The following, as always, is an accurate portrayal of what happened on 2nd February, in the year 2010. I have not changed the names to protect the identities as these leeches don’t deserve anonymity. I reserve judgment until this trip is well and truly over.

From what I read, what I am told and now, from what I know. Job Centres have never been arenas designed to boost the self esteem of your average bohemian. I am certain that any monies spent on the colourful wall hangings depicting a plethora of ethnicities, disabilities and sexuality id expect could have been spent much wiser. A leaflet upon engagement with this airless scum filter giving you survival tips for the most vicious 40 minutes of your existence would make more sense to the ill-informed. A guide to scum etiquette if you will. This pamphlet/survival pack should be issued upon arrival at roughly the same juncture you leave your self esteem with Gloria the receptionist. Incidentally may well have undiagnosed autism as she chose to utilise her peripheral vision as opposed to letting you have the privilege of actual human engagement.
I consider myself a reasonable person. Maybe slightly reactive as opposed to proactive, but this is like nothing I have had the displeasure of experiencing and ive been to Watford. Within seconds I have established that I am to be fucking raped in this place. I will be repeatedly fisted by people only to happy to distance themselves to the lame, psychologically scarred assortment of social deviants, alcoholics and quite possibly pot smokers ushered towards there cheap beach coloured bullshit emporium.

I enter. Black dirty jeans, red trainers, bobble hat. I have been listening to Tom Waits on the way. I am on time.

“Hi my name is Dave Harper; I have an appointment at 1.20pm about my benefit claim”

The first of the eye avoiders registers her displeasure at having to lift a brace of papers, dragging a red nail down a page dismissing Greames, Greys and finally taps the sheet, this looks promising, Jane eventually lays some language on me. I wonder for a moment if she has read anything I would care for.

“Yeah Mr Harbour, we have put you appointment back, are you ok to wait?”

Maybe I should have neglected to use the question mark as I don’t really think it was a question as an order. The actual sentiment amounted to Jane saying (obviously without looking at me, that would almost make me human), “You fucking scum piece of shit, you will wait. Why not sit in that pool of piss that smelly unfortunate cunt just mad over there. Me im going to Tenerife next week with my fiancé, we had such a great time last year………..yada, yada, to fade……”

So I wait

And I watch

And I feel the lump grow in my throat

The room is open plan. You get the feeling the alot of money has been spent on how the room is placed, to reduce tensions and offer hope. That’s what THEIR memo has said. To me it looks like Tony Wilsons office. Pointless money spunked on an aesthetic based on impressing no-one but the executives at the Christmas Party. Imagine they have a free bar and roughly 20% will fuck each other, fucking each other, with the scent of £30 aftershaves and Red Bull for company.

There are roughly 4 brackets of people who walk through the Scum in their Eyes transformation doors. I see them all on my floor. If there is ever another biblical flood and the inevitable X Factor style auditions to see which unfortunate bastards are to be saved, to be given sanctuary on the Arc; then this room would be the last bastion of the desperate fuckers who would not even be allowed into the audition. This is a room of people waiting to die or trying to live.
We have the institutionalised unshaven man at the next desk from me. He is complaining about having received a letter threatening to stop his fortnightly insult. The young lady he talks to sexy and certainly not humble. This makes me want to get to know her in a terrible way. She wears shoes by Irregular Choice. I notice the pattern on the sole which gives it away. She wears a black blouse revealing enough cleavage to keep Mr Unshaven masturbating till his next giro. Her Black satin pencil skirt is a good touch. This young lady has learned fast. She is now one of them. THEY must know there place at all times. THEY most learn to worship the well made brands I sport and THEY must know that THEY can not have what I have. THEY must not believe they have the same guts and meat under their sallow skin than me. ME, Get away from ME!
Throughout this discourse with my sagging brain i realise I have been saying words to my Job Support Advisor….Claudine. When told I would be seeing Claudine I painted a mental picture as to what particular fucked up sadist would be presented to me and on what kind of platter. I pictured a dark haired temptress, absolutely unobtainable to 99% of humanity forced to breathe the same ether as me. She would wear 15 denier stockings and offer nothing by way of flesh for your perusal. At home she would watch breakfast at Tiffany’s and drink red wine on a cream sofa as she looks at city breaks on the internet whilst speaking to her girlfriend about today’s scum parade. I imagine telling Claudine of the books I have read, the things I have seen and the music I am making with the greatest people I know. I want her to know that I am certainly not with the rest of this cacophony of slugs and that I am in fact a fucking prince, a bohemian prince she should be in awe of.
Claudine is in fact an ambient beige looking middle aged woman. Her skin looks like weather damaged porcelain, linear dry cracks cover her pointless face, you have to look hard, but I see them. Her breasts are held up half heartedly by a cheap bra. It is only then that I know that I am in reasonable company as in our own way we have both accepted our lot. Any fight in us long gone. The fundamental difference being that Claudine establishes her terms over small talk. I mention working in Darlington at some point. Claudine sees this window of opportunity and pounces like a…..I would say jaguar, but I like animals and wish not to offend them. She pounces like the cumbersome bovine she is. Pounces to tell me, t establish she has a partner. The unfortunate fucker I thin to myself. Not only does he live in Darlington but he is forced to pop his shop soiled cock on this slab of shit. Poor bastard.
With the beautiful people dancing the watusi in their branded clothes, perhaps from Next all around us I give Claudine what she wants. I give her total submission, flat answers, facts about my poor standard of living. She asks me to sign a few things. I wonder for a split second if its maybe one of Heartstrings records. If it was I would have made it out to “already dead woman…….im sorry for this”. I basically don’t hate her, I hate the fact she presumes she has to hate me. I feel woefully inferior to nothing at all. Not for the first time this week the anger unfolds and I get angry at the wind for blowing.
Have been beaten up by children. I have had my bones broken, my skin punctured by misguided teeth. I have been talked to by lizards who do not have the right to question my integrity and intelligence. I have been spat at. I have had another man projectile vomit in my mouth. I have spent 5 hours a day travelling to a job I was actually scared to do. I have bared my bones and been brave for others less fortunate than me and indeed a lot who will always, in some ways, be better off than me.
I do not know who wins in this sterile killing field.

I leave with my claim established and a gift from Claudine. Her eyes meet mine and I think “if you were the last human on earth I would piss in your eye and attempt to start a mutant race of human cockroaches rather than penetrate you. I think your genitals would have teeth you complete heartless bastard!” Claudine turns and says

“Well Mr Harper, I hope we don’t see you on too many occasions. Just a little joke there”

My brain reflex sends a smirk to my talk department.

“My Names Harper. Not Harbour. My name is Dave Harper and I am in a band called Frankie & The Heartstrings. I have a record out on Rough Trade Records and I have played at Brixton Academy. I intend to do so again as a headline act”

Claudine will see me one day in some minion rag or whatever. And maybe the dead crows that make up her torso will start pecking at her heart. Slowly at first.