The power of the tribe

Every Saturday, millions of people across the United Kingdom get dressed up in the brand uniform of a business they don’t work for.

They make tortuous journeys to get to the workplace of that business.

They give up hours, sometimes days, of their time.

They put up with appalling conditions – rain, sleet, snow, overpriced beer, dodgy burgers, personal abuse – and they’re happy to do it.

In fact, they’ll even hand over a significant portion of their income for the privilege of doing it. (By ‘it’, of course, I mean watching 11 employees of that business kick a piece of leather round a grass pitch, while 11 employees wearing a rival brand’s uniform try to take it off them).

Liverpool fans

On Monday morning, those same people walk through the door of a different business. A business where they don’t have to put up with rain driving into their faces, or questionable catering facilities. A business that pays them, instead of the other way round. A business that develops their skills and offers them a pension to look after them when they’re older.

And they’re probably quite happy to work for that business.

But they all know, deep down, that if they had to choose, they’d always choose the first business.

That’s what emotional engagement really looks like.

That’s what it means to be part of a tribe.

You can’t build a tribe by sending out all-staff emails, tinkering with identity refreshes and polishing your values statement.

If you want to get close to that kind of connection with your workforce, you need to focus on building a different kind of culture.

One based on human stories and shared experiences.

Leopard focus

A few years ago, I met a man by the name of Stephen Fear.

Stephen was 15 when he left school to start his first business. The trouble was that he needed a phone and, on the council estate in Bristol where he lived, nobody could afford a phone. So he stuck an ‘out of order’ sign on the red telephone box at the end of the road and turned that into his office.

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After a while, he got friendly with the operator and persuaded her to pretend to be his secretary, so that he could talk an American cleaning products firm into making him their European distributor.

By the age of 20, he’d made his first million. Pretty focused.

Stephen Fear is now a multi-billionaire who owns more than 60 businesses. He also enjoys the rather exotic title of ‘entrepreneur in residence’ at the British Library, a role which sees him act as mentor to a wide range of budding new businesses.

One of the first things he does is to tell them this story.

A female leopard, out hunting to feed her young, will sit for hours perfectly still, watching her prey and waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

However hot or tired or hungry or uncomfortable she becomes, the leopard will not move, will not shift her eyes, not even for one second – because, in that second, the perfect moment may be lost.

Flies buzz around her head; the leopard doesn’t move. The flies get bolder, edge closer and eventually land on her face; the leopard doesn’t move. The flies start sucking the water from inside the lids of her eyes; the leopard doesn’t move.

For hours – days, sometimes – the leopard forces herself to ignore a series of almost unimaginably torturous and uncomfortable distractions without once shifting her gaze. All she’s allowing herself to think about is catching a meal. Because, if she doesn’t, her cubs will starve.

None of the budding entrepreneurs mentored by Stephen Fear is likely to have starving children, but they all get the point. If you want your business to succeed, you have to cultivate that same leopard focus.

The trouble is that, as any business grows, it’s likely to become more complex, which makes it harder to stay focused on one thing. People get so caught up in executing detailed processes that they lose sight of why they’re doing it in the first place. They make bad decisions.

That’s why Stephen Fear keeps telling the people he’s mentoring about the leopard.

So they’ll stop getting distracted and focus their attention on the one thing that really matters.

What empowerment really looks like

Carwyn James was the Brian Clough of rugby: a brilliant coach who never managed his national team, but who was right at the heart of the golden age of Welsh rugby.

Back in the days when rugby was still an amateur game (which meant he didn’t get paid), James was the coach all the players wanted to play for – and all the other coaches secretly wanted to be.

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He is still the only coach to lead a victorious Lions tour of New Zealand. In fact, he made a habit of beating the otherwise all-conquering All Blacks. He beat them with his club side, Llanelli, in 1973. A few months later, in perhaps his greatest triumph, he beat them with a scratch Barbarians side in a legendary encounter in Cardiff.

Before the Barbarians game kicked off, James wandered over to have a quiet word with Phil Bennett, his gifted, but nervous, young fly-half.

‘You’ve got a lovely sidestep, Phil’, he said. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ll use it today. Which is a shame, really. These All Blacks were built to be side-stepped. I reckon you could side-step them off the park.’

A few minutes into the game, the All Blacks kicked the ball deep into the Barbarians’ half. Bennett caught it near his own goal-line and looked up to see three All Blacks bearing menacingly down on him.

In a moment of breathtaking brilliance, he side-stepped all three and began a daring counter-attack, which resulted in a try still regarded by most rugby lovers, even 45 years later, as the greatest ever scored.

It’s a moment that perfectly sums up what made Carwyn James so successful: brilliant tactical insight, combined with a willingness to let his players express themselves – and the great gift of making them feel confident enough to do it.

He made it look effortless but, in fact, he worked very hard at it. Long before video analysis became fashionable, James used to spend hours poring over old newsreel footage of his adversaries, working out what made them tick and where to find the chinks in their armour.

But he never burdened his players with any of that detail. He told them what he’d worked out and which areas they needed to focus on. Then he gave them the freedom and confidence to make the most of his insight and their talents. He made it simple.

That’s why his players loved him. And why the crowds would always flock to watch any team he was coaching.

Sadly, Carwyn James died in 1983, when he was just 53. If he were still alive today, though, it’s a safe bet that he would be earning a very comfortable living as an ‘empowerment’ guru.

You hear a lot of businesses talk about empowerment these days.

The trouble is: most of the people who work in those businesses are so busy trying to follow the manual that they never have a chance to show off their sidestep.

People relate to people. Not numbers.

During the Ethiopian famine in 1984, BBC reporter Michael Buerk broadcast a series of harrowing reports from the refugee camp at Korem.

Africa famine

These reports had a powerful effect on people watching on their sofas back in the UK – none more so than Bob Geldof, who picked up the phone, called Ultravox singer Midge Ure and said ‘we’ve got to do something’.

That ‘something’ turned into BandAid – then LiveAid. Geldof and his collaborators raised hundreds of millions of dollars and focused the attention of the world on the crisis in Africa. All because of Michael Buerk’s report.

Interestingly, Buerk had been broadcasting reports from Ethiopia for several weeks, but no one had really paid much attention up until then.

This was because all his previous reports had focused on the scale of the tragedy – and the scale was so vast that it was literally overwhelming: seven million people affected, thousands dying every week, mountains of corpses being burned to help prevent the spread of disease.

It was too big for people in the UK to get their heads round – the numbers didn’t really mean anything.

But the power of the close-up images inside the camp made it shockingly real for the viewing audience. They couldn’t understand ten thousand corpses, but they could understand a small child who was going to be dead before nightfall because there wasn’t enough food.

That’s because people don’t relate to numbers: they relate to people, to feelings, to their own experience.

Politicians know this (Joseph Stalin once drily observed that ‘one death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic’).

Stand-up comedians know it, too. That’s why they talk about things in specific, personal terms – ‘have you ever noticed how…’ – rather than abstract ideas.

Most businesses, unfortunately, don’t seem to know it. They still think ‘£100M investment in new warehouse’ is a brilliant story for their employee newsletter. Because they don’t realise that, to 90% of the people in their business, ‘£100M investment in new warehouse’ doesn’t really mean anything.

People understand the words: they just don’t understand what those words mean for them. Is it good or bad? Does it mean customers will be happier because the supply chain works more efficiently? Or does it mean there’ll be less money for other things (like pay rises)?

If you want people to pay attention, you need to stop trying to impress them with numbers and give them something they can relate to.