You worked for forty years.
Up before the alarm. Out in the cold. Through the bad backs and the worse winters. You never once signed on. You were proud of that.
Now you are fifty eight. The body is done. The trade that used you up has no use for you anymore.
And you are sat at home in the middle of the day, not because you are lazy, but because there is nothing left for a man your age who is worn out and ten years short of a pension.
There are two million like you. They will call it worklessness. A statistic. A drain.
They will not call it what it is.
A grafter, used up and thrown back, by a country that took the best of him and left him with nothing to retire on.
You did everything they asked.
And this is the thanks.
Hey Tom, I’m sure everyone is devastated about this.
Me on the other hand think you should fuck off, and when you think you’ve fucked off enough, just fuck off a little bit more.