To Chav - or Chav Not? Coming off benefits in the UK: the truth behind the mistruths. (General)

Member Name: jazzsue58

Product:	General
Date:	02/02/09 (302 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger (especially if you can use it to kill someone in officialdo)

Disadvantages: Our Direct Government is run by mountebanks, fraudsters and liars. Nuff said.

Until five years ago, I had a reasonable standard of living. True, I worked hard - but the benefits more than made up for it. Whilst we didn't exactly take holidays to the Carribean twice a year, I did have my own home, a luxury car, four lovely kids and, best of all, a job I loved doing. The trouble was, it was a job that demanded a high level of health and fitness; I was a personal trainer, and I trained 'em hard.

The business took off in a big way when I landed a prime job, freelancing fulltime at a local health club - the equivalent of having my own premises. In between, I continued teaching at people's homes and work places. I nurtured BodyTune like another child, revelling in its growth and achievements. It was easy to ignore the niggling aches and pains that went with it - I'd had it all before, with my other children. This was no different.

Somewhere along the line, I fell out of marriage. I could no longer ignore the fact that, as well as my own career I was also struggling to stop my husband's business from going under, whilst in return he drank away any profits I had made. Craftily, he had taken out a second mortgage to pay off other debts - big debts, that he had run up in secret - and he had put it in our joint names, at an astronomical rate of interest. Of course I realised my once loved husband was an alcoholic, shambling failure of a man held up by his wife, but I still couldn't work out why, despite my working every hour God sent me, there was never any money at the end of the month. Up half the night balancing the books, I no longer had the physical or mental energy to teach effectively. My classes and my health began to suffer - badly.

It all came to a head when, unable to keep up with the mountain of debts, Steve was declared bankrupt. Luckily, his business - and the £100,000 loan he'd taken out to get it started - was in his name only. But everything else, including our home, was held jointly. Overnight, I lost everything - starting with my home, and ending with my mind. The house and car were repossessed, and we ended up living in emergency accomodation on a slum housing estate, dependant on the State for income.

I had never been on benefits before, but suddenly I was shambling from one interview to the next, being grilled over every form I filled in, every penny I had ever earned. Where was the money from the sale of the house? Why couldn't I continue in my job? Why couldn't my parents help out? Had I no friends I could call on for assistance? They didn't understand that I did not want to live like this; that the sale of the house had just about paid off the mortgage, whilst still leaving us thousands of pounds in debt. Neither could they understand the true effect on my health. I had already been diagnosed with severe depression, but blinding headaches and crippling stomach pains - something I had endured, off and on, throughout my fitness career - had now been diagnosed as dangerously high hypertension and severe endometriosis. On top of that, I was going through a horrendous early menopause. From being a self-made professional businesswoman in a highly charged and extremely physical industry, I had become a stumbling drug-filled wreck; dependant on a barrage of prescription medicines, and without an iota of self-esteem. How the hell could I return to work like that? It was only the love of my children that stopped me from throwing myself under the Gatwick Express. Well, that and the fact it would bloody well hurt ...

But slowly, things began to turn around. My ever inebriate husband continued guzzling back cans of cheap lager, intermittently being brought home by the police; happy to troll on towards pensionable age on State benefits. I, meanwhile, put everything BUT his own benefits in my name, including the flat I was doing up.

A few people on the estate did own their own homes - I wanted it to look as if I did, too. It was actually one of the nicer ones, a maisonette above the high street shops, with a front patio and its own front door. I planted a rooftop garden, and transformed the interior with cut-price wallpaper and stunning paint techniques, using matchpots of Dulux from Homebase. I became craftily efficient at "halfpapering" a room, for example, thus making end-of-line rolls stretch twice as far. I became adept at sourcing out cheap plastic dado rails and painting them to look like wood. Outside, I planted a rooftop "lawn" using bags of compost and canvas underbed storage bags.

I bought a cheap, secondhand PC and taught myself to use it, writing up the things I did so I wouldn't forget them (my memory being all but shot at the time) I went back to the gym - as a client, this time - and wrote about it afterwards. I didn't have internet access - crikey, my PC didn't even have an Ethernet port - but I didn't need it. My writing was just a hobby.

And a damn useful one, too. My depression was bipolar, so when I wasn't asleep in bed for hours I was on hyperdrive. Fortunately, these tended to be the times when, for some reason, my enemies were at their most obnoxious. But these weren't personal enemies - they were the government, and the local council. They were the housing trust, and the education board. They were the Daily Mail, and Richard Littlejohn ...

My mind working overtime, I began to realise just how pinned down the true underdog is, in our society. Yes, there are the thieves and the spongers, the no-gooders and the no-hopers, but in among these are scattered the finer gems of lower society. The estate actually had quite a low crime rate, and I began to go out at night, relishing the peace and darkness. Among the drunken shatterings, shifty drug dealings and screaming children - far too many screaming children - I heard other things. An art student on her mobile, paint stained happy and ordering a pizza; the chattering of a manual typewriter as an old boy wrote his memoirs; tinkling piano keys harmonising to a screaming saxophone. The true artesans of our society. All dirt poor, but all with a tale to tell. I didn't realise, at the time, that my writings meant I could count myself among them.

I wasn't offended by the other side of society that I saw - the hoodies stealthily sourcing out the Games shop, the teenage mother shoplifting for her drugs money - I just felt an inevitable sense of sadness, that maybe Littlejohn wasn't so wrong after all.

What DID offend me was the way in which government - both local and national - lumped us all into the same category: that of grasping, freeloading good-for-nothings deserving only of contempt - and of being treated like the brainless idiots they themselves were. Enemies all - but I had developed a handy set of weapons. They began at my fingertips, and ended at the "Return" button on the keyboard.

There is a well worn saying: "The pen is mightier than the sword." I would add, "And so is the keyboard." I developed a quick eye and even quicker fingertips when I sensed a scam brewing - especially when it was aimed at myself or my children. My most manic moments saw me apoplectic at my first generation Toshy, feverishly righting the wrongs meted out by everyone in local authority from housing officers to the DVLA. I overturned unfair parking tickets, unfair housing queue positions, and unfair rent increases. I got my brother off a speeding ticket he didn't deserve in Sevenoaks, and my neighbour's mother from a squalid retirement home in Gravesend. I always got my facts right, never swore and ALWAYS got results. I truly became "Ms Angry of Tunbridge." I had never taken the government on before, but I was about to.

The natural answer to distinguishing yourself from the "also rans" of the benefit culture, is to elevate away from them by returning to work. Besides, even at the higher rate, with CTC added, income support doesn't exactly leave a family well off - especially if you use the cash to give your kids the best start in life. Council music lessons and Army Cadets might not sound extravagent pleasures, but multiply by three, add on an eldest at Uni and a house move, and the costs soon add up. Yes, I had at last left emergency accomodation, and swapped the Artesan Wells for Court Lodge, Chav Capital of the South East.

I had to get a job, but it had to be one that paid at least the same as my benefit allowance, a big chunk of which went on housing. My EVENTUAL aim was to get back to the salary I was on pre-repo, which was about three times the income of a single Chav mum with six kids and another bun in the oven, but I was prepared to wait for the big time. All I wanted was to just cut even.

It was obvious my previous career was out of the question, but luckily I had kept a whole load of government pamphlets that had been sent me, all aimed at getting Incapacity Benefits claimants back to work and better off.
I was brought down to earth with a bump, when I believed that advice just enough to act upon it.

Much has been made of the Compulsory Work Interview that benefits claimants periodically get ordered to do. I knew nothing of this, but then I didn't need to; I was there ahead of them, grasping pamphlet in hot little hand and jabbing at the place where it said "... can work for up to 16 hours a week without losing the right to benefits." No, Mr Littlejohn, this does NOT mean you get paid in addition to your benefiit, although you can end up better off. What it means is, by working a few part-time hours for a few weeks, you can try a job or jobs out and test your fitness to return to work. Do that on any benefit but incapacity or disablement, and you're up creek without a paddle or, rather, in the dock sans any benefit at all.

It started okay. Lots of friendly interviews, CV workshops, that kind of thing.
But then I got serious about it. Untrained as I was in the area, it seemed I could do worse than work in an admin office, preferably one connected with journalism. All went smoothly until I got to making serious enquiries about permitted work hours with my local newspaper, and all hell broke loose.

Firstly, my self-booked appointment mysteriously transformed into a DWP arranged Compulsory Work Interview, which I attended. The overall statement made, was that I was too sick and slash or insane to return to work and should wait until I'd had an impending operation before even considering it. The operation, incidentally, was to remove a large, ugly growth from my womb. It was one of two, the external one having shipped out to Bognor some time previously. We left it at that, all smiles and jollity. I got on with trying to become a journalist from the comfort of my own home. My BP shot up, I had three fainting fits and was admitted to hospital, returning home with a bucketful of new drugs and a trapped nerve where I'd taken a belter to the floor.

Out of the blue, I was sent a medical form. I filled this in, listing all my problems. Despite my "high score" on paper, I then got an unconditional demand to a compulsory Stalag interrogation, otherwise known as a DWP Medical. I will gloss over what happened therein, as I have no wish to have a rerun of the nightmares in which I am pursued through Guildford by Jabba the Hutt wearing a Mr Creosote mask. Suffice to say, I came out feeling distinctly flat - and with an odd sense of having been mentally violated.

None the less, I thought I'd made a good case for the fact that, much as I wanted, nay, was YEARNING, to go back to the workplace I was seriously doubting my ability to do so until after October. Not least because I'd had a severe reaction to one of the pills I had to take, had developed full-blown manic disorder and was frequently high as a kite.

Six weeks later, my incapacity benefit was stopped.

I took advice. I went to court - well, the tribunals service anyway. I won my case. The case being that, whilst a slightly - okay, fully - deranged ex-fitness instructor presenting a five ream high stack of evidence relating to her case CAN be overturned (by force, if necessary) the evidence she has presented most definitely cannot. Especially when it's been properly spellchecked.

I looked through it all recently. The majority was documents which the professionals (doctors, nurses, strait-jacket manufacturers) had issued on my behalf, matched in equal measure by my own missives backing those claims with dates and occasions (such as the time I got given an ASBO for putting rude comments about the DVLA on the rear window of my car, after I'd chucked a coke tin at a traffic warden - a full tin, too. But it was non-alcoholic.)

My work was acidic, laconic, heart-rendingly tedious stuff, but it also had an edge they couldn't ignore, or use against me. To couteract the tedium I'd included a fairly good dose of manic humour where appropriate (This is page one of my meditation stroke anti-stress blog. Shall I tell you why I hate the fat ugly bar steward? Shall I? SHALL I? I'll give him "un petite waifour" right up the... Pure Shakespeare. I'll publish it one day.) Whatever, it did the trick. Moreover, it showed me the direction I should be heading in, which is where I am right now. Yep, unemployment.

Sorry, that should have read "Self employment." Freudian slip there. Although I am asthmatic, hypertensive, and in possession of a decidedly dodgy ticker I am still feeling distinctly guilty about being on benefits. My GP disagrees, but then she doesn't live on the Court Lodge Estate. Besides anything else, I want a house with chimneys again. Round here, they don't come cheap.

Cue ten months later, to now. Last October I had my op. Last October plus 48 hours, I started writing for a living. The idea was, take it up to Christmas, count how many thousands I'd made, announce to the tax man what I was earning and hand back to the DWP anything they'd overpaid me.

I made £243 in three months, well under the twenty quid a week I'm allowed to keep before even declaring I'm working at all. Okay, so £223 of that was made in three fairly recent days, with more to follow, but even I can see it will be a long time before I'm making enough to put a finger up to the benefit system.

I realised I needed professional help with this, starting with a business loan for a few essentials to get me started - like a car, for instance. But where to go from there? Do I jack in the benefits system completely, take a "real" job tipping out bedpans for a fiver an hour at the local hospital, and hope to God the freelancing starts to pay off in the meantime? Or do I take some part-time work - 15 hours a week, say - top it up with child tax credits and keep quiet about the business until I've built up a healthy account book? But then I won't be able to register my business name, or get help from Business Link, or open a Starter Business account, or ...

There was only one thing for it. Back to the DWP it was - or Job Centre Plus, as it is now known. And so it goes on.

I can do no better than share with you the contents of this email, which I posted off this morning. It represents one month of trial and error. The error being, imagining anything at all has changed in the last twelve months. The swords are out - all ten of them.

All I can say is, they have been warned.

"To: Neil Paine NDLP admin team
cc: L. Lewis, Redhill job centre.
From: Susan Crane
Ref: WA 208222B

A few comments about the less-than-effective way I have been dealt with by this office. Sorry about the lack of brevity, but there's a lot to get through.

I am presently on income support due to incapacity. Although highly qualified, I am no longer able to do the work I used to do, and therefore in order to earn a sensible wage will have to retrain. Despite NOT having been told to attend a CWI/medical I am VERY keen to get back to work. This is my experience of trying to do so, under my OWN volition, via Redhill JCP:

Visit 1) Met at door by intimidating security line-up who ask what I want. I want to speak to an advisor upstairs. There isn't one. I am, however, told about Next Step next door, who are EXTREMELY efficient and helpful (and don't have much good to say about RH JCP) I explain I don't hold much hope, as a 50 plus woman in poor health, of getting a viable job and want to go self-employed as a freelance copywriter, which I am rather good at. They explain there is a govt budgeting loan; one of the things listed that it can help with is getting back to work - I assume this includes retraining costs, stationery, landline connection etc.

Visit 2) Same day - return to RH JCP to ask for loan form. But oh, no, back to work costs? They won't let you have a loan for things like that. Apparently. Take one anyway.

Visit 3) Manage (after much explanation and argument) to gain access upstairs. Not able to speak to anyone as they are all at a colleague's funeral, which is fair enough. The steward is EXTREMELY polite and helpful, and after a chat about self-employment he tells me about In Biz, who are at the centre every Thursday. Suggests I call back to get a Thursday appointment. Downstairs, am given the number of Redhill JC+ so I can do this.

Visit 4) Number given turns out to be non-useable. When I call it goes straight on to a recorded message saying "This number does not have a voicemail service" before cutting me off. On the Thursday, go to job centre by bus and demand access to upstairs. Met by same steward who asks if I've got an appointment? Tear hair out in frustration but, almost in tears, say "I need to make one NOW PLEASE preferably with someone who knows about getting people on incapacity benefit back to work via the In Biz consultancy you told me would be here today." After much puzzlement by various members of office staff, I finally manage to speak to a single parent advisor (could have been L Lewis, don't know) by admitting that yes, I am a single mum as well. Had I been married, which I now wish I'd said I was, I would no doubt have been told to go and never darken the threshold again. She says I need a "better off calculation." I say no, what I need is an appointment to see an In Biz representative. Told no, can't do that - not till we've booked you in for the BOC. Keen to do this anyway, so - and this is important - I arrange MY OWN, TOTALLY VOLUNTARY APPOINTMENT, for February 2nd at 9 am. Cost so far: £12 travel expenses plus mobile charges to call a number that doesn't work.

Visit 5) [ aborted] First off, I get a letter from your admin department dated 20/01/09, thanking me for calling to re-arrange my appointment (Que?!) It is "confirmed a compulsory work focussed interview has been rescheduled for Monday 2nd February at 9 am with L Lewis" followed by a whole lot of threats about what will happen to my benefit entitlement if I don't attend. I see red. This is EXACTLY what happened to me a year ago when, despite very poor health, I attempted to get back to work, arranged a NON-COMPULSORY INTERVIEW and, as a result, ended up fighting my case to remain in receipt of benefit at Sutton tribunals office. I won, but it set my health (and return to work) back by nearly a year. I do manage to get through to Redhill this time, speak to someone in admin who basically says, "Yeah, so what's the problem?" The problem, I explain, is that a) this was NOT a rearranged appointment but the one I made in the first place and b) was NOT a CWFI but a better-off-calculation I was forced into booking in order to see the In Biz consultant. Reluctantly, he looks this up and confirms with a mumble that, oh yes, you wanted to make some enquiries about how to get back to work. Somehow, I am not convinced this is the official version on file. The one that is forwarded to Hastings will, naturally, make it look as if it is Redhill JCP, rather than myself, who is the efficient partner in this relationship. Which is why I am not surprised when a compulsory proof of incapacity form lands on my doormat the following morning. Tra-laaaa, Job centre Plus, who have blatantly ignored me up to now, suddenly seem to have it in their heads that the whole "Get Ms Crane back to work" scheme was THEIR idea.
Get this: EVERYTHING that has been done or accomplished over the last four years to get me back into employment HAS BEEN RESEARCHED AND CARRIED OUT BY MYSELF. The only time JC+ take over is when they see a way to remove my benefit.
Get this also: An otherwise fit young single mother is NOT the same as a 50+ woman with heart problems whose prescription drug intake recently reached double figures. Which is why, according to leaflets in my possession from 4 years ago, people like myself have "Special Advisors who are Trained to Understand the needs of Sick and Disabled People."
To quote Ricky Tomlinson, My Arse They Are.

The last visit was aborted at the Salfords stage by bad weather. My attempt to phone L Lewis to explain, using the phone number given for this, was back to the standard IMS: "Sorry, but this number does not have a voice mail service" (Prrrrr ....)

The CAB offers a BOC calculation WITHOUT threats, so that's where I'm heading next. As for In Biz, I'll contact them direct. I've sent copies of this mail to everyone I can think of, including your district head office and my MP, but would appreciate you forwarding it to your senior manager. In addition, I would like an affirmation, IN WRITING, that the aborted February 2nd interview WAS instigated by myself, and NOT as you have written. Thank you, Ms S ..."

Summary: My five years on incapacity benefit - and the impossible task I face coming off it.