Vivaldi and the DWP

Words by Ross W. Marriott

You’re on the phone.  It’s 9 in the morning and you’ve been on hold for half an hour.  You’re trying to get through to the Job Centre because, as luck would have it, your mate's managed to blag you a free plane ticket to Portugal.  You’ve had a bit of a wonky spell recently - rough health and next-to-no wealth.  After 9 months, you’re finally ready for a break, even if it’s only for seven days.  But there lies in front of you one obstacle: the DWP.

Being on the phone to the DWP is like being a contestant on the Crystal Maze; all of your faculties - physical, mental, skill and sense of mystery - are tested as you jump through the hoops the government has placed before you.  A bureaucratic, Kafka-esque nightmare awaits all ye who seek assistance.

And if you succeed?  You get to survive another week.  At least, until they sanction your pants off.

You're eventually greeted by an automated recording of a headmistress from the 1950s who, despite never having met you, is sick of your shit.  She knows you bought four bottles of cider in Asda yesterday.  She knows you didn’t apply for that job in McDonalds.  Mate, she knows.  Oh shit, she asked you a question...  You answer as clearly as possible.

“I’m.sorry, I.didn’t.catch.that, you.scrounger, did.you.say.you.wanted.more.benefits?”

“NO”, you plead.  You’ve watered down your accent so much by this point that you’re starting to sound like the headmistress herself.  Ten more minutes of this and you might even end up in Dick van Dyke territory.

Finally.  She’s got the message.  Great.  All human operators are busy, which is good because it gives you a chance to compose yourself.  A familiar classical tune is playing while you’re on hold.  This is the one:



5 minutes pass.

15 minutes.

Now, tell me if I’m reading too much into this, but I have a feeling that this piece of classical music was chosen so that commoners like us know our place: it’s a reminder of the social order. 

As soon as it starts playing, your head is filled with images of posh people riding around on horseback, laughing at the sheer whimsy of life: “What’s that Greyton?  Fox hunting at six?”, "What what? A VAGRANT in the stables? Well that just WON'T do, will it now?"

20 minutes pass.

Slowly but surely, you slip into a trance.  Thinking only of the upcoming class war, you start rocking backwards and forwards, and Vivaldi's "La Primavera" grows louder. 

You’re outside Stockport Job Centre, surrounded by your fellow claimants.

*doo doo doodoodoo doo DOO-DOO, doo doo doodoodoo doo DOO-DOO*

The sky is filling up with drones.  Someone from inside the job centre’s making an announcement though an outdated, boxy-sounding speaker: “Attention all scroungers! All benefits have been stopped! This is the Big Society and you’re on your own!”. 

Vivaldi starts playing - all distorted and warped - and the drones rain hell.

Your mind is filled with images; the Great British Bake Off, colonial imagery, serfdom, dreams of nobility, royal bloodlines, reptiles, reptiles, reptiles.

The job centre’s been turned to twisted metal and cheap bricks; you’ve managed to crawl under a BT Broadband van.  There’s another JSA claimant to your left who looks just like you, but...

//

...suddenly you’re filled with an overwhelming urge to push him out from under the van, into the line of fire.  He’s your competition.  Actually, he’s more than that; he represents the very worst aspects of your own nature.  The truth becomes clear in your mind: you’re better than him. 

Vivaldi grows louder.

Bloodied and wild, you find yourself back out in the open, swinging a lead pipe at your fellow scroungers. 

Vivaldi, Brexit, Tories, the Daily Express, Asda 4-for-£6 cider.  You’ve become a volcano of unidirectional anger.  One of your brothers, dodging missiles, shouts over to you:

“Mate! What are you doing!? We’re on your side!!”

“VIVAAAALLDDIIII!” you scream back.  You’ve not got time to explain the intricacies of social hierarchy now. 

This is war.