For some people, the dole is a game

SIGNING ON:After witnessing social welfare fraud, our columnist finds himself considering hardline measures to stamp it out

ANOTHER ROUND of interviews. This time for a company which brings him back three times. At the second interview, the company’s 20-something, “Dort”-accented directors asked too many detailed questions about a product he’d worked on previously. At the third, the receptionist was invited in to transcribe his “initial thoughts” on how any new campaign could be structured:

– Lookit, if you want the benefit of my experience, hire me.

– You misunderstand. This is, like, a further “exploratory session”.

– You must think I came down the Liffey in a bubble. Like.

One of them reddens, considerably (not a good look in a pastel-pink shirt). In the receptionist’s eyes he can see: shame that she’s part of the charade.

***

The shrink suggests the unemployed man is perhaps too “brutal” in his world view. Is it possible he might temper his often forceful opinions, his potentially rash judgments?

“No,” thinks the unemployed man. He has learnt to do the dole-shuffle, to fill with anxiety, to lose sleep. Learning to become a doormat is not on his agenda.

– Sure. I’ll try.

***

A brutally honest man. He is not going to pretend everything in his marriage is hunky dory. How could it be, when you’re always counting pennies? When you miss the urgency, the satisfaction of work? The sweet release of Friday-night drinks? And much more.

Cracks appear. Frustration elbows its way into everyday events – the wrong (ie more expensive) brand of nappies in the shopping basket. The price of his razors (he switches to the supermarket’s own-brand). There’s a subtext to all conversation about the future. An sensation they got it horribly wrong.

He is honest about his failings. He knows he lets irritation boil over. Has too many dark days. Avoids. Sometimes, however, it is important to disappear in the dunes at Dollymount.

Into the innocence of children.

***

– You hide, Dada. I’ll count to 10.

Her turn: She shows him the tree she’ll hide behind. His heart melts: Young or old, no-one wishes to remain unseen.

***

For some men, the dole is a game – either that, or they are talented, bravura actors. They arrange drinking (or smoking) sessions while they queue.

They talk about holidays in Alicante, flash cars bought at bargain prices, girlfriends (never wives – marry and you are assessed jointly). They produce iPhones. Have all the latest, branded, expensive streetwear. Are, in their own way, as corrupt, venal, and institutionalised, as the Anglo bankers.

***

A nervous individual in front. On his mobile, in a foreign language, seemingly checking numbers, dates. The unemployed man leans forward, believes he sees two dole cards in the man’s hand. The foreigner shields whatever he is holding, shoots a look of unbridled aggression:

– You have business with me?

– That depends. You have business with someone who has moved country and left their card behind?

Someone suggests he should mind his own business. Another mutters about the fact that during the volcanic ash-cloud 10,000 claims went uncollected, that 40,000 Poles have transferred home their claims.

(Wrong: 3, 515 people failed to sign from April 18 for 11 days. There are some 4,400 Poles who have had their dole transferred home).

He continues to queue. The daggers, the staring.

***

The civil servant barely looks up. The foreigner takes the money, walks away, quickly. The unemployed man deliberates. Decides it would be futile: the outmoded system – a ruler wedged at the point of your name in a wooden box – means the civil servant has no way of knowing the foreign man’s name, or PPS number, once his transaction is complete.

***

The unemployed man would put the fraud squad in the queue. Patrol the streets around the dole on signing day, the post office on collection day. Interview men in paint-splattered overalls waiting impatiently in vans.

Sit outside the homes of so-called single mothers. Film the comings and goings of partners purporting to live elsewhere.

Increase fines. Examine, regularly, passports, bank accounts, credit card statements. Demand, monthly, to see proof of interviews, job applications.

If this seems anathema to his left-wing politics, to the rights of the individual to privacy, so be it. We should be gung-ho about corruption at the top, but we need to be equally aggressive towards fraud at the bottom. That way, those in the middle might survive.

The writer of this column wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the editor