The Final Cut

by Steven Suttie

  “People have been trying to get this discussion on radio stations like yours for years, trying to highlight the way the DWP are treating people. But you guys never report it, because you are part of the problem, you’re out of touch. You talk about matters that affect your cosy little lives, you talk about Waitrose biscuits, and John Lewis sofas, because you’re all middle-class media lovies who have absolutely no connection to real people’s lives. But look at what’s happening today, you are reporting it, and I can tell by your voice that you can’t believe your ears! So, there’s a story about a married, family man who killed himself because of the DWP, and you lot would rather do a phone-in about a faulty Rolex.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll agree with that. We discuss all of the major topics in the news.”

  “Yes, but you also decide what’s in the news. Tell me, did you cover the story about the lady who lost her benefits because she was in hospital for two weeks after being run over by a car. She failed to make her appointment, so she was sanctioned, lost her money for three months. There’s plenty more. The lady who lost her benefits for nursing her dying Gran all night. The Jobcentre said she wasn’t actively seeking work in accordance with her contract.”

  “Well, if these stories are true…”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? They are true. What about the couple who had their benefits stopped because they hadn’t replied to the DWP’s letters. It turned out, the DWP had the wrong address. But that didn’t come up until the appeal, and it still meant the couple had no money for three months. These stories are out there, if you look for them. It’s about time they were discussed properly, and the DWP exposed for the nasty, vindictive bullying that they’ve been doing.”

  “You really believe that this is a deliberate activity?”

  “Yes, I do. Hand-on-heart, I genuinely believe that it is. I’m amazed how blinkered you are. Do you not believe what I’m saying to you, that the DWP are deliberately targeting benefits claimants, and trying to make life as difficult as possible for them?”

  “No, I really don’t think that in a civilised country such as ours, that those kinds of things go on.”

  “Well why then, has every town now got a food-bank? Why has every Tesco and Asda got a trolley at the front door where you can slip a box of tea-bags in for the poor folk that are using the food-bank? We never used to have them, before this government came in. There were sixty foodbanks in the UK in 2010.”

  “Yes…”

  “And there are two thousand now.”

  *****

  The debate was raging everywhere. Despite the horrific injuries that had been sustained by the three Manchester DWP employees, it seemed that the lid was finally off the can of worms. Most of the press had completely ignored the story over the previous six years or so. But now that the story was finally in the news, suddenly every socially conscientious person was eager to take advantage of the opportunity. They wanted to make their point and highlight the tragedies that they had seen, personally, at the hands of the DWP’s “war against the poor” as it was being dubbed. Many commentators were repeating the satirical theory that DWP stands for “Die Whenever Possible.”

  It was a very grotesque situation. Three people were lying in hospital beds with injuries that were going to cause them misery for the rest of their lives, whilst half of the British public were arguing that this was “inevitable” and “predictable.”

  The other half claimed that people on benefits were “idle” and “deserve everything that the DWP are doing.”

  Social media platforms were awash with people saying things that simply weren’t true, or even remotely researched. Typical, made-up, off-the-cuff comments sounded like “those that were injured are the ones who took the benefits off them.” Or, “my mate knows someone who used to work at that place, and he said that they all bring cakes in when one of the claimants dies.”

  Meanwhile, the other half of the population were talking about the fact that people who were on benefits “can’t be that badly off if they’ve got their cigs, and their take-aways and their tattoos.”

  The Conservative supporting media had spent the past decade brain-washing the general public that benefit claimants were all “taking the piss” and “laughing at the workers who pay the tax, which supports them.” It had all been going on for a long time, the state-owned broadcaster Channel 4 were the worst culprits for delivering “divide and rule” style broadcasts such as “Skint,” “Benefits Street” and “How To Get A Council House” ever since the Tory government limped to power in 2010.

  Each TV show was basically a voyeuristic look into the world of Britain’s poorest people. In every frame, the poor person was smoking a cigarette, and they were usually talking about how hard it was to put food on the table. It was extremely easy to make these programmes, and also very cheap. And, as Channel 4 is the only TV channel which is completely controlled by the government, it was a very easy and convenient way for the government to hammer home their message that people who are poor are the very worst kind of scum.

  And this has been the rhetoric from much of the British media, ever since the “austerity” years began in 2010. A long and bitter war had been waged against the poorest people in the UK, and it was all a huge diversion tactic. The public bought the “Benefits Street” outrage, and felt thoroughly disgusted that people were laughing as they blew all their benefits on a day out to the pub.

  Meanwhile, the bankers in London who had crippled the UK economy by lending out more money than actually existed were saying “phew, that was close” as Joe Public’s attention was taken up by getting angry about poor people having shitty tattoos. Not a single banker was jailed for their part in wrecking the British economy, a scandal of such epic proportions that it required an eight-hundred and fifty-billion-pound bail-out. Almost a trillion pounds was lost, and not a single banker was punished for their part in the scandal. Attention was switched from the gigantic cake, and focused instead on the crumbs that were being “wasted” on the poor.

  People who were aware of what was happening believed that if the government run TV channels had been creating investigative documentary series about the banking crisis, things might have been different. However, they weren’t. They were flooding the airwaves with programmes about poor people such as “White Dee” and how many cigs she smoked, at the tax payers expense, in the most disingenuous example of diversion tactics that we are ever likely to see.

  Naturally, it worked like a charm. The British public were outraged that they worked hard to put food on the table, struggled to make ends meet, while these “scroungers” couldn’t be bothered. These “losers” were having the last laugh, and it just wasn’t on.

  Subsequently, an incensed British public helped to empower the government’s agenda, which was to clean up Britain’s benefit mess, and get the scroungers into work, come-what-may.

  Sensible people, most of them highly educated and with professional jobs, didn’t realise that they were being duped. The anti-poor agenda was suddenly everywhere. It was in the news, on the front pages of the newspapers, it really was being played out as the biggest crisis of our times. Each story was framed to tell the reader that the joke was on them, that they were paying for these cigarettes, tattoos, pizzas and three-litre bottles of cider.

  Of course, what the media weren’t telling their readers and viewers, was that it would take weeks of trawling the poorest areas to find a handful of these people who were prepared to come on camera and make fun out of their relentlessly miserable lives.

  The people who actually appeared on these shows had so little in their lives, not even a sense of dignity, that they did the interviews to camera. They mocked the people who worked, they infuriated people who had aversions to bad tattoos. And best of all for the TV production companies, it was all for a packet of twenty Richmond Super and a sweaty kebab.

  Many people in Britain had realised what was going on several years earlier, and it was these people, th
e police officers, the teachers, the social-workers and the probation officers who started to argue that this demonization of Britain’s poorest wasn’t working. Stripping them of benefits wasn’t achieving anything, it was just making matters worse for dozens of other government agencies.

  In the end, they argued, it was a stupid idea, it was all costing more money, because the crime rates went up, and people took their minds off their miserable lives by becoming addicted to alcohol or drugs, and they turned to shop-lifting, burglary and street robberies to fund their self-destructive new habits. Many of the people who’d been made homeless deliberately, by DWP sanctions, got themselves put into prison, costing twenty-five times more than their benefits would have costed the state, per week. The homeless charities couldn’t cope, the drug rehab charities were overwhelmed with new clients.

  All in all, the anti-poor agenda was an unmitigated disaster which created more poverty, more job insecurity, and more health problems, both physical and mental health issues, than any other act of Parliament.

  Not once had this matter been given the serious air-time that it needed. The work of the “Benefits Street” TV production team had been an overwhelming success, they had filmed a dozen people, people who were leading unhappy, difficult and chaotic lives, and turned an entire nation against everybody who was in receipt of benefits.

  As a direct consequence, there was no appetite to hear about the hard-luck stories of the people affected by the sanctions and the changes to their benefits. “Get off your arse and get a fucking job!” would be the standard response. But unskilled, unqualified and inexperienced people who have low self-esteem struggle to find work. That part of the discussion is rarely mentioned, as it requires a far more complicated response than “get off your arse and get a fucking job!”

  And now, Britain had a big problem on its hands. The attacker who had maimed three DWP employees had managed to get the entire nation discussing the matter. It was a disgraceful, unforgivable way to go about getting the subject discussed.

  But it had worked. It would be of little comfort to the families of Kath Palmer, or Jason Brown, or Gary Webster. None-the-less, it had worked, in a similar way that “Benefits Street” had worked for the other team.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Barry Dyson was biting hard at his fingernails. He’d just about chewed them down as much as they’d go, but still the anxiety inside him kept him gnawing away, and he was going to end up drawing blood if he didn’t cut it out. He was sitting in his conservatory, looking out across his garden. Where he could usually lose an afternoon sitting and relaxing, just idly watching the birds and squirrels or reading a book, or enjoying a doze, today all he could do was bite at his sodding fingernails.

  Retirement had seemed a long time in coming, but once it arrived, Barry was absolutely determined to enjoy every last moment of it. His wife Sheila still had a couple of years to go before she qualified for the maximum civil-servant pension, and that was all she and Barry were waiting for. He had it all planned out, he’d planned hundreds of days out already, all around England. He had notebooks full of places that he wanted to take his wife of forty-five years once she had hit her milestone. It was the family joke, Sheila would complain that she’d be more knackered going on all these days out than she would if she carried on working.

  The kids had grown up and gone now, making their own lives. The couple had grandchildren, and they loved having them over every other weekend for sleep-overs. On the one-hand, they enjoyed the little ones’ company, but on the other hand, they liked the idea of giving their own kids the night off. It was the highlight of the grandkids fortnight, they were spoilt rotten by Granny and Grandad.

  Life had worked out very well for Barry and Sheila, and now as the autumn of their lives was upon them, they realised that they’d been very fortunate. It hadn’t been easy, at times it had seemed an impossible task, but they had persevered and brought up their family, did well with their jobs, and managed to stay cheerful along the way.

  But now, this, it was too much for Barry to stand. He’d been listening to the radio. They were talking about the attacks on the DWP staff. There were people talking in the most disgusting terms about the DWP employees, talking as though the victims had somehow deserved it. It was barbaric, listening to these people, and it had upset Barry so much that he’d got up and turned the radio off. But it was under his skin now. He put the TV on, planning to simmer himself down with a bit of afternoon TV, but the television came on to Sky News, and they too were talking about the same thing, the DWP attacks.

  “This is no good. It’s bollocks!” Said Barry, as he hit the standby button on the remote control. The TV shut down, and Barry stood and walked across to the phone. He’d been putting this off all afternoon, but now, enough was enough.

  “Hello. Can I speak to Sheila Dyson please? Fourth floor, Baskerville House, Disability Section.”

  There was a moment of silence as the call was being connected. All Barry could hear was his own heart-beat as it thundered inside him.

  “Hello?” said Sheila. She sounded embarrassed to be receiving a personal call at work.

  “Hi love, its me.”

  “Barry! Are you alright, what’s up love? Everything alright?” Sheila sounded spooked, as though this was a bad news call. It wasn’t like Barry to ring her at work.

  “No love, I’m… I’m in a state. I can’t have you working there with all this going on. I’m coming now to collect you. Watch out for the car. When you see it, grab your coat and come and meet me. I’ll be waiting by the main doors for you.”

  “No, Barry… I can’t just…”

  “I’m not debating the matter now. We can discuss it properly when I pick you up love. But I can’t sit here a minute longer while you are in so much danger. I can’t do it.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Sheila was met at the main doors of her workplace by her husband. He hugged her when he saw her, and she knew from the strength of the embrace that her man had been to a dark place in his mind.

  “Barry… love…”

  He was in tears, and the moment took Sheila by surprise. This just wasn’t his way. He didn’t cry, not like this. He was trembling.

  “I just want to get you home now, out of harm’s way.”

  “But Barry… I could lose my job!”

  “It doesn’t matter! Come on and get in the car.”

  As Sheila walked by her husband’s side, she noticed that he was carrying a hammer in his hand. It was at that moment that she realised what an ordeal all this was for Barry.

  In that split-second, as the shocking image of her husband carrying a weapon registered, she understood the torment that he’d been going through. This was a scary situation, and even though Sheila had been talking about it with colleagues all day, she’d had no idea how distressing it was for Barry. She felt a fresh swell of love for the man as she linked his arm, along with a fear for the repercussions when she went back into work.

  *****

  A similar scenario was happening at DWP offices across the UK. This was a terrifying situation, and for those who worked in the DWP, and for those whose loved ones worked there, it was an extremely distressing and anxious time. The DWP is one of the country’s biggest employers, with a work-force of eighty-five thousand people. Every single one of those people had family, friends and loved ones who were stressed out and scared about what was happening in Manchester.

  The concern and the worry was felt most keenly by the manager of each DWP department, especially in the Greater Manchester region. The managers there were seeing their departments in crisis. The amount of staff that had called in sick that morning was unprecedented, and the amount of people who had left work during the course of the day, many without even offering an explanation, was impossible to calculate. It was understandable, of course it was. Each DWP office was like a pressure-cooker, ready to blow at any moment, as the team-members wound each other up further and further, talking none-stop about the att
acks, and wondering if anybody from their building was going to be next.

  To make matters worse, some staff had started weird rumours about “being followed home last night” and “there was

  somebody lay down next to my car last week.”

  At times of worry and panic like this, you could always rely on a few dickheads to make matters even more concerning. Every single DWP manager was refreshing their e-mail folders, astounded that still, no official communication in how to deal with this crisis had been communicated from the top. The entire institution seemed to be at a loss as to what their official line was. The managers had no information to share with their staff about how they were going to deal with this extraordinary crisis.

  DWP managers in Ashton were calling managers in Oldham. Managers in Bolton were ringing their opposite numbers in Rochdale, and Bury and Wigan. They wanted to know if anybody had heard anything? They were trying to find out the official line. They wanted to know, so they could say something to their stressed-out staff. But so far, there was nothing but a growing sense of fear, panic and total chaos.

  The impact of so many staff failing to arrive at work was starting to show. Benefit payments were not being authorised, and it was clear to all of the managers and supervisors that there was another crisis unfolding.

  Not only were their staff that had turned in, in a poor emotional state, they were also failing to carry out their duties. The benefit claimants were not going to get their payments on time. This was panning out to be a disaster from every angle.

  *****

  The problem was, nobody within the DWP hierarchy was prepared to take ownership of the crisis. No single senior staff member was prepared to step forward and become the “spokesperson” for what was happening. The reason was simple enough, the person who traditionally offers to be the face of any crisis is undoubtedly the person who is forced to resign over the situation, in the end. It’s just the way the system works.