Descent into the unknown

The great British summer. It's August, freezing cold and raining. It's also my day to sign on for the first time in fifteen years. Living in a 1970's New Town is depressing enough without having to visit the Job Centre Plus.

There's a thing. Job Centre Plus. Where does the plus come from? The fact that you're met at the door by Group Four Security? Bouncers?

"Sorry mate, you're not wearing the right kind of tracky - come back when you've got Nike or Adidas. You can't sign on if you're smart casual."

Waiting outside for the place to open is bad enough - various primates hang around, it looks a bit like the opening scene of 2001 - but the chimps here have learnt to use lighters and skunk rather than bones. The whole place stinks of pot and piss, the usual scents of open public spaces in any New Town.

After squeezing into the lift, which at least doesn't stink of piss, with some of my 'fellow' jobseekers - who may require lessons in having a shower before leaving home in the morning, we are greeted by Captain Snaggletooth. Captain Snaggletooth has the 'very important' job of telling us if we should wait on the left or the right. I've been paying taxes for the last 15 years to employ 'very important' people like Captain Snaggletooth. It looks like he's been spending his wages on tooth yellowing powder. It's quite a striking effect.

After 'signing on', which is strangely just that (No questions. No declaration. Sign here. BACS is on its way. Hmmmm..... I was sure I was supposed to prove I was actually looking for work. Oh well. When in New Town) I am directed towards my back to work talk.

No. No. No. The spliff smoking chimp is coming along too. I'll tell you all about that next time.