Evening. Still digesting the events of the day and none of my anger and resentment has subsided.
Let me provide some context. Back in 2012, the DWP stopped my benefits being paid for three months. A decision was taken to appeal and it was successful. I took on the establishment then, and I shall do so again. This flawed system of having so called “healthcare professionals” (more like employing the participants of Billy Smart’s circus) to make far reaching decisions on the lives of so money people has to be looked at. The money and waste that goes into this appallingly morally bankrupt method of deciding who and who isn’t fit to work has to be overhauled, and quickly.
No, I will not be silenced. I will not be browbeaten into keeping quiet. This is a crusade based on truth and the hope that someone, somewhere that has an ounce of a brain cell (hard with the DWP, I know) will take a further look and reinstate what is rightfully mine. And not only that, to reinstate what is the right of others to be properly supported by the state.
If the DWP want to go after the people that exploit the system, then go right ahead and find those people. People like me who have paid into the system should not be kicked in the teeth when illness strikes. This Work Capability Assessment morally stinks. It’s set up to meet targets, to save money but above all to demonise and pander to the baser instincts of the British way of life. “Him over there? He’s got terminal cancer. Hasn’t worked for two years. Make him do an assessment. That will make him even more unwell so he’ll eventually die. That’ll save the state more money per year”.
Next week will be spent garnering every scrap of evidence I can find. And the DWP will then have to sift through a massive pile of my stuff. They then will have to leave their demonising of another “feckless scrounger” to deal with these reams upon reams of paper.
Sometimes I feel ashamed that I even was born in this shabby excuse of a country.