I seem to have contracted Job Seekers' Psychosis.
I first noticed it the other day.
Job adverts began to swim before my eyes.
I could read other things, all except job adverts.
I went straight home and went to bed,
Saying to myself, "It's another day tomorrow."
But when tomorrow came, I couldn't get up.
When I finally did, and went out,
My legs refused to move in the direction of the job centre.
I told them to, but they wouldn't,
They went the other way.
Even in the library,
My hands refused to open the newspapers at the job section.
Instead my eyes would only read the funnies,
And a piece about someone caught with a Tory whip in their hands.
I'd stopped reading my stars long ago.
They always said something like,
"Play your cards right and promotion is on its way,"
Or "Love blossoms in the workplace today."
I went to the doctor.
I told him that I had Job Seekers' Psychosis.
He looked at me blankly,
Then he took a large book from the shelf, thumbed through,
And declared, "It's not here. It's unknown to science."
How did I feel? What were its symptoms?
I said they were extreme anger.
A strong desire to see a change in government.
Even go to Westminster armed with a machine gun.
A desire to join the Workers Revolutionary party.
Wanting to publicly throttle the next person to say,
"Haven't you got a job yet!"
Or "Get a job! There's plenty of work if you look for it."
A desire to hand grenade the people working at the job centre,
With all their smarmy looks.
If it wasn't for the likes of me,
They too would be looking for work.
These were its positive symptoms.
Its negative symptoms were extreme lethargy,
Laying in bed, sitting at home, staring at the wallpaper.
Guilt, shame, depression, and worrying about money.
He said,
A lot of his patients had been complaining of the same symptoms.
He took a prescription pad, saying, "What do you want?"
"A decent job," I replied.
He smiled wryly,
And wrote me out a prescription for valium,
Saying, "Take one of these when it gets too bad,
"But not too many."
He's a good doctor.
He reached for the certificate pad; "How long do you want?"
"Until the recession s over," I replied.
"Come and see me in a month," he said,
Handing me a note saying, depression - a month off.
"Stop looking for work for a while,
"Don't even think about it.
"Do something worthwhile, get meaning back in your life.
"Have a bit of fun, try to enjoy yourself.
"Take up a hobby.
"Try to get away.
"Anything but look for work."
I took his advice. He's a good doctor
John Exell.
JOB SEEKERS' PSYCHOSIS BECOMES OFFICIAL
Job Seeker received form HD362A
From the Department of Social Security.
It asked him if and why he was still sick.
Being an honest man,
He replied that he suffered from extreme anxiety,
Depression and Paranoia,
In fact from Job Seekers' Psychosis.
That he was seeking work,
But he couldn't sign on.
The Job Centre still featured heavily in his Paranoia.
He posted the form and submitted himself to his fate.
After a while, the Social Security replied.
He no longer needed to look for work, they said.
He had passed, or rather failed, the all work test.
He was on the sick for life,
If he wanted to be,
If he wanted to be.
Job Seekers' Psychosis had become official.
Job Seeker gave his machine gun, ammunition and hand grenades
To the local Salvation Army Charity Shop.
"We'll soon sell these,"
Said the little grey haired old lady behind the counter.
"We get a lot of Job Seekers in here."
Job Seeker can now be seen,
Slowly meandering down the Broadway,
Sharing a laugh and a joke with his friends
At the Mind Cafe or the Centre for the Unemployed.
Every now and then, He is known to softly close his eyes,
And whisper quietly to himself,
"God is good,
God is merciful,
"God is just, God is kind,
"Praise be to God."
John Exell
JOB SEEKER ON THE SICK
Job seeker is now on the sick.
He now takes it easy and enjoys himself,
Applying for jobs in his own time,
Jobs he likes the sound of,
Jobs he would like to do,
And not too far away.
After a while, he begins to feel a bit guilty.
He goes back to the doctor.
It is nice and comfortable in the surgery,
Much better than the Job Centre.
He stretches himself and yawns.
"Doc," he says, "There's not much wrong with me now.
"Should I be back on the dole.
"Besides, I'm a bit bored."
"We cannot risk it," was the reply.
"It's true, you're well enough to work,
"But not well enough to sign on.
"You've still got latent Job Seekers' Psychosis.
"It's just below the surface,
"Any contact with the job centre could renew it."
"Oh," said job seeker, and went away.
But he still felt bored, and a bit guilty.
He wrote a letter to the Disability Resettlement Officer
At the Job Centre, "That can't do any harm,
"See if they could offer any advice as to what to do."
After a long wait, he received a reply. It was a standard form,
"Will you please report to the Job Centre to see....... "
"Will you! Will you! WILL YOU.............."
He muttered these words to himself over and over again.
His anger, that had been dormant for so long began to rise
Until it reached fever pitch.
He went to his bed-room,
Pulled out the large wooden box from under the bed,
Opened it,
Took out a machine gun,
Three rounds of ammunition,
Six hand grenades........
John Exell.