On Benefits and Proud: The show where 'deserving taxpayers' stalk 'proud benefit claimants'

Channel Five has plumbed the depths of human decency with its latest scapegoating programme.

Sometimes, when I want to feel better about myself, I switch on the television and judge people.

The BBC and Channel Four have both really helped with this lately, like true public broadcasters should. They’ve given me We All Pay Your Benefits, in which two people known for a show based on a fight to be the grubbiest capitalist encouraged ‘taxpayers’ to stalk ‘benefit claimants’. And who could forget Benefits Britain 49, where we inflicted misery on the sick and elderly for no real reason at all.

Still, not be beaten in tastelessness, Channel Five came in last night with a late entry: On Benefits and Proud. As the title implied, this was a show in which we tracked down people who use benefits to help them live and who weren’t feeling the necessary level of shame about it.

This was obviously televisual gold. There’s just something particularly brilliant about the poor. Ideally uneducated, definitely unemployed, and (if possible) fat and/or northern. It’s so very now, isn’t it? Because people are actually unemployed and working out how to pay the bills. Knowing that added an exciting element of reality to it all as I sat on my sofa and laughed/tweeted angrily/tweeted angrily whilst laughing at what I tweeted. 

Heather Frost, an unemployed 37 year old who has eleven children, was our central target. Sorry, interesting participant. The big news was that Heather has eleven children and the soft local council were helping them not be homeless. This was something I was sure I was meant to be terribly angry about and luckily, we saw that news of the family being re-housed was greeted with public outrage. 

“If it was someone [dealing with this vilification] who suffered from depression they would have jumped off a cliff and killed themselves," Heather said to the camera, as we cut to a statistic on how much single mothers were costing the taxpayer.

Admirably, the producers quickly threw out any attempt at subtlety. Annoying, fat Londoners and Scousers were rolled out, accompanied by plodding music and puns. “Their only hard graft is working the system,” trilled the narrator. “And all those kids!" we snarled in uniform with him, as if working class children were rats.

There were repeated shots of televisions and references to satellite packages, as if this was a Channel Five exclusive. People on benefits in this country are not in fact entertaining themselves with shadow puppets. You saw it here first!

The general idea seemed to be that, despite living in houses with wiring showing, everyone involved was actually bathing in benefit slips. We were shown “just how much cash they’ve got coming in!”, like…um a single mum who receives £115 a week. “It’s time to spend!” yelled the narrator, as we watched people on sickness benefit and JSA go to pay the electricity meter.

Even the producers seemed to get bored of producing banal anti-benefit propaganda at one stage, as we spent five minutes watching Heather not feed her children vegetables.

In case the audience was similarly losing it, we were repeatedly reminded both that Heather was on benefits and had eleven children. ELEVEN. ON BENEFITS. Throughout, it was unclear what the solution to this was supposed to be. Taking away their support and letting the children go hungry, or going back in time and stopping the working class woman procreating, possibly with forced sterilisation? What was clear was that, like the others, she should feel very bad about herself and she was absolutely representative of the average benefit claimant.

This was perhaps the best/worst thing about On Benefits and Proud. Like previous programmes, from the outset it was held up as a piece of analysis that was genuinely going to help us work out once and for all the complexities of social security.

It would be more honest to call them opportunities for scapegoating and give the audience some rotten veg. After all, Heather wasn’t using it to feed her eleven kids. 

Benefits claimants, ripe for the shaming. Image: Getty

Frances Ryan is a journalist and political researcher. She writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman, and others on disability, feminism, and most areas of equality you throw at her. She has a doctorate in inequality in education. Her website is here.

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How wine crosses national boundaries

With a glass of wine, and a bit of imagination, wine can take us anywhere.

Wine offers many pleasures, one of which is effortless movement. You can visit places that make the wines you love, but you can also sip yourself to where these grapes once grew, or use a mind-expanding mouthful to conjure somewhere unrelated but more appropriate to your mood. Chablis, say, need not transport you to damp and landlocked Burgundy, even if the vines flourish there, not when those stony white wines suit sun, sea and shellfish so well.

Still, I’d never been to Istria – a triangle of land across the Adriatic from the upper calf of Italy’s boot – either in vino or in veritas, until I tried a selection of wines from Pacta Connect, a Brighton-based, wine-importing couple obsessed with Central and Eastern Europe. 

The tapas restaurant Poco on Broadway Market in east London has fiercely ecological credentials – it uses lots of locally sourced and sustainably grown food and the space is a former bike shop – but this fierceness doesn’t extend to entirely virtuous wine-buying, thank goodness. I’m all for saving the planet: waggle the eco-spear too hard, however, and I’ll be forced to drink nothing but English wine. Trying each other’s wines, like learning each other’s customs, is vital to understanding: there’s no point improving the atmosphere if we all just sit around inhaling our own CO2 at home.

The world is full of wine and it is our duty to drink variously in the name of peace and co-operation – which are not gifts that have frequently been bestowed on Istria. I have sought enlightenment from Anna, the Culinary Anthropologist. A cookery teacher and part-time Istrian, she has a house on the peninsula and a PhD in progress on its gastronomy. So now, I know that Istria is a peninsula, even if its borders are debated – a result of Croatia, Slovenia and Italy all wanting a piece of its fertile red soil and Mediterranean climate.

From ancient Romans to independence-seeking Croatians in the early 1990s, all sorts of people have churned up the vineyards, which hasn’t stopped the Istrians making wine; political troubles may even have added to the impetus. A strawberry-ish, slightly sparkling Slovenian rosé got on splendidly with plump Greek olives and English bean hummus, topped with pickled tarragon and thyme-like za’atar herbs from the Syrian-Lebanese mountains. A perfumed white called Sivi Pinot by the same winemaker, Miha Batič, from Slovenian Istria’s Vipava Valley, was excellent with kale in lemon juice: an unlikely meeting of the Adriatic, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Sivi Pinot is another name for Pinot Grigio, which seems fair enough: as long as we can raise our glasses and agree to differ, names should be no problem.

But sometimes we can’t. The other Slovenian winemaker on the menu, Uroš Klabjan, lives three kilometres from the Italian city of Trieste, where his Malvazija Istarska would be called Malvasia Istriana. Either way, it is fresh and slightly apricot-like, and goes dangerously well with nothing at all: I see why this is Istria’s most popular white grape. His Refošk, an intense red, is also good but there is a complicated argument over when Refošk should be called Teran. Like battles over parts of the Balkans, these wrangles seem incomprehensible to many of us, but it’s sobering to think that wine can reflect the less pleasant aspects of cross-cultural contact. Intolerance and jingoism don’t taste any better than they sound.

We finish with Gerzinić’s Yellow Muskat and rhubarb parfait: Croatian dessert wine from an ancient grape found around the world, with an English plant transformed by a French name. There’s nothing sweeter than international co-operation. Except, perhaps, armchair travel.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain