The state is still failing schizophrenia sufferers

Rethink's Schizophrenia Commission shows how a technocratic system is letting patients down.

Hundreds of thousands of carers will be delighted to hear of the publication today of the report of Rethink’s Schizophrenia Commission. Let me explain why.

The other month my friend was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. In anguish after redundancy and a double bereavement, she had begun to see dead bodies through car windows and threatening connections in all she read from the pavement, to the label on a tin of beans to the front page of the FT. She was terrified because constantly, just out her sight, she could sense the presence of someone who was going to do grave harm to her tiny children. Experiencing difficulties on the schizophrenic range of illnesses her family called the "emergency team". They arrived three days later. In the meantime she was admitted to a "specialist unit" having been taken in by her frantic husband after she’d sought to jump in front of a moving vehicle. Soon he got a phone call at home only to realise that the doctor at the other end of the line was talking about a different patient.  Placed on "constant observation" she was twice - and unmissed by the NHS  - found, mud covered, wandering barefoot near home some miles away.  My friend is just one of hundreds who have experienced poor care.

Rethink's report records that 250,000 of us will experience illnesses in the schizophrenic range. In practice that includes the rape victim whose auditory hallucinations mean her attacker will always be with her. It encompasses the lad who screams to his father in fear "are you really my Dad?" as he tries to make sense of the faces, colours and lights that he sees all about him. Not to mention the large number of kids from poorer backgrounds who seem to be disproportionately impacted by this particular form of severe mental ill health. They are not alone of course. Severe mental ill health affects 700,000 citizens and their families.  And in seeking to address their needs the exhaustion of the technocratic, inflexible welfare state is perhaps nowhere better demonstrated.

In city after city, there is now no out of hours social work if your child needs urgent help. Social services advise that you ring the police instead. And so you may soon find you are among the many parents who have ended up sleeping on a police cell floor alongside a family member with, say,  severe  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder while a drunken brawler crashes around next door.  That, or your employer may take to designing redundancy selection to remove you because you need to leave work early for a good while. Why? Well, the only place they could find for your son was a three hour drive away. And when he is in streams of tears from the unit’s phone you just know that you will have to find the petrol money from somewhere to make the six hour return drive for the one hour of visiting time that the nurses allow.  And even there you may encounter a row of doctors advising you that your child will be discharged weeks before you think it is safe to do so. What they cannot tell you is that their new Clinical Commissioning Group has demanded a "faster average churn rate". No wonder the state reaches for the mass produced response of life shortening, menstruation stopping, bone drying, heart pressure inducing, sight blurring, memory stealing, weight adding, medication with the gentle words "there will be some side effects".

Mental ill-health should be a defining political question of our times. It breaches the ramparts of houses, flats and castles in every class and region. It shatters even the strongest of families who set out to stand by their loved one who has become unwell.  And those who face it are the objects of the last respectable form of vicious discrimination: Watch the faces of A&E staff as they turn to admissions that have attempted suicide. Note that it is only this February that it became legal for someone who had been severely ill, and been long recovered, to become a school governor. Register that for eighteen months until last month a large local radio station ran a jingle "you’d have to be mad to work here but if you do we’ll section you" and thought that it was hysterically funny when I rang to ask "why?" Imagine a jingle that offered to lock up black, gay, Jewish or female listeners for being themselves?

And the hundreds of thousands of carers know exactly what I mean.

Francis Davis is a fellow at ResPublica and this week has contributed to Jon Cruddas MP’s Labour List series on One Nation politics.

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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

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 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times