This is a difficult time for elections.
There's no doubt we're all still punch drunk from a year of pretty intense politics. First, an election that gave us 5 straight days of frenzied nail biting, only to leave us with a decision on points and the odd spectacle of a Con/Lib coalition.
No sooner did we catch our breath, but Labour launched into a leadership election and activists who had just given their heart and soul to endless bouts of election campaigning had to decide who would be best placed to lead their party.
More months of hustings and TV shows and campaigning for favoured candidates saw a result nearly as surprising as the first. The media fed for weeks. It was a straight knock-out in the 5th round.
As soon as the bell rang for the 6th, Osborne came out hitting with the Comprehensive Spending Review. And hitting. He beat us relentlessly with good, old-fashioned Tory ideology that would make Thatcher blush.
So, all good politicos launched into the Main Event and took their places in the "Cut" camp or the..... well, the what camp? That's the big question. Labour as yet, have been looking at the way forward, leaving rather a vacuum in the present
Nonetheless, many of us politics-geeks were thrown Osborne-gauntlets on the 26th October that simply had to be taken up. We went our own way, some fighting for our National Health Service, some for forests. Some, like The Broken of Britain knew they had to speak for the dignity of sick and disable people, others like UK Uncut tried to put forward an alternative in the form of clamping down on tax avoidance. The Robin Hood Tax and 38 Degrees have surged from nowhere, the new, uncontested champions of politics. Social media has arrived and it's changed everything. These excellent, non-partisan groups have opposed certain policies loudly, and often, successfully.
Today however, we get to vote. We get to walk into a polling station and tell this government, this coalition, what we think so far. Like it or hate it, we also get to do that under the First Past The Post (FPTP) voting system.
Students get to say how they feel about the trebling of tuition fees or scrapping EMAs. Concerned citizens get to say what they think about proposals to sell our forests or close our libraries or sell off our parks. Police officers and nurses and doctors and carers get to give their opinion on the attitude this coalition have shown towards their professions. Mum's get to say what they think about scrapping childcare support and Child Trust Funds and Child Benefit.
It's FPTP. You only get to say what you think is by voting for the other parties. So that's Labour, Green, UKIP or the BNP.
If you want to oppose this government, the best way is to strip as many council seats away from them today as possible. Inevitably, often that will mean voting Labour.
When I hear politicians say they are listening, I always give a little chuckle, thinking, "Well, I know I am." I'm not a politician but I can hear you all loud and clear. Labour let you down. Labour have no alternatives yet. Labour need to change.
When you all say "change" I'm beginning to realise you mean CHAAAAANNNGGGE!!!!!
So, I can't speak for the other candidates, and I certainly don't speak for any of the groups above, but I can speak for myself. I'm standing for Labour because no matter what, they are the main political opposition to the coalition at our ballot boxes. Politically, as things stand, that's simply fact. In a ward like mine, where there's a straight three way fight between Lib/Lab/Con the only protest vote is a Labour one.
This is my promise to my electors : I will stand as a Labour candidate and I will be a Labour candidate. I won't win - it's a safe Tory seat - but I will still be the Labour candidate. I will continue to fight for the dignity of the sick and disabled and I will show my party which way to go. I will do my very best to fill in Ed's blank sheet of paper with the word "compassion".
Up and down the country similar candidates are standing for Labour for similar reasons. They will fight just as passionately for your NHS or your trees or your books or your educations. The only way to make sure that the Labour party is a party made up of people like me is to elect us. To give us a chance.
Let us show our party what Labour really is and what we want it to be.
We are not Westminster. We are not Murdoch or Spin. We are the Grass-Roots. We are Labour.
But whatever you decide to do today, please vote. There is more at stake politically now than there has been for generations. Politicians think you don't care, they think they can do what they like because no-one really understands.
Please show them that you understand all too well. Show them that you do care. Just vote.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Is the workplace fit for me?
Never mind me, I want to talk about Dave, my ever faithful, wonderful, loving hubby.
He has a "bad back."
Actually he has two herniated vertebrae and a coccyx injury from a motorbike injury years ago. He has lost most of the feeling in his right hand and suffers daily pain.
Nonetheless, one sickie in a household is quite enough, so he does what all good DWP ministers expect and gets on with it. He refuses to have surgery in case it goes wrong and leaves us even more vulnerable than we are now.
He has a job. It's not his dream job, but he goes in every day, knowing that without it, we would lose a little of the wretched dignity we have left.
He used to have a good job. He ran a call centre of 100 people, managing a budget of over £1,000,000 but he needed a job where he could leave at 5 and have weekends off, so he took a job with less responsibility and (of course) less money.
That one act ruined his career. Take a step backwards? But why? Need time off at short notice to look after a wife? But why? He has worked in his new, less responsible job for 4 years now and despite applying for countless others that he's ridiculously over-qualified for, he never gets them.
A few years ago, his back "went". Now and then, if he moves the wrong way or lifts something he shouldn't, he falls to the floor in terrible agony and spends the next week or two crawling to the toilet and living on codeine.
After two weeks he went back to work (grey and with a walking stick) and all was well for a while. A few months later he got a mystery virus. (As we all do at some time or another.) His temperature raged over 40 degrees for over 5 days, he tossed deliriously in bed, soaking the sheets and forgetting my name.
When he returned to work over three weeks later it was to face a stage D disciplinary procedure. One more day off in 6 months and he would lose his job.
He dragged himself into work come hell or high water for those 6 months, living in fear that he wouldn't be able to carry on supporting us if he didn't.
Not long after the 6 months elapsed, I got terribly sick and needed to be admitted to Addenbrookes yet again for surgery. My Mum and Mother-in-law rushed into sacrifice mode and organised childcare rotas and meal shifts, but Dave's boss was totally unsympathetic.
The only person who could take our son to school was Dave, but school starts at 9 and Dave had to be at work for the same time. He asked his boss if he could be half an hour late into work on the days when our mothers couldn't manage.
He was allowed one week. Then nothing.
All the while, I was in a hospital bed, alone, 140 miles away, with a feeding tube in my main artery trying not to starve to death. Dave's boss put him under daily pressure to confirm when my operation would be, or stated that he would refuse Dave compassionate leave to be there with me.
The company has a clear provision for compassionate leave. It is unpaid, but clearly defined and not in the power of a junior manager to deny. One day he asked Dave why they were keeping me in hospital for so long.
"What's the worst that could happen after all?" he asked.
In shock, Dave replied "She could die!" but the boss insisted that my surgeon drop everything (as surgeons are so eager to do!) to make me a priority and confirm the date.
After three or four months of intolerable stress Dave had a full on breakdown. A rocking-in-the-corner-unable-to-function breakdown. He was signed of work with severe depression, exhaustion and stress, costing the company thousands for want of a half hour here and there to get the kids to school and a little compassion.
He works for a multinational energy company with armies of HR managers and Occupational Health workers. They claim to adhere to the Disability Discrimination Act, but their own sickness disciplinary procedures call that into question.
What on earth would they make of me??
How would they "adapt the workplace" to someone who has a hospital appointment at least once a month? Someone who takes strong painkillers that mean she can't drive? Someone who simply may not be able to get into work for a particular time in the mornings or who might collapse with exhaustion before the day is out?
How would they feel about me spending 2 or 3 hours of each day I do get there on the toilet? Or about me crying too often with pain? How much sick time would I be allowed? A few days a month? Because realistically that is the minimum I would need. Would they mind the next time I need surgery? Would they pay me for the month I spend in hospital and the six weeks afterwards recovering?
It's ludicrous just reading it isn't it?
Critics reading are 100% right to say that none of that means I cannot in some way be financially productive, But unless we start to reassess the role of employers in a fundamental way and give them the support and incentives they would need to incorporate me into their business model, welfare reform is all stick and no carrot. It can never, never work.
That's why I fight welfare reform so fiercely - not the concept, but the reality.
Throwing nearly 2 million people onto a job market already flooded with healthy applicants, without radically reforming the way you regulate and inspire that market is pie-in-the-sky nonsense. We are looking at over 5 million unemployed and great suffering.
I have some great solutions. Broken of Britain are working on theirs too. Soon we hope to put together some ideas on real welfare reform that are innovative, positive and compassionate. We also strongly believe that they could generate billions in growth.
The irony of this farce is that sick and disabled people would be the first to say that welfare does need reform - drastically. It is punitive, degrading, limiting and shaming.
But business needs reforming too, or at least the way government interacts with business to harness our great talents.
We are worth billions to the economy, the government are certainly right about that. So ask us how we can share that talent, how we can make it work for us.
The answers might just solve all of your problems at once.
He has a "bad back."
Actually he has two herniated vertebrae and a coccyx injury from a motorbike injury years ago. He has lost most of the feeling in his right hand and suffers daily pain.
Nonetheless, one sickie in a household is quite enough, so he does what all good DWP ministers expect and gets on with it. He refuses to have surgery in case it goes wrong and leaves us even more vulnerable than we are now.
He has a job. It's not his dream job, but he goes in every day, knowing that without it, we would lose a little of the wretched dignity we have left.
He used to have a good job. He ran a call centre of 100 people, managing a budget of over £1,000,000 but he needed a job where he could leave at 5 and have weekends off, so he took a job with less responsibility and (of course) less money.
That one act ruined his career. Take a step backwards? But why? Need time off at short notice to look after a wife? But why? He has worked in his new, less responsible job for 4 years now and despite applying for countless others that he's ridiculously over-qualified for, he never gets them.
A few years ago, his back "went". Now and then, if he moves the wrong way or lifts something he shouldn't, he falls to the floor in terrible agony and spends the next week or two crawling to the toilet and living on codeine.
After two weeks he went back to work (grey and with a walking stick) and all was well for a while. A few months later he got a mystery virus. (As we all do at some time or another.) His temperature raged over 40 degrees for over 5 days, he tossed deliriously in bed, soaking the sheets and forgetting my name.
When he returned to work over three weeks later it was to face a stage D disciplinary procedure. One more day off in 6 months and he would lose his job.
He dragged himself into work come hell or high water for those 6 months, living in fear that he wouldn't be able to carry on supporting us if he didn't.
Not long after the 6 months elapsed, I got terribly sick and needed to be admitted to Addenbrookes yet again for surgery. My Mum and Mother-in-law rushed into sacrifice mode and organised childcare rotas and meal shifts, but Dave's boss was totally unsympathetic.
The only person who could take our son to school was Dave, but school starts at 9 and Dave had to be at work for the same time. He asked his boss if he could be half an hour late into work on the days when our mothers couldn't manage.
He was allowed one week. Then nothing.
All the while, I was in a hospital bed, alone, 140 miles away, with a feeding tube in my main artery trying not to starve to death. Dave's boss put him under daily pressure to confirm when my operation would be, or stated that he would refuse Dave compassionate leave to be there with me.
The company has a clear provision for compassionate leave. It is unpaid, but clearly defined and not in the power of a junior manager to deny. One day he asked Dave why they were keeping me in hospital for so long.
"What's the worst that could happen after all?" he asked.
In shock, Dave replied "She could die!" but the boss insisted that my surgeon drop everything (as surgeons are so eager to do!) to make me a priority and confirm the date.
After three or four months of intolerable stress Dave had a full on breakdown. A rocking-in-the-corner-unable-to-function breakdown. He was signed of work with severe depression, exhaustion and stress, costing the company thousands for want of a half hour here and there to get the kids to school and a little compassion.
He works for a multinational energy company with armies of HR managers and Occupational Health workers. They claim to adhere to the Disability Discrimination Act, but their own sickness disciplinary procedures call that into question.
What on earth would they make of me??
How would they "adapt the workplace" to someone who has a hospital appointment at least once a month? Someone who takes strong painkillers that mean she can't drive? Someone who simply may not be able to get into work for a particular time in the mornings or who might collapse with exhaustion before the day is out?
How would they feel about me spending 2 or 3 hours of each day I do get there on the toilet? Or about me crying too often with pain? How much sick time would I be allowed? A few days a month? Because realistically that is the minimum I would need. Would they mind the next time I need surgery? Would they pay me for the month I spend in hospital and the six weeks afterwards recovering?
It's ludicrous just reading it isn't it?
Critics reading are 100% right to say that none of that means I cannot in some way be financially productive, But unless we start to reassess the role of employers in a fundamental way and give them the support and incentives they would need to incorporate me into their business model, welfare reform is all stick and no carrot. It can never, never work.
That's why I fight welfare reform so fiercely - not the concept, but the reality.
Throwing nearly 2 million people onto a job market already flooded with healthy applicants, without radically reforming the way you regulate and inspire that market is pie-in-the-sky nonsense. We are looking at over 5 million unemployed and great suffering.
I have some great solutions. Broken of Britain are working on theirs too. Soon we hope to put together some ideas on real welfare reform that are innovative, positive and compassionate. We also strongly believe that they could generate billions in growth.
The irony of this farce is that sick and disabled people would be the first to say that welfare does need reform - drastically. It is punitive, degrading, limiting and shaming.
But business needs reforming too, or at least the way government interacts with business to harness our great talents.
We are worth billions to the economy, the government are certainly right about that. So ask us how we can share that talent, how we can make it work for us.
The answers might just solve all of your problems at once.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
3 Claimants die after being found "Fit for Work"
http://afteratos.org/2011/05/01/3-claimants-die-fit-work-atos-bastards/
The examples given in the report above are not unusual. 3 people died before their ESA tribunals could be heard having been found "fit for work". Not only were seriously (well, it turned out terminally) ill people found "fit for work" by ATOS, but even when the decisions were overturned at appeal, ATOS continued to harass them them with further assessments.
"....When his support worker appeared at the appeal tribunal she had to report her client could not be there because he was dead. The appeal was upheld and the backpayment will become part of his estate."
.....A third person, again from West Dunbartonshire, died recently after winning a second appeal tribunal following three years of repeated assessments and decisions being overturned."
And these examples are from just one excellent disability advocate service in Clydebank, the Independent Resource Centre. Replicate these findings up and down the country and we have 100s of people - maybe thousands - DYING before their tribunals can be held, people who have lost ALL state support in error, left to die in abject poverty. People who have ALL been found fit for work.
How much more evidence do we need? How long are we going to allow this to happen? When critics of ESA call it a "shambles" "chaotic" or "unfit for purpose" THIS is what they mean. They mean people are dying.
The examples given in the report above are not unusual. 3 people died before their ESA tribunals could be heard having been found "fit for work". Not only were seriously (well, it turned out terminally) ill people found "fit for work" by ATOS, but even when the decisions were overturned at appeal, ATOS continued to harass them them with further assessments.
"....When his support worker appeared at the appeal tribunal she had to report her client could not be there because he was dead. The appeal was upheld and the backpayment will become part of his estate."
.....A third person, again from West Dunbartonshire, died recently after winning a second appeal tribunal following three years of repeated assessments and decisions being overturned."
And these examples are from just one excellent disability advocate service in Clydebank, the Independent Resource Centre. Replicate these findings up and down the country and we have 100s of people - maybe thousands - DYING before their tribunals can be held, people who have lost ALL state support in error, left to die in abject poverty. People who have ALL been found fit for work.
How much more evidence do we need? How long are we going to allow this to happen? When critics of ESA call it a "shambles" "chaotic" or "unfit for purpose" THIS is what they mean. They mean people are dying.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Blogging Against Disablism Day
I have a "Hidden Disability"
No wheelchair, no visible deformity, no crutches.
So surely I wouldn't experience disablism?
Well, tell that to the two fat Mamas who shouted across the street at me to "eat a fucking donut!"
Or the woman behind me in the supermarket queue telling her daughter perfectly audibly that if she didn't eat properly she'd end up "looking like that" (Me)
Or the people (including a policeman) who have asked me sneeringly in crowded streets "What's wrong with you then?" when I park using my disabled badge. "You don't look disabled!" The policeman kept me there, standing in agony, and in tears with my toddler for 10 minutes, grilling me on why I was using a badge that clearly had my name and my picture on it.
But I reserve the honour of prime disablist for "Builder-Bastard" as he came to be known in our house.
I'd only been out of hospital following surgery for one day and Mum had driven me to Burger King to satisfy the terrible crap-food craving I had. As I got out of the car and hobbled slowly towards the door a van screeched into the car park without slowing down, nearly running me over.
He swept into a disabled parking space (no badge) leapt out of the van and ran into the burger joint.
Hobbling in a full minute or two later, I was furious. As my malnourished body shrinks with extreme episodes of near fatal ill health, so my feistiness often grows. For some reason I felt outraged enough to point out to the man (very pleasantly) that someone disabled might have needed the space he parked in and it might be a good idea to drive a little more slowly in restaurant car parks.
He turned round, his 6' 3" frame dwarfing my pathetic, stooped figure and asked
"What's it to you, you skinny fucking Belsen refugee bitch?"
Astonished and shocked, I told him I was disabled myself.
"What's wrong with you then, not getting fucked enough?"
Shaking with terror, something in me refused to let this giant bully win.
Calmly but oh-so-sneeringly I replied "I've just had 5 more growths removed from my bowels - 7 days ago in fact - and I can't walk very well."
He didn't miss a beat. Remember, this is a busy burger bar packed with customers and staff.
"Fuck you, slag." and he turned back to face the young lad behind the counter.
By then I was furious. I didn't care.
"Well, well!" I sneered in my most patronising voice, "What a catch you are! Your wife must be so proud!! What a big strong man she married, a man who screams at 5 stone cancer patients for kicks!!"
He didn't answer, took his burger and left.
I was shaking like a leaf, my legs would barely hold me up and I leant on the counter to stop myself collapsing. I was gulping for air.
Suddenly the burger bar erupted at once "Bastard!!" "What an arse" "If he'd stayed one more minute, I'd have...." "If he'd said one more thing I'd have...."
But they didn't did they? Not one of them? They heard every word, they watched a big strong man bully a small, sick woman in the most abusive and disgusting terms, but no-one said a word. Not one single person.
They let me fight my own battle, they looked away. Who knew if this disgusting pig was evil enough to punch me? Who knew where it would end up as he thrust his face right into mine, pointing his finger and covering my cheeks with flecks of furious, ignorant spit?
Oh believe me, people are willing to look away.
No wheelchair, no visible deformity, no crutches.
So surely I wouldn't experience disablism?
Well, tell that to the two fat Mamas who shouted across the street at me to "eat a fucking donut!"
Or the woman behind me in the supermarket queue telling her daughter perfectly audibly that if she didn't eat properly she'd end up "looking like that" (Me)
Or the people (including a policeman) who have asked me sneeringly in crowded streets "What's wrong with you then?" when I park using my disabled badge. "You don't look disabled!" The policeman kept me there, standing in agony, and in tears with my toddler for 10 minutes, grilling me on why I was using a badge that clearly had my name and my picture on it.
But I reserve the honour of prime disablist for "Builder-Bastard" as he came to be known in our house.
I'd only been out of hospital following surgery for one day and Mum had driven me to Burger King to satisfy the terrible crap-food craving I had. As I got out of the car and hobbled slowly towards the door a van screeched into the car park without slowing down, nearly running me over.
He swept into a disabled parking space (no badge) leapt out of the van and ran into the burger joint.
Hobbling in a full minute or two later, I was furious. As my malnourished body shrinks with extreme episodes of near fatal ill health, so my feistiness often grows. For some reason I felt outraged enough to point out to the man (very pleasantly) that someone disabled might have needed the space he parked in and it might be a good idea to drive a little more slowly in restaurant car parks.
He turned round, his 6' 3" frame dwarfing my pathetic, stooped figure and asked
"What's it to you, you skinny fucking Belsen refugee bitch?"
Astonished and shocked, I told him I was disabled myself.
"What's wrong with you then, not getting fucked enough?"
Shaking with terror, something in me refused to let this giant bully win.
Calmly but oh-so-sneeringly I replied "I've just had 5 more growths removed from my bowels - 7 days ago in fact - and I can't walk very well."
He didn't miss a beat. Remember, this is a busy burger bar packed with customers and staff.
"Fuck you, slag." and he turned back to face the young lad behind the counter.
By then I was furious. I didn't care.
"Well, well!" I sneered in my most patronising voice, "What a catch you are! Your wife must be so proud!! What a big strong man she married, a man who screams at 5 stone cancer patients for kicks!!"
He didn't answer, took his burger and left.
I was shaking like a leaf, my legs would barely hold me up and I leant on the counter to stop myself collapsing. I was gulping for air.
Suddenly the burger bar erupted at once "Bastard!!" "What an arse" "If he'd stayed one more minute, I'd have...." "If he'd said one more thing I'd have...."
But they didn't did they? Not one of them? They heard every word, they watched a big strong man bully a small, sick woman in the most abusive and disgusting terms, but no-one said a word. Not one single person.
They let me fight my own battle, they looked away. Who knew if this disgusting pig was evil enough to punch me? Who knew where it would end up as he thrust his face right into mine, pointing his finger and covering my cheeks with flecks of furious, ignorant spit?
Oh believe me, people are willing to look away.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Proud to be British
I loved everything about yesterday.
I loved the sunshine, twinkling through spring leaves on the mall, while union jacks hung like sentries.
I loved the joy. The faith in love that made millions flock to London with flags, faces painted, hearts bursting, smiling and laughing and cheering.
I loved the pageantry. The fairytale carriages, the scarlet and gold uniforms of the guards, the marching bands and the mighty war machines that flew over the heads of the crowds.
I loved the angel-music of Westminster Abbey, making my heart soar, prickling the hairs on the back of my neck , filling my eyes with tears of beauty.
Yesterday was about faith. It was about forgetting probability and choosing hope. Forgetting history, forgetting our own troubles and fears. Just for a day, we chose to suspend our disbelief and cynicism. We chose hope and joy and love.
But proud to be British? Numbed into complicity? Soothed into inertia by the weight of my historic chains? Did I suddenly see the light? Realise that State and Government act always in my best interests? Did I abandon a free heart and searching mind for a quick patriotic high as some commentators hope? Far from it.
In fact the opposite is true. I saw our great goodwill, our history of compassion and progression. Our ability to come together in faith. I remembered the men and women who gave their lives by the million so that we could be free. I remembered a nation that rejected Fascism and slavery and exploitation simply because they were wrong.
The rosy cheeked, well fed guests were symbols. At best they were benevolent philanthropists, at worst they were the exploiters. The grey men from history who told us we were "All in it together" as they marched our sons off to pointless wars. The Lords and Ladies who lived in unimaginable wealth while their subjects died of starvation and cold, the barrel-fat clergy, tipsy on the fat of their flock.
These were the vested interests, these were the status quo. These were the cream of our public schools and the future of our Parliament.
And still I will suspend disbelief and wave a little flag, raise a glass to the happy couple and smile with benign good wishes.
The British people I recognise have "Fair Play" running through their bones. They rejected slavery, fought apartheid, toppled Nazism and introduced a welfare state that is the envy of the world. They hate cheats and will not stand by as their greatest triumph is abused, but neither will they allow that safety net to be pulled away. The good men and women lining the Mall in the spring breeze believe instinctively in protecting the vulnerable.
On the 11th May they will see thousands of sick and disabled people march or wheel or hobble past Parliament, protesting at the effective removal of support that gives their lives dignity. They will see the forgotten, the dispossessed and the truly vulnerable in all their glorious pageantry. They will hear these people tell them that they are being left behind, that they are frightened and feel under attack. They will hear the disabled child explain that her hospice is closing, the cancer patient tell her story of being found "fit for work". They will hear that far from being protected, these people are bearing the brunt of the cuts in order that an Abbey full of privilege can suggest they eat cake.
It's quite the contrast and that British fair play, so stirred and strengthened by yesterday's pomp has never knowingly turned it's back
I loved the sunshine, twinkling through spring leaves on the mall, while union jacks hung like sentries.
I loved the joy. The faith in love that made millions flock to London with flags, faces painted, hearts bursting, smiling and laughing and cheering.
I loved the pageantry. The fairytale carriages, the scarlet and gold uniforms of the guards, the marching bands and the mighty war machines that flew over the heads of the crowds.
I loved the angel-music of Westminster Abbey, making my heart soar, prickling the hairs on the back of my neck , filling my eyes with tears of beauty.
Yesterday was about faith. It was about forgetting probability and choosing hope. Forgetting history, forgetting our own troubles and fears. Just for a day, we chose to suspend our disbelief and cynicism. We chose hope and joy and love.
But proud to be British? Numbed into complicity? Soothed into inertia by the weight of my historic chains? Did I suddenly see the light? Realise that State and Government act always in my best interests? Did I abandon a free heart and searching mind for a quick patriotic high as some commentators hope? Far from it.
In fact the opposite is true. I saw our great goodwill, our history of compassion and progression. Our ability to come together in faith. I remembered the men and women who gave their lives by the million so that we could be free. I remembered a nation that rejected Fascism and slavery and exploitation simply because they were wrong.
The rosy cheeked, well fed guests were symbols. At best they were benevolent philanthropists, at worst they were the exploiters. The grey men from history who told us we were "All in it together" as they marched our sons off to pointless wars. The Lords and Ladies who lived in unimaginable wealth while their subjects died of starvation and cold, the barrel-fat clergy, tipsy on the fat of their flock.
These were the vested interests, these were the status quo. These were the cream of our public schools and the future of our Parliament.
And still I will suspend disbelief and wave a little flag, raise a glass to the happy couple and smile with benign good wishes.
The British people I recognise have "Fair Play" running through their bones. They rejected slavery, fought apartheid, toppled Nazism and introduced a welfare state that is the envy of the world. They hate cheats and will not stand by as their greatest triumph is abused, but neither will they allow that safety net to be pulled away. The good men and women lining the Mall in the spring breeze believe instinctively in protecting the vulnerable.
On the 11th May they will see thousands of sick and disabled people march or wheel or hobble past Parliament, protesting at the effective removal of support that gives their lives dignity. They will see the forgotten, the dispossessed and the truly vulnerable in all their glorious pageantry. They will hear these people tell them that they are being left behind, that they are frightened and feel under attack. They will hear the disabled child explain that her hospice is closing, the cancer patient tell her story of being found "fit for work". They will hear that far from being protected, these people are bearing the brunt of the cuts in order that an Abbey full of privilege can suggest they eat cake.
It's quite the contrast and that British fair play, so stirred and strengthened by yesterday's pomp has never knowingly turned it's back
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Who is the Most Deserving?
Nadeem is a dental nurse. She works full time and has two small children. She's had MS for 8 years and slowly, it has got progressively worse. Her speech is now affected, her hands don't always do what she needs them to do and the daily exhaustion of a long term, degenerative condition has become impossible to bear. She can no longer do her job. Her employer no longer wishes her to do her job. She can't manage the housework or look after her children properly. Her condition will only get worse.
Pete was a line manager at a local factory. He'd worked there for 32 years. His spine is crumbling and he can no longer stand for any length of time. Despite several operations to reverse the damage, he suffers terrible pain, all day every day and can no longer do his job. His employer no longer wishes him to do his job. He's become a Health & Safety risk. His surgeon says there is nothing more he can do and he will need to use a wheelchair within the next year or two. His condition will only get worse.
Mary is an HR manager. She has breast cancer. This is the third time the cancer has returned and she's exhausted. Her employer has been very supportive, but it's a small company and he just can't afford to support her through another round of chemo and radiotherapy and surgery. Her grandchildren do her shopping and clean the house when they can, but they have no idea if she will survive yet again. Mary's job is her life. The thought of losing it fills her with despair.
Dan was a soldier. He served in Afghanistan. After just three months in Kabul, he stepped on a landmine and his left leg was blown off. He lost part of his left hand too. He is extraordinarily depressed. A young, fit man who feels his life is over. He may not always feel this way, but he needs intensive physio and counselling to get over the terrible trauma he's been through. It could take months or it could take years, no-one can say. His parents are heartbroken and desperately want to give him all the support they can to recover and live an independent life again.
Pete was a line manager at a local factory. He'd worked there for 32 years. His spine is crumbling and he can no longer stand for any length of time. Despite several operations to reverse the damage, he suffers terrible pain, all day every day and can no longer do his job. His employer no longer wishes him to do his job. He's become a Health & Safety risk. His surgeon says there is nothing more he can do and he will need to use a wheelchair within the next year or two. His condition will only get worse.
Mary is an HR manager. She has breast cancer. This is the third time the cancer has returned and she's exhausted. Her employer has been very supportive, but it's a small company and he just can't afford to support her through another round of chemo and radiotherapy and surgery. Her grandchildren do her shopping and clean the house when they can, but they have no idea if she will survive yet again. Mary's job is her life. The thought of losing it fills her with despair.
Dan was a soldier. He served in Afghanistan. After just three months in Kabul, he stepped on a landmine and his left leg was blown off. He lost part of his left hand too. He is extraordinarily depressed. A young, fit man who feels his life is over. He may not always feel this way, but he needs intensive physio and counselling to get over the terrible trauma he's been through. It could take months or it could take years, no-one can say. His parents are heartbroken and desperately want to give him all the support they can to recover and live an independent life again.
*********************
Yesterday and today, the Telegraph and the BBC carry yet another DWP story trumpeting the great "success" of Employment Support Allowance. They are delighted to announce that of 1,175,700 new claims since 2008 a massive 887,300 failed to qualify for assistance. That's 75%. Isn't that wonderful? Hardly anyone was sick or disabled after all!
So which one will you choose? Nadeem? Pete? Mary? Dan? Which one should we help? You see we can't afford to support them all. MS, "Back problems" Cancer and amputation are all conditions up for debate under Employment Support Allowance. All have been found "Fit for Work" amongst these wonderful figures. We are told that our 4th richest economy in the world just can't afford to help them all any more , so which one do you think ought to qualify?
Remember, you can only pick one. Only one in four are really in need of our help, after all.
Behind these headlines are real lives. Real suffering. Real despair. Most of all they disguise real need. What happened to the 36% of claims that were "abandoned?" No-one knows. The DWP don't keep statistics. How many of those considered perfectly able to work got jobs? No-one knows.
These headlines actually tell us that ESA marks the end of sickness benefits. Make no mistake, of the paltry 25% who were considered sick or disabled, a large proportion around a further 18%) were then put into the Work Related Activity Group. They were considered capable of doing some work with the right support. After a year, they will lose all of their ESA too unless they've found a job. Just 7% were considered deserving of unconditional support. 7%!!
If you ever find yourself in the same position as Nadeem or Pete or Mary or Dan there simply won't be state support any more to catch you when you fall. That's the story behind these headlines. One day, statistics show that it will be you or your Gran or your Mum or Dad or son and there just won't be any help available any more. At the moment, you probably find it impossible to believe that it could happen to you. OR that you could be as ill as the people above and be found "Fit for Work". I hope you believe me before the Welfare Reform Bill goes through and it's too late to stop it.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Dave the Loser Lost it
Today was a disastrous day for the coalition. Absolutely disastrous.
Possibly, however, not for the reasons you might think I'd give.
PMQs saw the very worst of "Flashman" Cameron.. He was not at the top of his game and when put under pressure, he gets rattled. When he's rattled, he blusters and when he blusters, leaning that one arrogant arm on his despatch box, he looks the epitome of everything he wishes to avoid. Red in the cheeks, sneering and condescending.
Now let me be clear. Lots of the public will hear Cameron telling Angela Eagle to "Calm Down Dear" and giggle. In some ways it connects the PM, makes him seem more human.
For a minute though fast forward to 2015. Whatever the outcome of the general election, I feel fairly confident in predicting a pretty bloody battle. Cameron will be hoping to revive "Call me Dave" for sham-election-campaign No2.
Whatever your political view, this coalition will have bought about some pretty unpleasant and unpopular policies by then. Some will believe they were necessary, some will believe they were not, but the cuts will have made themselves known in all their glory by then. Every single person who has lost child benefit, or tax credits or winter fuel payments or disability benefit or social care or an EMA or a job or a house will have to be persuaded that it was all in the common good, that pretty green shoots are pushing through, that it was all actually pretty fair. That's "Dave's" job, not "Flashman's"
That quote will play in a loop, it will haunt him. Want patronising Dave? Show the clip. Want bully-boy Dave? Show the clip. Want sexist Dave? Show the clip. Today it was funny, for the rest of his life it will be proof that he is nastier than Thatcher.
At least that's what the media filed it away under today.
A few hours later, Danny Alexander faced a ferocious Krishnan Guru-Murthy who threw him about a bit like a dog with a rag-doll. For a few perilous moments a "Michael Howard" moment seemed to hover, then just as he might have pulled it back, when asked about the flat economy, Alexander replied "I don't apologise for it (a choppy economy) at all.
Any viewers wondering if in fact the coalition might be a bit arrogant would not have been reassured.
Apologising for 6 months of stagnation, whilst explaining why they believe it is necessary might have been OK - there's still a good deal of goodwill towards the coalition's economic plan. Ensuring that Worcester Woman, Gloucester Granny or Liverpool Lass think you're a bit of a git, might not have been the best tactic.
**Just as I was about to post this, Channel Four played Michael Winner being about as sexist and patronising as a man can be. And so it begins.
Possibly, however, not for the reasons you might think I'd give.
PMQs saw the very worst of "Flashman" Cameron.. He was not at the top of his game and when put under pressure, he gets rattled. When he's rattled, he blusters and when he blusters, leaning that one arrogant arm on his despatch box, he looks the epitome of everything he wishes to avoid. Red in the cheeks, sneering and condescending.
Now let me be clear. Lots of the public will hear Cameron telling Angela Eagle to "Calm Down Dear" and giggle. In some ways it connects the PM, makes him seem more human.
For a minute though fast forward to 2015. Whatever the outcome of the general election, I feel fairly confident in predicting a pretty bloody battle. Cameron will be hoping to revive "Call me Dave" for sham-election-campaign No2.
Whatever your political view, this coalition will have bought about some pretty unpleasant and unpopular policies by then. Some will believe they were necessary, some will believe they were not, but the cuts will have made themselves known in all their glory by then. Every single person who has lost child benefit, or tax credits or winter fuel payments or disability benefit or social care or an EMA or a job or a house will have to be persuaded that it was all in the common good, that pretty green shoots are pushing through, that it was all actually pretty fair. That's "Dave's" job, not "Flashman's"
That quote will play in a loop, it will haunt him. Want patronising Dave? Show the clip. Want bully-boy Dave? Show the clip. Want sexist Dave? Show the clip. Today it was funny, for the rest of his life it will be proof that he is nastier than Thatcher.
At least that's what the media filed it away under today.
A few hours later, Danny Alexander faced a ferocious Krishnan Guru-Murthy who threw him about a bit like a dog with a rag-doll. For a few perilous moments a "Michael Howard" moment seemed to hover, then just as he might have pulled it back, when asked about the flat economy, Alexander replied "I don't apologise for it (a choppy economy) at all.
Any viewers wondering if in fact the coalition might be a bit arrogant would not have been reassured.
Apologising for 6 months of stagnation, whilst explaining why they believe it is necessary might have been OK - there's still a good deal of goodwill towards the coalition's economic plan. Ensuring that Worcester Woman, Gloucester Granny or Liverpool Lass think you're a bit of a git, might not have been the best tactic.
**Just as I was about to post this, Channel Four played Michael Winner being about as sexist and patronising as a man can be. And so it begins.
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