Theorizing that one could travel in his own lifetime, the 9th Wonder Of Foam stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the future, facing mirror images he barely recognized and driven by an unknown force to seek out compensatory claims against him not being able to work. His only guide on this journey is Al, an PC from the past who appears in the form of a PC that only Foamy has the password and username too. And so Foamy finds himself leaping from week to week, putting right what wasn't really wrong in the first place, and hoping that each Leap will be the Leap to work.

Yes the above is a slightly fictitious if not entirely fact, then quite probably not fact, account of the last few months of my life. No Fought since February 18th, no update since April sometime. You could argue that its something to do with the fact that in the last two months I've been what the nobility call a Cad. No, not a Computer Automated Design machine, (but I'm noting that down as a fun thing to do over the summer.) suffice to say I've developed a taste for an alternative way of attracting ladies that doesn't involved smearing my testicles in the blood of an antelope, wearing a necklace of tiger bones and singing Lollipop Lollipop on the London M25 ring road. (jots down in notepad)

But in the interests of not boring anyone I'm hear to recount the horrifying tale of my addition to "the system" where someone called the "man" knows where i am, at least that's what my Beeeeaaaaaaaaaaaat poetic cousiiiiiiiiiiin teeeeeellllls me! For the five years i've been legally allowed (note -  allowed, not 'compelled') >work, I haven't. I've avoided work like a white middle aged American Republican voting man avoids change. And I'm proud of it, using Jerry Seinfeld as my role model its worked ... until now.

My degree is finished, and now I must face up to the fact that my degree means about as much as the Jacobs cracker its printed on. Technically, I'm an unemployed film maker but only in the same way that until recently a certain ex President of the United States of America continued to live. I've decided to go back and do an MA in Scriptwriting, equally worthless as my degree but well i enjoy it. Problem is, I'm not confirmed on the course yet so my future continues to be murky rather than Orange.

So in the mean time I've decided to look for a part time job, around 16 hours a week should suffice, I'm not paying any rent and have no monthly expenses. I looked for 3-4 weeks, all I found were positions in Mos which I'm assuming is a suit shop and well just no! And in a Jewelers in Cardiff I'd just prefer to avoid.

So I decided to sign on the dole, only to barraged with a terrifying number of questions that made me feel as though someone had found illegal pornography on my computer. Anyway an appointment was made at my local job centre plus. "Fantastic!" I thought, due to my degree and 4 average a' level results I'd been fast tracked to some kind of job centre that was plus something! I didn't have to wait with the pikey fucks in the normal job centre, I was going to Job Centre plus where we use multiple-syllable words, and know the difference between "Tom-a-to" and "Tomato". 

Much to my dismay I discovered that the Job Centre had undergone re-branding and was no called Job Centre Plus. Why? Who knows? There didn't appear to be anything about it that made it have an advantage over the old Job Centre that I'd heard so much about. Perhaps it was an attempt to get the pikey's excited about work, to make them feel special, in a way a term at the Green school never could.

So I strolled in, my birth certificate, and savings account books (which I was told I needed), I'm better than these I thought, I'll just stroll in make them bask in the sunlight of my honors degree and leave with £44.50. It didn't come, I was sat down with a woman named Joy who went through all these forms, her manner and tone of voice, and her dislike of the fact that my form filling skills were anything but adequate. 

Ode to P45

(What the hell is a P45? What the hell is housing benefit? Why in school, were we taught how to measure the surface area of a triangle? I have never come across a triangle since leaving, let alone one whose area was in urgent need of measuring. Why wasn't I taught about credit cards and debit cards, which I didn't learn about until I was 19? Why wasn't I told about car insurance and how that works? Why wasn't I shown how to put the water in the radiator of a car?)

END

So I'm the office being asked if i've ever made national insurance contributions. "Ahhh, so that's what that card was about!" I say no to the previous question, wondering what exactly our nation needs insurance coverage for. War? An asteroid collision? A mass pile up involving everyone in the country? Why does an entire country need insurance?

So then I'm carted off to a very amicable woman named Elizabeth who is much warmer. I tell her that I might be going back to Uni part time and that I won't be able to pledge to find work 40 hours a week, she says that it shouldn't be a problem, implying without saying straight that I can stay unemployed until then, without having to look for a job.

So she looks through the 3rd form I had to fill in, concerning my ability to work. I left the section on disabilities blank as I wasn't sure if Dyslexia really warranted any special treatment. Now lets get some background on Dyslexia, its a learning difficulty that's linked to reading, writing and peoples abilities to remember things. However Elizabeth's reaction to my bombshell led me to believe that Dyslexia is in fact an incurable, cancer of some kind. Her speech slowed, she spoke clearer, and even suggested that I bring my mother along next time. Also on hearing this she said that she, and the disability advisor who I have to see next week will help me find a job under 16 hours a week so that I can still claim dole money. Suggesting perhaps that despite the Disability Discrimination Act, I'm screwed.

She informs me that it will take up to 3 weeks for my first £28 to come through (only £28 because I have too much savings dammit!) So I left, safe in the knowledge that every other Friday at 11:20 I'll get £28 and that I can look for a part-time job and still claim, not so bad after all.

Now all I need to find is out why they named the benefit claiming system after an unsuccessful candidate for the Presidency of the U.S.A.

Have A Foam Filled Day!

© Paul Hunt 2003