... and is working at the DWP.

More to come later, but I wanted to see how many bothered to read this first. And if you DO work for the DWP, so much the better! (Cos mavericks are okay, it's the rest I'm bothered over)

But if you thought this WAS Doctor Whoish, don't worry, because yes, I DID go to the Terry Nation tribute weekend and YES he DID invent the Daleks and YES his spititual self DID get peed off that certain people didn't at least consult the ouija board before turning the Nation Creation into a set of whining Dweebs. ESPECIALLY that suspect runt early on who was into chains, whippings and black leather. Well, maybe not the black leather - separate series and all that - but anyway, that's all coming but in a seperate, er, entry.

Does anyone work for the DWP?

An interesting point, Skids. They do, but from my experience this is limited to the staff you can actually SEE, rather than Those.Who.Phone.You.And.Then. Talk.Like.This. You never see them, probably because they are not human at all, but little flying orbs who don't need to get out much (and would probably be used for baseball practice by the inmates of places like Deadhill Job centre if they did).

See, I've been (ulp - Daily Snarl moment coming up) having to claim income support for some time now - incapacity benefit, in the main, owing to GENUINE health reasons. (Nobody told me an undiagnosed early menopause, combined with late career change to fitness instructor/occupational health therapy assistant would equate to - several hundred hours later - dried out spinal discs and a backbone so crumbly you could sell it as cannibal granola. End result? MAJOR trapped nerve problem and paralysis of left leg. Which doesn't quite explain why the original - and only - reason they could find for signing me off was, and I quote, 'Severe depression' but still. Maybe it was the way I grabbed the original 'Advisor' by the throat and yelled: 'I've just missed kicking you in the gonads by a good three yards. NOW do you believe I'm poorly? DO YOU?! Give me that stapling gun ...')

Anyhow, to cut a long story short, I realised I was never going to get 'better' as such, and thus my days of teaching Bootcamp Aerobics were at an end. But I still had my NHS work to fall back on, and reckoned I could hack it as a fully trained up OHT. Thus, the moment I could walk without limping too much, I upped it to the Job Centre chanting 'Gissa job - but please try not to hurt me too much' which, somehow, led to my having an unwanted 'follow-up' medical with a DWP employed Doctor who turned out to be Jabba the Hutt's larger cousin, with a bad male case of permanent PMT. At least, I THINK it was male ...

Which meant I was made to perform tasks a weak back/hamstring would rather not do, such as the DWP version of Bootcamp Aerobics (Touch toes, that's it - now again. Now hop on one foot - not that one, the left one! Come on, hup hup hup ...' Well, that's how I remember it.) Which led to my back going again in spectacular fashion, just before I got the letter telling me I was was fit for work, which led to my making an official complaint AND going back on Diazapam, which meant my somewhat acidic attitude when dealing with beurocracy was automatically deferred to Higher Management. Who hummed and haaed in private, muttering things like, 'She's right, you know. Even Jabba reckons he overdoes it a bit at times ...' before searching out a way to a)stitch me up in quite another way to the NHS and b) finding the man to do it. Which is where The Master comes in.

See, my move and my official transition to lone parent status came at about the same time, but my Hex doesn't see it quite like that. It's taken me a long time to make him realise that MY HOME is NOT his personal mailing address, let alone a refuge for deadbeat alcoholics. The local police, an army of bodybuilders from my old gym, plus My Mother's intervention finally moved him on, but since he is currently of 'No Fixed Abode' he still uses my address for his Giro checks.

I, meanwhile, have managed to get my life back on a reasonably even keel, acquiring (quite legally) a small income from desk work at home, backed up by an itsy bit of lone parent benefit whilst my appeal gets sorted out. Once I have Jabba 2's nadgers safely in a plastic bag I will, of course, do what I wanted to in the first place, and retrain as a fully fledged OHT, but in the meantime the DWP were rather I wasn't costing them £30 a week in lone parent benefit. Thus, they phone at odd times with 'enquiries' such as, just making sure we've got your new address details correct, marm, in the vain hope my ex will answer the phone and they can get me on a fraud charge.

The last time this happened, a BB pal of mine was fitting new bedroom units. Now read on ... (Names changed to protect identities)

Tim: Hallo?
Unknown voice: Hallo. I wanted to speak to Ms Hertzengararj. Who are you?
Tim: I want to know who you are first.
UV: (Speaking over him) Are you a member of Ms Hertzengararj's family?
Tim: No, I'm a friend.
UV: I see. Are you her father?
Tim: No, I told you ... Look, who are you and what do you want?
UV: (In a I'll-come-straight-out-with-it voice) Are you her ... (da-da-DAAAAAA) partner?
Tim: No. I'm gay. And I'm married. (Okay, he was lying about the marriage bit, but he was enjoying himself by now and knew the right answers to give, bless him) I told you, I'm just a friend ...
UV: What are you doing in her house?
Tim: Fitting some flatpack units. She can't do it, because SOMEHOW she's managed to do her back in.
UV: Are you being paid for this work?
T: Wha ...?
UV: Can you provide me with your National Insurance number?
T: !*$!*£ ...
UV: Your date of birth will do.
T: Okay, I recognise an attempt at personal data theft when I hear it and I've got your number logged. Christ, of all the thick criminal ar ...
UV: Oh, I'm not a thief. I'm calling on behalf of the DWP.
Tim: Yeah. And I'm Napoleon's great granddaughter. Bugger off. I'm calling the Bill.

And he slammed the phone down. I came home at that moment, to find Tim yelling he was calling the police, daylight criminal activity etc before I calmly suggested he call the aforesaid number - and discovered the mysterious criminal WAS, in fact, calling from the DWP.

Okay, so ignoring the fact that final statement was the biggest lie Unknown Voice had told in quite some years, more Brazil than 1984, it was still pretty amazing even by current Government standards. Fascism, Communism or Socialism? Take your pick, they're all the same in their most extreme States. But when I realised my late, great father had somehow become involved in all this, I saw crimson.
Putting on my best 'Grieving daughter, year to the day since he died' voice (it wasn't difficult) I finally got through to the DWP complaints department. There, I spoke to a VERY nice and sympathetic lady (The Wife) who reported my call to her superior (The Master)

Who promptly called back and denied everything. Now remember, this is the NEW Master we're talking about, not the wonderful Robert Delgado creation, or even Eric Roberts' overacted version, but the scheming little tic who made such a hash of a great original in the latest Who production. All MTV and BO, in my opinion.
Thus, you can imagine the ensuing conversation, all smarm and whine and denial, 'Yes, but 'partner' sounds such a lot like 'father' doesn't it? No, of course I wasn't implying your father was a qu...'
It ended with TM giving his biggest telephone smile, all Blair Teeth and dribble, announcing it's SUCH a relief THAT little misunderstanding has been sorted out then, isn't it? Followed by a raging announcement to the effect that, if I did THAT to any of the DWP's senior employees, or indeed himself, it was a criminal offence punishable by imprisonment and at the very least I'd be done for impersonating a surgeon...

I didn't listen, cos by then I'd put the phone down, but it could so easily have gone the other way, with TM dancing round his office to a thumping Scissor Sisters track, surrounded by his orbic minions, with Tim and I left as a couple of shrivelled, helpless, baby mummies.

Instead of, as I hoped, TM huddled in a corner, at five o'clock on a bank holiday Friday, sucking his thumb and crying for his mummy.
I show no mercy. I'm not a doctor!



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 05/09/2008 07:31PM by Jazz_Sue.

You showed more resistrant than I think I could of managed there Sue.

Hope things get better soon.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blood! Death! War! Rumpy pumpy! Triumph!

Woah.


...Woah.

Comment from an ex Kanbra public servant. (the system works more or less the same in the UK)

When cretin telephones ask for his/her name, his/her telephone number, his/her official position, and in which office, and his/her superior officer's name and telephone number and office.

Until you get such information advise them that under the Privacy act provisions you cannot give private personal information to every caller who gets through.

Ask what the subject of the call is and promise to telephone back to the supervisor's number in 15 minutes.

hang up


Phone supervisor's number immediately. When you get the person whose name you were given earlier ask if caller was genuine. Advise that you do not give private information out over unsafe telephone lines and if they wish to know anything to put the enquiry in writing and post it to you. Tell them to omit all the garbage about info required under such and such an Act, regs, etc. and all the normal threats that are contained in a simple request from the departments that are there to help you.

Also advise the supervisor that if their treatment of you is less than pleasant then you will, of course, ask your local MP to make enquiries of the Permanent Head as to the behaviour of his staff, and also tell the MP that you are suffering stress from the way the department is dealing with you.


Nothing gets a government department on its toes as quickly as news that there is the chance that the boss will have to face the Minister and answer for some low level hack's behaviour. And if it is a high level hack, nothing upsets promotion and/or gong chances as having a Ministerial enquiry about actions of the department and the public, especially if it may leak to the press or other interested bystanders. (Few people at high level of any bureaucracy have no enemies or competitors, and the news that the Minister has been involved counts as ammo for the others.)


All this while maintaining a smile in the voice for you have the department by the short and curlies, as you can request each and every approach to you to be in writing. If possible, don't give a contact number. Get yours changed to a silent number and tell the dept that you can't afford the phone so it is being cut off.

Make a game of it, and let them worry.

If they stonewall, then patronise them. Say 'I know that as a minor cog in the machine that you have no degrees of freedom, so why don't you tell me who has authority and can think outside the strict rules and pass my file to them as it is obviously too complex to be dealt with at your level.'

This either gets them to pass the buck, or they get shitty and make comments which cannot be accepted in the context of department/public relations and then you invoke the local MP strategy and complain of the way in which you are being treated.

Remember, MPs are your servants, so keep the buggers busy and make them do something for you.


In the meantime, have a nice cup of tea, and think of mama duck and her ducklets.

And those pancakes...

There IS help out there! Check this out: www.dwpcorruption.co.uk/news.htm