Down and Out

Here’s a hint for the kids back home. If you ever want to go on the dole in this country, reconsider. Seriously. It might not be worth the pain.

It lands you about £60 in the pocket each week, a dismal sum which doesn’t even cover the rent. But with almost two months in dreary London and without a signed contract in sight, it was time to swallow some pride and grab a little change from the government coffers.

Being British helps. Last year I wrote about the dole in New Zealand, for Salient, feigning a need for government handouts so I could get a story. For all its mocking, the New Zealand system is efficient. Not only that, but their staff seem to be trained to empathise with the guys who walk through the door. It’s ridiculed and misrepresented in the media, but I’ll stand up for the New Zealand Work and Income. She ain’t the prettiest lady you’ll meet, but she’ll do you fine.

On the other hand, England’s dole is like the town tramp. After a forty minute phone interrogation, I was booked for a meeting with an ‘officer’ in the job centre department. A tube ride to Finchley central, and I walked into an office that could have looked hip about six years ago.

I was treated like a piece of produce. “You need to fill in this form,” my case manager advised. I skimmed it, and found it to be near identical to the questions the gentleman on the phone asked me several days back. I mentioned this, and got a ‘don’t mess with me’ glare for my troubles.

These forms reproduce faster than rabbits. One form turned to two, which multiplied to four. I wondered how often they really needed me to write the same information on different papers. There was even a separate form I had to fill in, “just in case the computer version gets wiped.” I didn’t want to ask why they couldn’t just hit ‘print’ and get a hard copy. This is the inane level of bureaucracy that I had to deal with. I was ready to write a metaphor about IHC and this bunch, but decided to scrap it: it’s way too cruel to the good fellas at the IHC.

But it's the culture of the place. I spent almost three hours in their offices, most of which spent filling in various forms. The answer to every question I had was tied into some form. I had to explain that I was a ‘habitual resident’, but no one could tell me what the phrase meant. I had to answer questions like: ‘Where do your friends live and what do they do?’ and other intrusive quizzes.

And it wasn’t the end of it. Forms to request a housing allowance, a form to backdate payments from when I first entered Blighty, a master form that had to be rechecked and signed, an amendment paper where I had to state that I went to University. I was on New Zealand’s dole seven years ago for two months and, get this, they wanted proof. It was almost a decade ago! I couldn’t think of a more infuriating system if I had tried.

I had to sign a declaration that I would hunt for jobs. No worries. And just like a convict on parole I had to check in to the office once a week and present a book with a list of things I’d done to get a job. This was ludicrous.

New Zealand suddenly feels like the land of plenty. People smile, some are even friendly. Walk into the WINZ office and you could get a cuppa for your troubles. When I chatted to WINZ, we joked around, and I talked to the strangers in the queue. They may have been hard done by, but they could still smile. But no, I had to jump ship and travel half way across the globe to arrive at civilisation.