Eric
Apologies in advance for the length...

In what was probably the most deeply unsatisfying moment of my career to date, I spent nearly 3 years working in a jobcentre, trying to persuade an assorted bunch of scrotes that working for a living was actually a good idea, ‘cos, like, you got money and shit. I soon realised that this was a fairly futile pursuit, as they would invariably point out that as they already got money for doing sod all, why should they have to get up at 6.30 in the morning to go and do something they didn’t enjoy? Like me?

When I think back, it was a fair point.

Anyhow, I did a variety of different jobs whilst working there, taking new claims, then graduating onto 6-monthly review interviews, before finally being landed with the joy that was New Deal. For 18-24 year olds. I remember the crushing feeling of despondency that I felt inside when my boss told me the news. Having already worked there for a good 18 months, I was fairly familiar with the hardcore caseload, and pretty much knew what to expect. A bunch of (mostly) idle ne’r-do-wells, with a chronic aversion to work, training, and general responsibility, and who’s highlight each day was waiting for the off licence to open so they could get their next fix of Diamond White.

My shoulders sagged, and I let out a despondent sigh. I threw myself into my new role with what was becoming customary disdain, and set about learning all the foibles and quirks of the multi-million pound scheme that was New Deal.

Now, the main difference with New Deal was that the clients had to attend weekly or fortnightly interviews to help them back into work or identify suitable training that they could do, in order to make them less of a burden on society. In reality, these efforts were mostly in vain, and about as productive as a spacker in a hand-clapping workshop. But, I got paid to do a job, and by God I was going to do it.

And then I met Eric.

Eric was, how shall we say, not exactly respectful of his need to turn up every 2 weeks. He could not equate that in order to get his £120 a fortnight, or whatever it was then, that he had to endeavour to turn up, and when he did turn up, on time. This was an alien concept, obviously. Every other week I would sit and listen to various reasons why he couldn’t get in on time. And every other week I would have to send his case off to an adjudicator, who would invariably decide he was a fuckwit and either close his claim, or take a couple of days benefit off him as a sanction for not meeting his responsibilities.

Typical excuses would include:

• I was in hospital having my appendix out. (Where’s your appointment card then? Erm, I didn’t get one. OK, I’ll just give the hospital a call).
• I forgot. (Me pointing out that if I forgot to turn up for work regularly, I would be sacked).
• I thought it was next week. (Me pointing out that he had an appointment card with the time and date clearly marked).
• I didn’t know it was supposed to be this morning. (See above).
• My Gran died this morning.
• My dog had to go to the vets.
• My Gran died yesterday afternoon.
• My car broke down. (Eric lived about a 10 minute walk away from the Jobcentre).
• My Gran died last night.

And so on. Probably not pathological, but a habitual liar in any case.

One morning, as I was preparing for the day’s interviews, I saw that Eric was due in at 11.30 for yet another interview. 11.30 came and went, and still no sign of Eric. After 10 minutes I was just about to close the book on him, when he came charging through the doors, red of face. “I can’t make it for the interview”, exclaimed Eric.
“But you’re here Eric”, says I, “why don’t you just sit down and we’ll do this quickly”?

“No, you don’t understand, I can’t do the interview because I’ve been arrested”.

Oh good grief. “Eric, if you’ve been arrested, then why aren’t you at the Police station, in a cell”?

“No, I mean I was on my way in, and as I got out my car a copper nicked me. He’s outside now waiting for me. I told him I needed to sign on first, and I needed to see you. You can come and speak to him if you don’t believe me”.

So I followed Eric outside, and sure enough there was a member of the constabulary waiting. He confirmed that Eric had indeed been nicked, for not having a valid tax disc or something, and was required down at the station.

I reluctantly had to give him that one.

Still a lying little scrote though. And when I eventually escaped the Jobcentre, and got a nice job, I still read the local rag for that area. Eric made a guest appearance in the court pages nearly every week.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:17, Reply)