Poetician Wendy Young and the 51st State of the D Hell of A! (And the Tax Office) / 26 November 2013
Got a nice complicated breakdown from those nice people at the tax office who wrote to tell me I owe them £157.60 as I had two employers a couple of years ago. Well, I wouldn't want the country to fall down because of my debt so I enquired how so I owe this amount?
Apparently I claimed some benefit (60 odd pound a week) when I couldn't work and couldn't get sick pay as I hadn't worked long enough. So added to my stress of a major op, being very ill, I had to go every week for a sick note from the GP to fax to Belfast (and got told off for not making an appointment to do so) - oh it's all flowing back now - I had to go back to work before I should as I couldn't afford to be off.
And now, two years later I find out that these lovely people haven't forgotten me and are claiming the said amount from a made up figure that I supposedly received. I didn't get DLA and suffered total embarassment trying to claim at an appeal (I could not fill the form in alone. I had to get help). Awaiting another breakdown to explain the first breakdown.
At least in my anger walking away from the DLA in Grays Inn I wrote this poem in my head and performed it the next evening at Survivors....something positive out of something negative.
The 51st State of the D Hell of A! - Poetician Needs Hand Rail
Three grey stooges assessing case
Cross examining like Soul assassins
My ‘claim’ from two years before
How elementary there’s Dr Watson
And a solicitor and a mister
Whose names rhyme and whose paradigm is cock!
Fuck me! I’m in the dock
‘by this time could you cook say an omelette and some peas’
No Dr Watson I didn’t really eat!
‘Was the friend you had staying just for reassurance’
Well Yes! Mister Cock
‘so he didn’t help you in the bath’
I couldn’t get in it!
‘do you have a hand rail?’
No I don’t Solicitor ..OH NO I failed the crucial tick
The trick of these inhuman assessors
Belittling me because
I’m not like them ‘cause
My road wasn’t theirs, straight and up the M1
I’ve had A roads and B roads
Wine-dy lanes and slippery slopes
Inn-clines and declines, my hopes
I’m not like them
My path is scattered with trying and flying and dying
What with this humiliation and Actors Centre rejection - I am a failure
The devil works for RADA, the DLA and dresses in Prada!
Brother can you spare a dime?
Brother can you spare a rail?
The tears start to fall
I’m embarrassed with it all
Telling of my ablutions
I plead it’s more than ticking boxes and
I’m looking at the man in the middle
Who tells me they’re not here to give me this
or give me that
I say just give me what I need
To lead a normal life!
And leave before my dignity is tick boxed to D HELL A!
In the corridor my humour is saved by a man who’s like Druid on Acid with a nobbly stick embedded with two different coloured eyes shaking it at the whole establishment… like a shaman – he’s a good he’s a good he’s an Ebenezer Good body who flails and rails inside (My Kingdom for a Rail)
And he’s still at it on the street…he’s angry they made me cry
But as I wander around the city of hypocrisy trying to find my bus the anger kicks in and I’m...
The new sport
that keeps me ticking
for the system
and doing my head in
tick for this
tick for that
tick for my sanity
tick for my gravity
tick this box if you’re mad
tick this box if you’re sad
tick this box if you’re bad
Well I’m ticking for the whole of humanity
To blow you up
Ticking an explosives box for you
Tick tick tick tick boom!
(I like the click, the tick and the fulfulment of online boxing)