Food banks are a social gateway to discussing wider problems in someone’s life. Photo: Getty
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Food banks: why can't people afford to eat in the world's sixth richest country?

The All-Party Parliamentary Group on Hunger and Food Poverty have published a new report into food banks, and how best to feed impoverished Britain.

Fourteen years ago, in the city of Salisbury, Paddy Henderson was fundraising for a little known local charity called the Trussell Trust, which focused on helping orphaned children in Bulgaria. One evening, he received a phone call from a desperate local mother, who said, "my children are going to bed hungry tonight – what are YOU going to do about it?"

This was the incident that sparked the birth of a movement and the creation of the Trussell Trust’s first "food bank". It was a natural compassionate response to discovering that somebody in 21st century Britain could not afford food.

The Trussell Trust now includes 400 food banks, and there are hundreds more locally based initiatives across the UK. This rapid growth sparked a wider debate about hunger in the UK that evolved as commentators tried to apportion blame.

We established the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Hunger and Food Poverty to comprehensively investigate this phenomenon, looking beyond the headlines and the immediate statistics to the deeper issues. We wanted to answer two questions.

Firstly, why are people skipping meals because they can’t afford food for their children in the sixth richest country in the world? Secondly, what can politicians do to help the charity movement that had responded so magnificently to this need?

We heard often harrowing testimonies from over 150 witnesses in evidence sessions around the country, and received written submissions from 250 more. The more we heard, the clearer it became that few food bank referrals are the same. Although they can be broadly categorised on a tickbox form, the human stories behind the statistics were often complex tales of successive hardships, culminating in a crisis.

We also heard stories of people who had been let down by the state. Unlike some commentators, however, we do not subscribe to the view that the need for food banks would be eradicated overnight by simply throwing money at the welfare state. As Jack Monroe told us, "if my benefits had been paid quickly, in full and on time, I would have been able to meet my living costs".

Benefit delays have long been an issue. In 2006/7, benefit delays accounted for 34 per cent of referrals to Trussell Trust food banks. In 2013/14, 30 per cent of referrals were due to benefit delay. We have a welfare state that is positively creaking under the strain of adjusting entitlements in response to everyday relationship changes in modern life, and in need of holistic reform. Without a more thoughtful and flexible safety net in place, constant gaps in payments will remain whilst the system "processes" life changes – and so too will the problems they cause.

But it also became apparent that there was a perfect storm brewing over the last decade that reached far beyond those living on benefits.

Britain experienced the highest rate of inflation amongst advanced western economies between 2003 and 2013, which had a disproportionate impact on those on the lowest incomes. In the last decade, the price of food rose by nearly 50 per cent, the price of fuel by a staggering 150 per cent and rents by a third. Wages in the same period increased by just 28 per cent.

The reality is that too many of the poorest in society did not benefit from economic growth and were still living from one pay cheque to the next: where the slightest change, such as needing to find extra money for lunch in the school holidays, could be disastrous, and often marked the start of a vicious cycle of debt.

But the most shocking fact that our inquiry uncovered was that just 2 per cent of edible surplus food in this country is given to charities like FareShare. One food bank manager told us he was offered 9,864 Cornish pasties because a lorry was 17 minutes late delivering them. Our frustration at the scale of needless waste in this country is compounded by the unacceptable taxpayer subsidies that are given to convert perfectly good surplus food into green energy, which must end.

When a family turns to the food bank in a time of need, they are met with warmth and compassion that is qualitatively different to what the state can provide. So when they are provided with food, it acts as a social gateway to a discussion about the wider problems in someone’s life.

We believe this offers a valuable opportunity for us to redesign a fragmented approach to support. We want to help more food banks evolve into hubs where services like debt and welfare advice are in one place, and end the system where people are sent from pillar to post in a constant cycle of referral.

We therefore propose a practical solution. We will bring together the voluntary sector, stakeholders and retailers in a new national voice: Feeding Britain. This will have three key goals that have been difficult to address by individual food banks in isolation. First, we will seek to double the redistribution of surplus food. Second, we will pilot twelve regional hubs that bring local agencies together. Third, we will pilot schemes to tackle school holiday hunger.

This is not about bureaucratic intervention from central government to wade in and impose a solution, or a talking shop so politicians can be seen to be doing something. We strongly believe that the best solutions are locally conceived and driven by the voluntary sector. We want to help connect the resources and the expertise that exist. The greatest asset of our food banks is not a stock of tins and packets, but the people staffing them: we hope that they will help us tackle the scandal of 21st century hunger.

Frank Field is the Labour MP for Birkenhead and co-founder and chair of All-Party Parliamentary Group on Hunger and Food Poverty; John Glen is the Conservative MP for Salisbury, PPS to Eric Pickles and co-author of the evidence paper for the group's inquiry with the Trussell Trust

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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