The younger me believed the myth—that organizations and their lofty higher-ups were impeccably organized, humming machines of competence. Naïve doesn’t begin to cover it. They are human, yes, but not even average humans—duller, pettier, meaner.
Take the Met Office, or any bureaucracy you care to name: dens of careerists, populated not by visionaries but by backstabbers, lickspittles, and elbow-sharpeners. Coordination is impossible, not because they lack manuals or flowcharts, but because no one trusts anyone. Ambitions abound; rewards do not. That arithmetic breeds only resentment. And resentment is the solvent that dissolves all grand designs.
Tax inspectors know this well. They don’t waste time chasing shadows—they look for the disgruntled, the ex-wives and the cast-off girlfriends. Those who were once close enough to know where the money was hidden, now eager to watch it burn.If you choose to consort with bandits, don’t feign surprise when you end up mugged. That’s the first and final rule of the game.