Cheers to the absurdity of ‘industry awards’: All free booze, rented formalwear, and garish plexiglass prizes

Industry awards are ridiculous and ubiquitous. That both of these things are true is doubtless a sad commentary on the human condition. But it also tells you something about the things that employees value.

The ridiculousness is obvious. All the attributes of glamorous awards shows are replicated save for one ingredient: glamour. At awards shows on TV, almost everyone looks comfortable in their glad rags. At industry awards shows, almost no one does. The bow ties are clip-on; the talk is of when the tuxedo has to be returned to the rental shop. Every so often someone suddenly goes over on her new heels and disappears spectacularly from view. There is a sense of excitement but mainly because the drinks are free. Everyone is a bit sweaty.

There is a brief moment of anticipation when the identity of the celebrity host for the evening is revealed, followed by an even briefer moment of silence, then the sound of 400 people asking “Who’s that?”. The host will attempt to strike a serious note about the importance of the work that all the nominees do (how the world depends on the composites industry, why baking soda will end poverty) while guests neck the bubbly and surreptitiously pocket copies of the menu.

Then it’s on to the main event. When the awards are actually handed out, pictures of the nominees are shown on a screen so you can see what everyone looks like sober (and ten years younger). Some categories are so absurd that you start to suspect someone is playing a practical joke. Britain’s water industry really does compete to win the award for “Leakage Initiative of the Year”; the wedding industry hands out a gong for the best barn venue. Others are even more prestigious. “The Supreme Award is the highest accolade at the Brick Awards” is not a made-up sentence.

No one involved thinks this is a completely fair fight. The pool of candidates may well be self-selecting: nominees often send in their own entries. The judging process is usually opaque. It costs a lot of money to attend awards dinners and you would not blame the organisers for making sure that the trophies are shared out a bit. It’s not quite a case of “all must have prizes”. But if your firm stumped up for a platinum table with a magnum of champagne and a guaranteed position at the front of the ballroom, it probably expects something in return.

The winners don’t care about any of that. (The losers try to look magnanimous and then write bitter columns like this one.) When their names are announced, they sway to the front and grin awkwardly for a photographer. They return to their tables clutching a gigantic piece of plexiglass; colleagues crowd around to examine it as though it were the Rosetta Stone. Once every category, attendee and weak joke has been exhausted, the host wraps up. People head to the bar for a final drink. “Is it still free?” they ask hopefully.

If these ceremonies are so absurd, why do they persist? Some reasons are obvious. A night out is fun. Awards do add lustre to the winners’ CVs: if you were in the brick industry, you’d definitely like to be able to say that you have won the Supreme Award. They can burnish the reputation of overlooked departments within firms. And for the companies shelling out for tables, awards are a little bit of cheap marketing to the outside world.

But award ceremonies also survive because they tap into employees’ deeper needs. They offer a sense of recognition, however imperfect, for your work. There is validation in knowing that your boss put you forward for a gong, or that the sanitation industry sees you as a rising star. Awards impart a sense of collective purpose. This is not just a roomful of sweaty people; this is the grounds-management industry and by God, it is something worth celebrating.

Awards can also make people feel as if they are on a team. Competition is one of the central facts of capitalism, but for many employees, the contest can feel abstract. Once a year the civilised surroundings of a large hotel ballroom provide a simulacrum of that competition. Over napkins folded into flowers, nominees come face to face with the employees of rival companies. Winners are greeted as heroes; losers get consoling pats on the back. Awards are absurd, but they make you feel as if you belong.