Zone of humiliation

Work
and
Pensions V
Gordon MacGregor attempts to become a jobseeker

It is perhaps axiomatic that a party whose name is a synonym for work should see wage labour as an almost spiritually redeeming activity. As Harriet Harman, Minister for Social Security, trilled in 1997: 'Work is central to the government's attack on social exclusion. Work is the only route to financial independence. But it is also much more. Work is not just about earning a living. It is a way of life…work helps to fulfil our aspirations – it is the key to independence, self-respect and opportunities for advancement.'
     Given the centrality of work to this government in combating social exclusion, I recently approached my local 'buroo' in the radiant expectation that I would be greeted by helpful and motivated staff eager to help me in my struggle towards the working 'way of life'. However, my suspicion that all was not for the best was first aroused when I barrelled through the door into a security guard who demanded that I hand in my umbrella 'for my safety and theirs'. Perhaps my eyes betrayed a spark of Blairite zeal or violent menace. Perhaps I had been muttering Arbeit Macht Frei under my breath. Either way, I was not to be allowed in until I had divested myself of anything dangerous and had publicly stated my business. At this point, my female companion, having no valid reason to accompany me (moral support was a non-starter), was ordered to remain outside. I tried to tell myself that this was simply a by-product of equality: the guards – unable to discriminate – must treat all at the level of the most suspicious, dangerous and unstable.
     Unfortunately, this was merely the first step into a dark region which, while it goes under the name 'JobCentrePlus' might better be described as the 'Zone of Humiliation'. Having negotiated the phalanx of uniformed thugs I was directed to wait in a queue where I would be required to publicly state my business for a second time to the inner circle of the 'truth and reconciliation' commission. Here, a further gaggle of guards congregated, listening to each plea and smirking knowingly to each other on hearing the stumbling supplications of prospective jobseekers as they attempted to negotiate the protocol.
     At this point I began to suspect that an almost deliberate logic seemed to be at play which creates frustration. One elderly gentleman, whose giro had not arrived, was told that he could get a replacement but would have to phone an 0845 number in Bathgate. They would then phone him back 'within four hours' to tell him when to come back to the same office for a replacement. He complained that he didn't have a phone, let alone a mobile, and asked to use the job centre's 'free phones' to call. This was verboten. What was he to do then? Perhaps, the clerk condescended, the Citizens' Advice Bureau might help.
     After negotiating the first line of defence I was directed to the inner sanctum, a world of bulging cushions, playgroup fonts and primary colours like some teletubby psikhushka. But the humiliation did not cease. A young woman, possibly agoraphobic, who seemed to be in some distress, tried to swallow a tablet which became stuck in her throat. Choking, she asked the security guard if she could use the toilet and was smugly informed that none were available for customers. Perhaps a glass of water? She was primly told that the guard had 'no authority' to provide one. She then went to sit beside her friend who was being interviewed by an advisor and was informed that she must sit on a seat three feet away unless she had legitimate business in the office. Every plea stymied, every movement policed, she seeped bleakly into a chair, head on chest, choking on another tranquiliser. The whole time, security circled, searching for minor infractions, directing 'customers' exactly where to sit, chiding them for their use of mobile phones, their failure to embrace the wonderful world of social inclusion.
     The impression given is that the job centre has become a criminogenic space, its degrading frustrations and bitter reverses fuelling anger and violence, its 'customers' (as if they have a market choice) the feckless, the addicted and the criminal. If work brings dignity then being unemployed is to be stripped of dignity. At no time is the 'jobseeker' allowed to forget that he is something less than fully a citizen. The staff (for the most part) seemed helpful and cheery, struggling with the system as much as their 'customers' and unable to use discretion at any point. But for most who find themselves in the JobCentre there seems to be a stoic resignation that this is about anything but 'jobseeking'. Rather it is a ritual of humiliation, resurrecting something of the vindictiveness of the Victorian workhouse, with its 'idle, undeserving poor'.
     However, this may be a less comfortable conceit now that many of the middling (or to use the new term, 'aspirant') classes are finding themselves on the dole queue. They too will find themselves having to justify the economic heresy of not working. But they need not worry for the JobCentre now offers a plethora of fascinating careers. In Govan, for instance, where once a man could only look to the rewards of heavy industry at Browns shipyard or Kvaerner, opportunities for advancement now abound as a sandwich artist (sic), 'befriender', or even the cheery Victorian toil of a gutter cleaner (must have own ladder).
      But while work is touted as a panacea for all modern ills we reserve our unbridled malice for those who – God forbid – may be getting something for nothing. Benefit supplemented work, however poorly paid, however unsafe and un-unionised, however long the hours, is positively criminal. This attitude can be seen in the adverts: a morbidly obese woman supplants her meagre income by the drudgery of ironing another family's clothes, unaware that a surveillance team from the DHSS are on her tail. The adverts seem to operate on the glib assumption that we would all wish to see this 'cheat' broken on the wheel and end with the warning that 'we're closing in' (it is an unwritten rule that the more portentous and dire the warning, the less actual chance of getting caught). Perhaps we dislike the unemployed and the lumpen because they remind us how precarious our own existence is. After all, anyone with a mortgage lives at the sufferance of a banker, never more than three square meals away from the street.
     It never fails to amuse that these folk devils are so ruthlessly hunted for their petty infractions at a time when bankers have wantonly trashed the country's economy. In retributionist America they would face the prospect of an orange jumpsuit and federal accomodation. In China the response would be more robust. But this country has lost the ability to hold to account in any meaningful way. And so, like frustrated brutes, we must simply kick the dog….or the unemployed.