In the great machinery of government departments in the UK, something strange often happens when an individual dares to ask for support. The process, while supposedly designed to help, can start to feel more like a series of passive-aggressive riddles than a functioning public service. It’s as if the guiding principle is not “how can we help you?” but rather “what proof do you have that you’re not pulling a fast one?”
Take the world of benefits and assessments. A person with genuine need misses a Personal Independence Payment (PIP) assessment because they’ve got the flu. Not exactly a spa day. But instead of rescheduling with some basic human understanding, the system often responds with, “Prove it.” As though we all have a signed and dated note from our immune system. Or better yet, a GP note that takes ten days to get, costs money, and isn’t even guaranteed to be accepted. Because really, what they want is… what? A selfie with a thermometer? A video montage of you coughing? Or perhaps a photo of your toilet bowl if it was the other kind of bug. Tempting, isn’t it?
Then there’s the paperwork. The dreaded forms. Missed a tiny section on page twelve? Forgot to include your National Insurance number in box 4C subsection D? Ah, then we can’t possibly help. Form SS1.6.5.7.00 wasn’t submitted. Never mind that no one told you it existed. “Well, you should have known,” they say. “But how?” you ask. “Psychic ability,” apparently. It’s not enough to be unwell or in genuine hardship. You must also be a cross between Mystic Meg, a forensic administrator, and a document-hoarding librarian.
And it’s not just the big systems either; even the seemingly small, human moments get lost in the fog of process. Take a woman trying to do something simple and kind: adding her mum’s name to the household bills, because her dad is now in terminal care. It’s an act of love and foresight, trying to ease the burden during an incredibly difficult time. But what does she hear when she calls to sort it out? “I need to speak to your father.” No compassion, no recognition of the weight of what she’s just said. Just a cold procedural response, as if her dad could just pick up the phone from his hospital bed. In moments like that, it’s not just bureaucracy people feel; it’s a deep sense that compassion has somehow been filed under “non-essential.” We’ve created a system where the rules matter more than the realities of people’s lives. And it hurts and it’s so very wrong…
Yet, oddly, this culture of suspicion and demands for precision doesn’t always apply inwardly. Local councils have been known to place employees on garden leave for months while investigations drag on. Full pay. Zero productivity. Then it’s easier to get the broom out and get Geoff to lift up another section of the office carpet! Pot, meet kettle…
The whole system often feels less like an apparatus of support and more like a trial. Except in this court, you’re guilty until proven innocent and even then they might just lose your paperwork. Or tell you it was sent to the wrong department. Or that the form has changed – again.
So where does it stop? At what point do we decide that a person’s word and circumstances matter more than their ability to perfectly navigate a bureaucratic maze? Maybe the answer isn’t more forms, more hurdles, more mistrust. Maybe it’s just a bit more humanity.
Until then, keep those receipts, take photos of your Lemsip, and for heaven’s sake don’t forget to tick box 4C.
This underlying need to prove yourself at every turn, whether you’re a person or a business is mentally exhausting. The assumption seems to be that unless you jump through the hoops, you’re not quite legitimate. Trying to apply for business support? First question isn’t “what do you need?” but “have you got premises in the designated square metre section just off the M6, under the viaduct, between the bin and the pigeon?” Because if not, sorry, you don’t qualify.
And even if you do, brace yourself; now you have to prove you’re not just after a handout. You’re offered a training grant, but only if you choose a course from the county’s sacred list, which hasn’t been updated since Windows 95. So there you are, needing digital marketing help or supply chain advice, and instead you’re politely steered towards “How to Use Word.” Apparently, until you can confidently insert a table into a document, your business isn’t ready for funding.
It’s the same exhausting logic everywhere: if you can’t prove your worth on paper, if you can’t contort yourself to match an outdated checklist, you must not really need help. Or worse, you’re trying to pull a fast one.
