When playing the blame game never blame it on the obvious

I first became aware of blame when I was young. My introduction to it was benign.

It was singer Michael Jackson who best-articulated the conundrum of blame, when he tried to figure out why he wasn’t ‘getting no loving’ nor able to control his dancing feet.

While others in his circle were quick to blame the sunshine, the moonlight and good times, this was not good enough for the perfectionist king of pop.

After some investigation, Michael Jackson found the true source of the funky fever inside him. He urged us to blame it on the boogie.

Shortly after hearing his advice, I spent two weeks bed-ridden with the measles and was able to put Michael Jackson’s experience with the boogie to the test.

I was a finicky and nervous child, afraid of dogs, hens, banana skins and also any food that wasn’t mashed spud, beans and sausages. I didn’t like peas.

While I had the measles, I got multiple meals with peas in them. I threw all the peas down the side of the bed. It’s quite a natural human impulse. When you can see a problem, it’s a problem. When you can’t see it, it’s gone away.

My mother found the pile of greying peas. Having learned from Michael Jackson not to blame the obvious, I blamed it on the doggie. No-one believed me.

If you are going to blame somebody incorrectly, at least make it plausible. (The boogie does cause dancing feet. Dogs don’t bring peas into houses.)

Blame is a bit like gossip — it can seem negative, but it performs a crucial social function. Because blame equals shame and people don’t like the burning-cheek feeling of shame, blame acts as a threatening stick to prevent us from doing wrong.

Unfortunately, though, once it has been established that it’s your fault, blame lingers around like lactic acid in your muscles, cramping you up and preventing you from fixing the problem.

Back in my real job as a manager, the difference between something being my fault and not was stark. Take two scenarios: 1, There is a problem. It’s established that it’s not my team’s fault. Champagne corks pop. The group unclenches its collective stomach. Then, we are all activity. I’m striding around the office, barking instructions to other teams. I’m almost grinning when I tell my boss, in gung-ho language, ”Yeah, there was a problem, it’s not us, but I’ve lit a fire under the [Whoever’s fault it is] team”

2, There is a problem. It turns out it’s us. Our shoulders slump. Instead of fixing the problem, I spend too much time wondering how this will look. Can I shift some of the blame? Do I have to tell my boss, or should I just get in my car and head for the high plains, where a man can watch a dust devil on the prairie, smoke a cheroot, and get some peace from the noise in his head?

Some perceived wisdom of mistakes says: ‘You break it, you fix it’. But that doesn’t allow for the presence of blame.

In the movie, Pulp Fiction, the hitmen Vincent and Jules find themselves with a dead man in their car. While they start blaming each other, the situation doesn’t get resolved.

Then, Harvey Keitel steps out of a sports car and says. “I’m Winston Wolf. I solve problems”. And he does, because it’s not his fault.

Everyone needs a Winston Wolf in their lives.

Next time you make a mistake, call him. Of course, if that doesn’t work, don’t blame me.

Blame performs a social function. It equals shame and people don’t like the burning-cheek feeling of shame, so blame acts as a threatening stick to prevent us from doing wrong