They snigger while I sit and cry then chuckle some more on their way out of the cinema. My friend says to me,
“What kind of people laugh at that?”
“The kind I went to school with.”
“Watching it makes me feel guilty to have food in the cupboard.”
“Not those people.”
It’s true. I never did fit in there. I was the “Wrong Sort”.
Unlike them, I’ve spent my entire adult life in abject terror of the benefit system. I’ve been disabled my whole life, something my family refuse to acknowledge. I have, they claim, always been a lead swinger, a parasite, someone who really ought to be cut off at the knees. A waste of time and taxpayer’s money.
Yet I know what it’s like to live on the charity of soup kitchens. I’ve been on the streets and spent years in hostels. Clearly I’m in need of some attitude adjustment. A nudge; sanctions, benefit cuts, some more homelessness. And a bucket of vilification to wash away any last vestige of Human dignity.
I Daniel Blake is is a scream of defiance that is forever lost on the sneering classes and those who’ve climbed over the dignity of others to get there. It’s a tale of cruelty and dehumanisation, resistance to which is written in the most powerful currency of all;