Work Program pt 1.

Last week I was referred onto the Work Program. In purest English this translates to: "We, the Government, have fobbed you off onto someone else, to keep our official numbers of un-employed down and justify spending cuts for J.S.A. staff." Some company called Ingius is now my keeper.

My instinctive reaction was one of elation - I wanted to get and stay the f**k away from the job center. It's a place where souls go to be crushed and dreams wither up and die. A land of broken promises and false pretenses. Work Program has its own share of horror stories. Still, I wanted to witness them first hand. A new flavour of disparity.

I have been unemployed for just over two years now. During this time I have take the time to brush-up on my writing and reading for personal and political development. To some I will be seen as a dole scrounger, to me I see myself as a victim. Do not confuse that with me having self-pity. If anything its quite the opposite that's true and I am rather pleased with myself for going on unemployed for so long and not giving a flying fudge about it.

The time off has been wonderful for re-charging my batteries physically and mentally. The frustrations of working were no way near redeemed by the pay I received. My last job, though by far my favorite of all the jobs I've ever worked in (which is saying a lot about how bad the previous were), was high pressure, high responsibility to meet targets, maintain standards and break through the near absolute isolation barrier without creating fictional friends to keep you company. Lets not forget the shit-tacular talents of the management I worked under and their complete and utter failure to train me.
The job before that I worked in for two years as a till-monkey. It was the most horrid and stressful job I've ever had. The staff were bullies and liars and I swore I would never go back.

Remember this, One Stop or I SHALL return!

So, finally being dumped off as someone else's responsibility I happily took note of the location of my first meeting in two weeks time, a small office at the end of the corridor in the Job Centre building. As I shagged my way out of the building...

-----

INTERLUDE:

                                                                   shag ²  (shg) 

n.

A dance step of the 1930s consisting of a hop on each foot in turn.

intr.v. shagged, shag·ging, shags

To perform or execute this dance.

-----

...I had every confidence that something would go wrong.

Next Wednesday comes around and I receive a phone call asking me to confirm that I am, indeed Vincent Blackwell. It's the Work Program letting me know that I have an appointment with them the next day.

Uh. What?

I listen to their understanding of events as the Job Centre are usually more incompetent then this and accept it as fact. My appointment was a week earlier then expected.

The next day I was getting ready to set off an hour early to my appointment. As I was literally putting my shoes on to leave the house I received a phone call. It was an offer of a job interview to work in a pub/bar. I could not get them to get off the phone fast enough. Now I was 10 minutes behind schedule but could still be on time.

As I left the house I saw my bus drive off from the bus stop. Perfect. I wait for another fifteen minutes before a bus arrives. Whilst I am on the bus I try to contact my new adviser to let them know I'll be late and irony was at fault. After being put through to a call centre instead of my adviser I finally got a message sent to SOMEONE in the department where my adviser worked. The length of the ride into the city takes 20 minutes. Traffic burdened an additional five minutes. The phone call took 15 minutes.

I hope off the bus and sprint for the Job Centre, I have less then 10 minutes to arrive on time. I hurry and make it to main reception where I ask show a G4S thug my appointment acknowledgement. They send me over to the reception desk. I wait in line anxiously. Finally I am seen and am given a confused look. The man on the desk wonders off at his own pace to find out if my appointment is in the building or not. As this happens I get a phone call from Ingius. I take the call. I am asked where I am. I tell them and am quickly informed that my appointment is NOT in this building. A member of G4S starts trying to shuffle me out the doors as there is a no phone policy despite my protests that this call is relevant and important. Getting frustrated that I am being pressured to leave without having any answers from the Job Centre I loudly tell the security guard where to stick himself and leave the building.

It is now raining. Yes, it's fucking raining! I get the person on the phone to give me directions. Turns out its on the opposite side of town, go figure. I walk in the rain to my appointment and finally arrive half an hour late in a sleek glass and steel office building behind a hotel. I enter eager to escape the downpour. Outside it looks peaceful, inside it was frantic and miserable.