Our columnist imagines an Ireland in which the unemployed can shout as loud as the establishment
IT IS human nature to wish to be included. During the run-up to the General Election, if one of the circa 444,000 strong (or weak) ranks of the unemployed popped up, the manner in which they were featured was revealing of a mindset, ignorant and insulting, that extends way beyond Montrose: Those responsible for the mess, up there with individual microphones; those most-affected corralled down in the audience.
Mic-less, power-less.
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Ryan Tubridy is asking a panel – none of whom is unemployed, all of whom remain, post-recession, spectacularly privileged – one of his dreadfully earnest, school-essay style questions: “If you were a benign despot . . . ?’’ He imagines himself, responding: “Well Ryan, first thing I’d do is stop being benign, and start being a proper f**king despot . . .’’ Ryan winces.
“I’d make it illegal for civil servants to ask you your PPS number without first saying ‘hello’. Any TV or radio show, any newspaper, any media organ whatsoever that solicited the opinions of Captains of Industry, or of Fully Paid-Up Members of the Golden Circle, or of Representatives of The Political or Banking Elite, or of any of their ilk, would be obliged to immediately air, or publish, the opinions of those living on welfare or minimum wage.
“In the case of, he-hem, ‘industry leaders’ who suggested lowering the minimum hourly rate, I’d order such visionaries to perform repetitive, menial work for €7.65 an hour. Then to get the bus home. For a year.
“If and when an unemployed person appears on TV, I’d insist it NOT be an amateur plasterer who comes over as a cross between Damien Dempsey and Dustin The Turkey: This type of ‘central casting’ reinforces reductive stereotypes.
“I’d further outlaw all patronising ‘Well, how are you surviving/paying your bills?’ forms of questioning. These reinforce notions of victimhood, and negate the possibility of the unemployed being perceived as vibrant, or even relevant, thinkers.
“I’d eliminate ‘poverty porn’, ie the notion of interviewing middle class people forced to go to the St Vincent de Paul, dictating that Marian, Pat and all public service – hey, there’s a term we really need to debate – broadcasters concentrate instead on the policies and practices which imprison such individuals in poverty, and lives devoid of dignity.
“Did you know, for example, that those on job-seeker’s are, technically, not permitted to undertake volunteer work? That an unemployed person trying to establish a business cannot set up as a sole trader without first signing off?”
He doesn’t wait for Ryan’s response. (Why should he? No one waits for his).
“I’d run ticker tape titles underneath the same tired faces that appear, day in-day out, on our screens. These would inform viewers of the sometimes dizzying numbers of jobs, part- and full-time, such commentators hold down, and any and all salaries received. I’d limit the number of appearances such members of the commentariat can make over a given period. Why? Well, if we’ve conceded that it was unwise to have allowed 15 individuals run the island, then surely it as unwise for even fewer to mould, almost exclusively, nervous public opinion? Too many in the fourth estate – as well as their well-fed chums in academia – earn too much playing the game, or slyly pretending not to.’’
Yeah, he’d like to be on telly. They’d have to call security to get the mic off him.
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One euro a week from the 440,000 or so signing on would create a €20 million per anum war chest. With which the unemployed, like the IFA, or CIF, could wield real influence. Could dictate terms, interrogate agendae. Fund vital bodies such as Mabs. Take out newspaper advertising, the way Michael O’Leary does.
Take out Governments.
Or, simply make them adhere to their most basic promise – 100,000 jobs.
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Human nature to fail. (And to fill with envy, and anger?) He is back on the smokes – those essential three minutes at the door, forgetting. Is drinking again. No longer rises early; his wife is worn out by this bout of selfishness which leaves her stranded with both children. He has become bored with the gym.
Tired of pretending to be noble, dignified. Tired of pretending he is Jimmy Stewart. This is not It's A Wonderful Life. There is no angel called Clarence.
No redemption.
No hope.
(And where, precisely, are the 100,000 jobs, Enda? And no, it isn’t on the website, not in sufficient, nor credible enough, detail).
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His wife is worried sick. The dark circles under his eyes. His voice, when he talks to people on the phone, sounds, well, almost threatening. You’re becoming depressed again, she says, reaching for his hand.
I’m fine, he says, moving away. I’m going to head up to the gym, burn off the badness. I’ll quit the smokes. Tomorrow. Have just one glass of red with my dinner tonight, alright?
Human nature to delude.
Human nature to lie.