUs. Names for elements and compounds; generic, public. And not public.

If you have a product and I can’t refer to it in my “buying system” (whatever that is) then you won’t have me as a customer.

Taxonomies and ontologies can and should be open.

 

Taxonomies are the DNA of collaboration; open data catalyses collaboration.

We’re only just beginning to understand what true multistakeholder multicultural collaboration will need to look like. Right now we’re still in the Khrushchev phase. There are a lot of shoes flying around, and more to come. Good time to be a cobbler, perhaps.

]

One day the shoes will stop flying. And by that time we will know who will survive, who will thrive.

Because they’ll be the ones that have worked out how to share the labels and descriptors, who else is interested in such sharing, and how to speed up the transformation and innovation that will take place as a result. Across culture and timezone.

More later. Probably not for a couple of weeks.

[To my readers: This is unashamedly a post about cricket. If that’s not your thing, you’re probably going to get bored reading this. In which case you have my apology, that was not my intention].

 

When I was young, there were many sportsmen I admired; they ranged from Pele (whom I had the pleasure of meeting in 1996) and Gary Sobers (who played golf with my father, in my presence, in 1967) through to Tom Watson (whom I’ve seen play a few times) and Derek Randall.

Yes, Derek Randall. The Derek Randall who famously doffed his cap to Dennis Lillee just after he’d bowled a bouncer at him. And then said “No good hitting me there, mate, there’s nothing to damage.”

 

Randall epitomised the true sportsman to me. Incredibly talented, fanatic about his sport, but with a sense of proportion that showed in his humour, both on-field as well as off. Randall had already made his name well before the Melbourne Centenary Test at which the Lillee affaire (shown above) happened, and he nearly made that Test his own, with a brilliant 174. It was a match full of incident. Yet, when asked what really stood out for him, Randall is reputed to have said that it was when Rodney Marsh called him back to the wicket after the umpire (Tony Brooks) had given him out. He said “It’s how the Aussies play – hard, but fair. I honestly don’t think it would have made any difference if we were playing for the Ashes. It was Rodney’s way. He was such a competitor but above all he values cricket.”

[Incidentally, Mike Brearley, in The Art of Captaincy, reported that Randall asked Marsh, just as he was taking guard “How’s it going, Marshy?” Silence. After the next ball “What’s the matter, Marshy, not talking today?” To which Marsh replied “What do you think this is, a garden party?”]

That was in 1977. A full two decades later, I was reminded of the Randall-Marsh incident when Robbie Fowler, of Liverpool, went to the referee shaking his finger and mouthing “No, no”, just as the official was pointing to the penalty spot, having adjudged that David Seaman had brought Fowler down unfairly. And the headline at the time “Football hero in honesty shock“. The shock wasn’t about Fowler — Robbie was always that kind of person. The shock was about football, and about honesty in football. Seventeen years on, I cannot watch Premier League football, especially when a corner is given. Hands everywhere, shirts being pulled, goalkeepers bulldozed out of play, nudges and pushes, so much happening that the referee’s job becomes impossible.

The system is one that can be played, and so it gets played. In premier league football, winning has become more important than winning fairly; fairness has become a luxury. When that happens, travesty is round the corner, followed by tragedy.

Test cricket runs the risk of heading the same way. Which would be a real shame, since it was cricket that gave us the term “not cricket”, to describe something that was just not “done”. I was reminded of this when reading the Sunday Times last week, where, in an eminently forgettable article, there was an eminently memorable phrase:

 

…… behaved in a way which would not do if generally adopted. What a wonderful turn of phrase.

There was a time when batsmen walked when they were out, without waiting for the umpire’s signal. It wasn’t rare. Going back to Art of Captaincy, Brearley says “I admire the Australians’ straightforwardness with regard to “walking” — that is, not waiting for an umpire’s decision if you know that you are out. After the Second World War, “walking” gradually grew in English county cricket. By the early ’60s anyone who did not walk was considered a cheat.”

He then went on to explain how this could be abused: walking when it wasn’t important, and then not walking when you were near a fifty or a hundred, or when the match result hung in the balance. But that’s not the point.

The point is what happened since. Somehow, we have managed to convince ourselves that there are different forms of cheating, and that some forms are okay while others are not. So today we believe that when a fielder appeals while knowing he did not take the catch cleanly, that is wrong. That’s “active” cheating, when you do something to achieve the wrong outcome. This is what Denesh Ramdin was accused of doing a few months ago, and he was suspended for two matches for that transgression. And at the same time we condone “passive” cheating, as when a batsman who knows he was out stays at the crease to see if the umpire gives him out or not. The argument here is that the batsman doesn’t actually do something to achieve the wrong outcome, he just takes advantage of errors by the umpire as and when they happen. So it’s “passive”.

Poppycock. Balderdash.

If you’re out, you’re out. And if you know it, then walk.

Kevin Pietersen walked today, without waiting for the umpire’s signal. [Well done Kevin, I shall be shouting for you at the Oval in a few weeks.]. He was probably still stinging from the cheating accusation levelled at him a few days ago, and rightly so. He strikes me as one of those hugely-talented and incredibly obstinate people who are capable of doing many things, right things as well as wrong things, but cheating is not one of those things. Not in his make-up.

Stuart Broad stayed at the crease some weeks ago when he knew he was out. When his team-mates knew he was out. When the opposing team knew he was out. When everyone watching, and a few million others who watched it later, knew he was out. When even the umpire had figured it out.

Yet Stuart Broad stayed at the crease because the system, the rules in use, made it legal for him to do so.

A few years ago, Ian Bell was recalled by MS Dhoni when he was “legally” out. Decades earlier, Gundappa Viswanath recalled Bob Taylor when he was “legally” out.

Broad is not a cheat, but he “behaved in a way that would not do if generally adopted”.

These are all “spirit” versus “letter” issues.

And spirit matters. If we lose the spirit behind all this, we lose everything. The essence of sport, learning about competitiveness and teamwork in an environment of fairness and mutual respect. Winning is important, but not at all costs.

That’s why I am concerned about DRS, that’s why I dislike Duckworth-Lewis. Because the unintended consequences of these changes tear at the spirit of the game.

The more we allow “letter” to dominate “spirit”, the more we are signalling to the generations that follow that what you do doesn’t matter; what matters is whether you get caught or not.

Sporting heroes are no longer readily available. Sex, drugs and rock-n-roll have invaded every aspect of their lives; every day we hear of failed drugs tests, violent behaviour, drink problems, marital issues, the list goes on.

Spirit matters.

…..

I am no troglodyte, I am willing and happy to endure and absorb change, some have even accused me of fostering and fomenting it in different contexts. But when change is brought about, it is important to remember the core values of that which is being changed, so that they don’t change.

We must understand what’s cricket.

And what’s not cricket.