“So, let me get this idea straight. You’re saying that instead of stopping their money, the government should be investing in ways of getting the work-less skilled up and ready for work.”
“Well, yes. Teach them how to drive buses, coaches, trucks, trains. Pay for them to learn to be electricians, welders, chefs. Then, and only then will their job searches be a bit more fruitful. No employers are looking for people with no skills, no work-experience, and that’s why there are so many long-term unemployed people. It’s pretty simple really, you don’t need to be Professor Stephen Hawking to work it out.”
“But there will be people listening to this who think that these people should fund their own training.”
“They can’t, can they, if they are stuck in the poverty trap. So instead of tormenting them with nasty, vicious stunts like stopping their money, the government could empower them and get them off the dole and into well paid jobs and ultimately paying in taxes which will contribute to society in a positive way. Everyone wins then.”
“A lot of people have paid a lot of money to be skilled up in these jobs. Wouldn’t your idea anger them?”
“Why, why would it? Listen, we all need a leg up at some point. Wouldn’t you feel proud to live in a country that helped its people, instead of stamping on them?”
“Well yes…”
“I bet you’ve had a few leg ups in your time, haven’t you?”
“Well, ooh-er Missus, I’m not sure what you mean…” The presenter tried to make a risqué joke of Jim’s question.
“What I mean is, you’re a successful radio presenter. But you didn’t just write into the radio station and ask for a show, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I had to work hard, I had to work my way up. I started off walking around hospital wards asking patients if they wanted a request on the hospital radio. That’s how I got started.”
“And if it’s not too rude, could I ask you how you funded that?”
“How I…” The radio presenter suddenly sounded flustered.
“How did you manage to pay your bills and keep a roof over your head while you were volunteering at the hospital?”
“I, well, I was… I mean I was much younger then. My outgoings were smaller.”
“That’s not really answering the question. I’m guessing that your mum and dad supported you doing this unpaid work?”
“Well, yes, actually, they did.”
“But not every person out there has a mum and dad that can afford to support their fully-grown children to take a chance on something like that.”
“No, okay, I accept your point. I’ve been very lucky.”
“It’s not luck though. It’s a leg up. So, you did your hospital radio. And then you got a show on Radio Lancashire?”
“Well, no… of course not! I had to answer the phones, make cups of tea…”
“Paid work, or was this also unpaid?”
“It was unpaid. That’s how this industry works. Your first million hours are unpaid!” The DJ tried to make a quip but his caller was relentless.
“That’s very commendable. But my point is that you had a good, strong support network behind you, enabling you to take the chance. Your mum and dad sound like great people. And I’ll bet there will be plenty of other people who have given you a leg up along the way. People who’ve helped you, advised you, introduced you to right people, the people who’ve eventually given you your own show on the radio.”
“Yes, I’m not denying it. There are a lot of great people who’ve helped me along the way.”
“Well, you’ve demonstrated my point for me. If you came from a one-parent family and you had to do two jobs on minimum wage, then go and look after your Granny two nights a week, you wouldn’t be where you are right now.”
“No, no, I suppose not Jim.”
“Just like you did, everybody needs a bit of help from time-to-time. These people on Universal Credit, all they want is a job, they want a good wage, a nice holiday, a tidy car. That’s all they want. But while we continue to have this idiotic system where we try to alienate people, try to humiliate them, strip away their tiny bit of money, it’s not going to achieve that. It’s just a waste of everybody’s time and effort. So why doesn’t the government do something constructive about the issue? And, fair play, if the people don’t show up for their plumbing course or their bus driving lessons - sanction them then, by all means. But we should at least give the unemployed something to aim at.”
“Well I think that what you’ve suggested here is a great idea. Why haven’t the government thought of this?”
“Because they are stupid, frankly. They are all born millionaires, all privately educated toffs who don’t recognise the struggles and difficulties facing people who weren’t born into money. They have been sheltered from the real world, real people, all their lives. It starts at boarding school aged five, then at the posh Uni in Oxford or Cambridge, and then in the corridors of power when they start their Parliamentary careers as researchers or PAs, until their political party parachutes them into a safe seat when one comes up.”
“Wow, that’s quite a cynical view of our political system.”
“It’s not cynical at all, its spot on. And that’s why it’s no big shock that these rich zombies in the government are so out of touch. It’s like you or I going to try and blend in with the lost tribe of the Amazon.”
“But despite the class differences, do you not think that the government want to help?”
“No.” Big Jim laughed. “They just want to demonise, they don’t want to help. They have no interest in solving the problem, they just want to cause as much misery as they can. They hate the poor, yet they have absolutely no understanding that most poor people are poor because they were born into it. It’s the exact same as most of the rich people being rich, because they were born into it. The only difference is that the rich get richer, by keeping the poor people down. That’s the way the system is designed and ultimately, it is why they came into politics. To get richer, and keep all the money amongst themselves by doing shady deals like selling the NHS off at a fraction of its value to their mates, or replacing government departments with private firms like G4S.”
“Interesting points there Jim. Thanks for sharing them, and if you ever stand as an MP, you’ll surely get my vote!”
Big Jim laughed again. “Well, that’s another story. But I wasn’t born a millionaire, and I didn’t go to Eton so I wouldn’t get on the ticket for any of the major parties. I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting my message out if I stood as an independent candidate, and if nobody could hear my message, I wouldn’t get any votes. That’s how Parliament works in this country, and that’s why most of the MPs we have are all in it for themselves. But thanks anyway!”
Chapter Twenty
“Jo, have you got a minute, please?” Miller was standing at his office door. He had his arms folded and he looked pissed-off. It wasn’t his intention, but he sounded and looked as though he had summoned DC Rudovsky to his office for a bollocking.
DC Bill Chapman certainly heard it that way and couldn’t resist making a comment. “Aw thank Christ for that! Jo’s finally getting the sack. Where are you holding your leaving do, Jo? The phone box on Church Street?” The caustic, harsh comment received a bit of a laugh. It wasn’t Chapman’s greatest moment of bantering but several of the temp officers found it quite amusing, based primarily on the sheer nastiness.
“And to think, you were the best sperm out of a hundred-million others!” said Jo theatrically, as she stood and walked towards Miller’s office.
Rudovsky’s come-back got a much bigger laugh and Chapman’s face turned bright red, as it always did whenever he became the butt of the joke, which was usually what happened whenever he tried it on with Rudovsky. She turned to give him a sarcastic smile as she reached Miller’s door and decided to kill him off, for today at least. “Fucking hell Bill. Look at the colour of you. You look like you are quite literally having a sh
it, mate.”
“Right, that’s enough,” said Miller as Rudovsky stepped into his office.
“He started it. He’s such a dick, Sir. I’ve got a new fantasy about that fat, ugly bastard, you know.”
Miller laughed, and everybody who was noseying through the glass, trying to see if Rudovsky was getting bollocked, saw the DCI’s head fly back as Jo’s first remark amused the DCI. She hadn’t even sat down yet.
Miller had heard several of Rudovsky’s “fantasies” where she gets Chapman back for getting on her nerves, using only her imagination.
“I’ve got to hear this,” said Miller.
Rudovsky sat down. “Well, for some mad reason, in this fantasy, me and Chapman have been paired up, and we’re working late at my house.”
Miller roared with laughter, mainly because of the sheer silliness of the expression on Rudovsky’s face, but also because of the thought of her and Chapman working together on a case. That would end in murder, without a doubt.
“Anyway, I look outside, and bugger me, it’s been snowing! Poor old Chapman has been snowed in at my place. So, I do the right thing, and let him sleep the night, and then, in the morning, I take my revenge for having to listen to all his shit jokes and boring opinions for all these years!” Rudovsky did a very impressive cackle.
“What do you do?” asked Miller, desperate to hear what she does to poor old Bill Chapman in her fantasy.
“I hand him a tooth-brush in the morning. I say, “here you go mate,” and he smiles and thanks me. Only he has no idea that I’d been up for hours, cleaning all the skids off the toilet with it, scrubbing under the rim, then round the back of the taps on the bath, getting all the pubes and mould and all that. Then I scrub the cat’s litter tray out with it, paying particular attention to the dried-on turd marks.”
Miller’s eyes were streaming, he was laughing so much.
“I rinse it of course, before I give it him, get all the big lumps off. But it isn’t a thorough rinse, like.”
Miller’s head flew-back again, and the sound of his laughter reverberated around the entire floor. It was quite apparent to everybody in the SCIU department that Rudovsky wasn’t in there for a bollocking. And it certainly wasn’t for the sack, as Chapman had suggested. A few seconds passed before Miller stopped laughing at Rudovsky’s insane coping mechanism for dealing with her negative thoughts towards her colleague.
“What’s up anyway,” asked Rudovsky. “You sounded a bit severe when you shouted me in!”
“Did I? Sorry Jo. I’m just feeling a bit lost with this case. I wanted to get your opinion on something, before the team briefing.”
“Go on.” Rudovsky looked pleased, it meant a lot when Miller asked for her input, and he seemed to be doing it more and more recently.
“Well, this is the latest note the attacker left last night, at the mill in Middleton.” Miller handed Rudovsky a photocopy of the document. She glanced at the message. “MAKE THEM STOP KILLING THE POOR!”
Miller sat quietly until she looked up and met his gaze.
“What do you think he means Jo?”
“What do I think that the message means?”
“Yes. I’m missing something, I can’t understand what the point is. I get it that the DWP are being extremely harsh on their claimants and its pissing people off. I know people can be a bit dramatic… but it’s not exactly killing them though, is it?” Miller smiled, more out of exasperation than anything.
Suddenly Rudovsky looked annoyed. “Sir, are you being serious?”
“What… yes, of course I’m…”
“You don’t know how many people are committing suicide because of these arseholes bullying them out of their shitty little bit of dole money? How many die within weeks of being found ‘fit-for-work?”
Miller shook his head. His expression suggested that ignorance was bliss. Rudovsky was starting to turn the shade of red that Chapman had gone a few minutes earlier. She still lived on the same council estate that she’d grown up on. She knew first-hand the misery that the government’s austerity scheme was causing. She saw it every day, the zombie dads, the depressed mums, the alcoholic grandparents. Rather than “pull themselves up by the boot-straps” as the government had naively, simplistically imagined the poor would do under their vindictive regime, those at the bottom of the pile had just given up. All hope was lost. They still had the same shit prospects that they’d already had, only now they didn’t have money for a stamp to post off a job application form, or the bus fare to get to a job interview, or the motivation and confidence for either. Rudovsky was a passionate campaigner against the cuts, against austerity, and the persecution of the poor.
“Sir, there are four million kids living in poverty in this country. There are over a million families using food banks. People are being treated criminally right now, in one of the richest countries on earth. Its fucking despicable mate. It really is.”
“But there must be some reason for it Jo, surely?”
“Do you know what, if that was the case, I’d probably understand it. But there is absolutely no logic behind any of it. It’s just creating bigger, more serious problems in society. I wouldn’t be so incensed if we actually saw some sort of a payback for these cuts. It feels like sabotage, what they’re doing. The fact is, there’s absolutely no advantage, the debt is going up faster under austerity than it would if the government was investing in these people. Their idea is simple. Kill as many of the poor as you can possibly get away with. Preferably before they have a chance to breed.”
“Jesus, Jo, it all sounds a bit O.T.T!” Miller laughed mockingly.
“Fucking hell Sir, please tell me you’re taking the piss? Have you not seen the doorways full of homeless people all of a sudden?”
“Well, yes…”
“You’ve seen the homeless camp down at Castlefield, you’ve seen them all getting off their heads on Spice in the middle of town, they look like something out of a horror film. There’s a dead one found every morning. Sir, these people are the best example of what the government are doing. They thought that if they took their hundred quid a fortnight off them, they’d go and get a job. But they didn’t, did they? They got made homeless, they started living rough, they blotted it all out by getting hooked on Spice and cheap cider. And now they cost a lot more fucking money to sort out than just fifty quid a fortnight.” Jo was getting herself worked up. For the first time, Miller was starting to see just how deeply she cared about this issue.
“What do you think happens when a family lose their benefits for three months Sir? In most cases, their whole world falls apart. The rent isn’t paid for three months, so the council start trying to evict them, mum and dad start losing the plot, start fighting and arguing, probably start stealing and drinking to deal with the stress, the kids start seeing their lives in tatters. In a lot of these cases, they break up. The worst thing is, it can be over something as little as not applying for enough jobs.”
“But if they…”
Rudovsky interrupted her boss. She knew about this stuff, and could answer his question, without hearing him ask it.
“They have to apply for a certain amount of jobs per week. But there aren’t that many new jobs coming on each week. So, the DWP make you apply again for jobs you’ve already applied for, or worse still, jobs that you haven’t got the skills, or experience, or qualifications that the employer is looking for. They are just like sadistic, nasty bullies, they are being spiteful and horrible for the sake of it, just because they can.”
“Is this true, though Jo. It all sounds like bullshit, to be honest.”
“Put it this way, if you treated me the way they treat the claimants, you’d be sacked, and I’d be given a six-figure sum in compensation, and a promotion. It would be labelled as institutional bullying, harassment, intimidation. It couldn’t happen anywhere else, but it’s encouraged in a fucking dole office. Honest, it makes my blood boil.”
“God, I can’t believe how bad it all is. I
just thought it was a bit of bullshit, brought on by a few pissed-off claimants who were fuming about losing their dole.”
“Well, the guy who is carrying out the attacks, the guy who wrote this obviously doesn’t think its bullshit Sir, does he?”
“No. Fair point.”
“It’s not bullshit. Here, my uncle has a scrap yard in Walkden. He advertised for an experienced breaker to work there. It was good money, he was paying about four-hundred quid a week. He had over two-hundred applications. Out of those two-hundred, three of them had the experience he was asking for in the job advert. Only two of them had the right fork-lift truck license. So, my uncle had one-hundred and ninety-eight people applying for the job, with no experience, and without the correct license. And the reason is, the Jobcentre are forcing them to apply for jobs they can’t even do.”
“I don’t believe you! Sorry Jo, but it just sounds too far-fetched.”
“Seriously Sir, ring HR now, ask them how many applications they get to work here, from people who don’t have the right credentials and stuff.”
Miller appreciated Rudovsky’s help. He decided to humour her. “Okay.” He leaned forward and pressed the speaker icon on the phone on his desk, and dialled switchboard.
“Hello, its DCI Miller in the SCIU, can you put me through to HR please?”
“Putting you through.”
Miller expected Rudovsky to laugh, or at least grin. But she had a deadly-serious look on her face. She was genuinely fuming about this issue.
“Human Resources?” said the voice on the line.
“Oh hello, its DCI Miller in SCIU. I’m just hoping you can help me with a query I have.”
The Final Cut Page 16
