How to Eat Cheese

Anyone who has ever been made to do something they don't really want to do will know that, on occasion, it can actually be a good thing. For example, when an ex-girlfriend suggested we go visit the theatre for some reason or another, I tried every single excuse under the sun to avoid going, being a rather uncultured fleshwaste who prefers a pint of bitter to a bunch of overdramatic teenagers (which, in my opinion, is just about all of them) leaping about the stage and coming off with such a buzz they wouldn't be surprised if they tested positive for coke. I don't hate drama students, or people who do or enjoy drama, per se. The awful ones. You know what I mean. Anyway, I have to confess, the experience wasn't-that-bad.

I mean, it wasn't-that-good, but at no point did I feel a complusion to take a Black and Decker to my googlies while singing the Portugusee national anthem in an attempt to look so freaking insane that I was removed from the building. Something I once considered in a nightclub in Leicester, or Lincoln, or some other god forsaken cultural desert where the genepool has become so stagnant that if you were to fall into it you just wouldn't drown. Anyway, it doesn't matter. We went, and I saw a rather bland rendition of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, by Brecht.

If you are familiar with Brecht, then good for you. I'm not.  The basic premise is that peasants in Russia are revolting, or something, and hanging quite a few people. There is a romantic subplot and something about Judgment of Solomon involving a baby and some stupid parents. Anyway, it's irrelevant. But what is relevant, in a round about way, is that in Act Five, some idiot farmer called Azdak hides the Governor, or Grand Duke, or something, from a bunch of angry people who are rather determined to put a rather fetching tie around his neck and throw him off a platform. The Grand Duke is starving, tired, cold and frightened and Azdak, being a generally good person despite his later episodes of spinelessness and brazen stupidity, decides to give him some cheese.

I've never given royalty any cheese before, but I expect they don't eat it like normal people. This is certainly the case for Dukey, who begins cutting it up with a small knife and nibbling away. Azdak quickly realises something is wrong with this stranger he's taken into his home, and admonishes him. The way you eat cheese, if you're a poor peasant in Russia, is to cup it in your hands, glance left and right suspiciously, and then ram as much down your throat in one go as possible before someone jumps you and steals it. It was a sobering lesson, not least because I was unable to pick up another few pints at the intermission.

So, in a long and roundabout way, the post is less about Brecht and more about crushing poverty, which I'm going to do everyone the service of not pretending to know much about it. One thing I've found personally is that you can always afford to smoke. This is not as hilarious a joke as it sounds, since people with an addiction, myself included, will pretty much give up everything including eating and leaving the house so long as we can get a fix. I expect some astonished conservatives to complain about where their hard earned taxes are going, and I'm just gonna point out that I'm constantly reminded every morning that this problem is gradually solving itself. Anyway, I didn't bankroll a personal photographer to take pictures of me at work, so don't come round my house asking for your taxes back.

What I will say is this, a mere two observations I have made.

1) The benefits system, including staff, buildings, forms, phonecalls and recipients - is horrendously overcomplicated and depressing. Anyone who has sat for long enough in a jobcenter knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that eventually everyone starts to hate you, and for your part, you start to hate yourself a little more. Sat on the sofas awaiting my name to be called so I can sign on, I look across at my fellow hollow eyed, sunken cheeked claimants who seem to be linked by a common physical trait of having dead, dead, eyes. From these blank pits, they seem to stare with unbridled malice, as if there was a set amount of benefit money and it was all going to come through the ceiling in the next few minutes and everyone was going to have to fight for it with every ounce of savagery they possess. Perhaps Channel 4 could film it, pretend it's a doctumentary and call it "Bread from Heaven" or something. Then the Daily Mail could run it, and use footage from the bloodbath to explain that we're all horrible people and don't deserve money anyway.

The forms are ludicrously confusing, asking me everything from my name, date of birth and address right down to the approximate weight of the last stool I took. It took me an hour of waiting in a queue with a load of twitchy people whom I was convinced were about to slip a knife in my spine to be told I had to post a letter instead of standing in their office like a goon. The security guard in the jobcenter told me I wasn't allowed to even look at my phone. Presumably in case I rang an employer and found a job. But that wouldn't be bad if you were allowed to have a nice refreshing drink of juice. Which you are not. Infact, generally everything seems to be forbidden, except queuing. Its probably part of a cultural adjustment programme which teaches us to be quiet, uncomplaining Britons.

That aside, its not too complex. I have only signed my name about twenty-six times, received two phone calls, made four, had eight letters and filled out fourteen forms, as well as turned up to three meetings in addition to my normal one every two weeks, which is now happily spiralling into months. Someone might tell me to stop updating the blog and get a job, but quite frankly, if I had to apply for anymore jobs I'd probably turn into a serial killer. Anyone who takes this as one of those funny-turn-sarcastic things I usually say is probably near the top of the list. Seriously, get out while you can.

2) There just isn't enough money.

Now, I expect people to blanch at this, wobble their upper lips in indignation and tell me to get off my scrounging ass and find someone richer than me who will pay to watch me swallow glass for his amusement, because at least then I'd be trying. I'd tell you to catch buses at £1.80 each way, smoke, eat, and make up the substantial difference between your housing benefit and rent with just £51 a week. I'm sure it can be done hypothetically.

Ok, I'm not even sure it can be done hypothetically. It's insane.

I guess the reason for this rant is that I've just come from the jobcenter, and I really didn't have anything else that is particularly interesting to say. I've been thinking about The Caucasian Chalk Circle a lot recently. A friend of mine was over the other day and asked me if I had any toast. I was going to the shop to buy some bread, until I realized the rattle of all the money I had in the entire world wasn't enough to get a loaf. There's something perversely amusing - although it might just be the onset of severe mental impairment - when the 21st century, affluent and sleepy-village western world starts to resemble the sawdust, turnip and goulash soup of 19th century peasant Russia. I'd say we at least have our freedom, but the more you think about it, the more we all know its a lie.

Someone once said the poor are poor because the rich are rich. I can't think of a better reason than that. The man who 'invented', if that is the right word, the Big Issue said that social mobility would save us. The trouble with that is that in this crazy tiered class based system we have, the only chance of bettering yourself will always have to come at a cost to someone else.

So how do you eat cheese? Do you use a knife and a fork, nibble away or put it in a sandwich? Or do you ram it all into your mouth a once before someone else has the chance to steal it out of your hands? In my experience, with cheese costing £2 for 200 grams, there is only one answer to 'how do you eat cheese?'

You don't.