Tales from the front line: public-sector workers speak out

In this week’s New Statesman, six key workers speak out about their fears for 2011.

This is the year that the full force of the coalition's austerity budget will be felt. In a major feature in this week's issue of the New Statesman, a teacher, GP, lawyer, social worker, postman and policeman reveal their concerns about the seismic change that 2011 will bring.

You can read their testmonials in the magazine, which hits news-stands tomorrow. In the meantime, here is a taster of what they have to say.

 

The Teacher

Gove's English Baccalaureate has the potential to send Britain's education system back 50 years.

The teacher is Peter Hyman, No 10 strategist (for Tony Blair) turned deputy head teacher.

 

The Postman

The Royal Mail is being slashed back, and it breaks this old postie's heart.

The postman works in the south-east of England and writes under the pseudonym Roy Mayall. He is the author of Dear Granny Smith (Short Books, £4.99).

 

The Doctor

The way to stop GPs using resources, it seems, is to bombard them with so much admin, they give up.

The writer works in a GP consortium in the south-west of England.

 

The Supported Housing Officer

Instead of cutting front-line staff, why not cut the bloated bureaucracy?

The blog by the social worker Winston Smith won last year's Orwell Prize. His book Generation F will be published by Monday Books later this year.

 

The Policeman

Already, in big towns, there can be just half a dozen uniformed cops on duty at any one time.

The writer is the blogger Inspector Gadget, author of Perverting the Course of Justice, published by Monday Books (£7.99).

 

The Legal Aid Worker

They say our work could be done by volunteers – but filing cabinets of complex cases tell me otherwise.

Nick Dilworth is a legal aid casework supervisor in Devon. To find out more about the Justice for All campaign, visit: justice-for-all.org.uk.

 

Are you affected by the cuts? We will be collecting testimonials from the front line over the course of the next year, so tell us your stories.

You can do this by writing in the comment box below, by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk, or sending a letter to:

New Statesman
7th Floor
John Carpenter House
7 Carmelite Street
Blackfriars
London EC4Y 0BS

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times