In particular, against the male long-term
unemployed (over 6 months).
These highly innovative measures, were the
all-female governing Party's flagship election manifesto pledge: the Work
Motivation Programme placement scheme.
It was to be an all-out purge, and there
would be few exceptions to enlistment in the scheme. Any male applying to be
excused from enlistment on medical grounds, would now have to satisfy the
most stringent of criteria guidelines, to qualify for exemption from these
strictly implemented sanctions.
So as to be made to do ... something, for as
long as they continued to claim their welfare benefits payments, under the
Work Motivation Programme, Job Centre's all over Britain would from now on
assign eligible male benefits claimants to a 'placement'.
These males would then remain in their
assigned placements (or be transferred to another placement, at the
discretion of their local Job Centre), until they removed themselves from
the register of unemployed by finding gainful employment.
Before the general election, there had been a
steadily rising tide of resentment and anger, from ordinary, hard-working,
salt-of-the-earth citizens. From working people, who faced a weekly
financial struggle and juggle just to try and make ends meet. And these
solid citizens felt themselves to be the victims of a gross and increasingly
intolerable social injustice.
These hard-pressed wage earners were becoming
increasingly sick and tired of seeing their taxes being frittered away on
paying bone-idle, workshy people to stay at home with their feet up in front
of the TV, and doing absolutely nothing towards paying their way.
Increasingly sick and tired, of supporting
malingerers whose every idle day started with a leisurely lie-in. Who lived
rent-free (at least, it was paid for them by the state), and who could
somehow seemingly afford items that were, to many employed people,
impossible luxuries: giant-screen plasma TVs, the latest Smart phones,
computer games, and going to the football match on Saturdays, followed by
getting falling-down drunk in their local pub and then picking up a
take-away meal on their way home.
Many of these taken-for-granted treats and
luxuries of the sponging idle, were quite beyond the means of many working
people, for whom it was a constant battle just to keep body and soul
constant battle, to meet the next mortgage payment. To pay the next gas
bill. To pay for the weekly shop. To put fuel in the car ... At a time, when
the price of everything was going up, and up, and up. While wages stayed the
same – or were even cut.
Yet, all over Britain, there were whole
families – sometimes second, or even third generations – of 'career
'Lifestyle' spongers, who sneered at the
honest and hard working – tax paying – people who, every workday morning
were harshly roused by their alarm clocks so that they could drag themselves
out of bed and go to their daily, miserable grind ... To pay for the
pointless, parasitic existence of the career claimants – who, by way of a
Thank you, laughed derisively at them for doing so.
Laughed at them derisively, for providing
them with full bed and board, on Easy Street.
But now, things were going to change. It was
the dawn of a new era. The era of the Authoritarian Female Party.
The A.F.P. leader, Caroline Flint, who was of
course fully aware of this pervading atmosphere of sharply escalating
discontent among the country's tax paying workforce, had solemnly pledged to
the British electorate that, should the Authoritarian Female Party be duly
elected to govern Britain, she and her all-female member Party would swiftly
bring an end to these appalling, career claimant lifestyle shenanigans.
Caroline Flint said that, not only were these
practises economically unsustainable in the long run, but they were also
immoral and obscene.
Caroline Flint had solemnly pledged, that the
Authoritarian Female Party would immediately launch their flagship election
manifesto initiative – the Work Motivation Programme.
Prime Minister Caroline Flint had
hand-on-heart promised, "A rude awakening." That the good life of the
workshy, bone-idle, malingering scroungers of the male long-term unemployed
would come to an abrupt end. She had promised, that these lie-a-bed
layabouts would soon be getting "Something in the post."
An Eviction Notice, from Easy Street.
* * *
In accordance with her Authoritarian Female
Party's electoral manifesto pledge, Prime Minister Caroline Flint's
all-female member government were instructing Job Centre's nationwide to
send out Letters of Notification to all male long-term unemployed.
These Letters of Notification would inform
their recipients, as to where and when they should report to their assigned
placement. But not ... as to the exact nature of the duties they would be
expected to perform.
Job Centre's were also being instructed to
send out similar Letters of Notification to all male school-leavers aged
eighteen or over, who had no job or training to go to immediately upon their
Unknown to one such young man –
eighteen-year-old Danny Dawson – who was whistling happily to himself while
walking home from school for the final time, one such Letter of Notification
had his name on it. And now, "Something in the post" awaited his attention
upon his arriving home.
And, it was a letter that would soon shatter
his whistling nonchalance. A "Rude awakening," that would promptly drape a
dismal cloud over his no-more-school ecstatic mood.
Still, Danny could enjoy a few more minutes
of blissful ignorance, that Friday afternoon, whistling as he walked along
in the September sunshine. Before arriving home ... and opening the letter
that would change his life.
As it happened – and this was simply down to
the random, sheer luck of the draw, in regard to the assignment of
placements, for the duties they might entail were many and various,
depending largely upon local factors – Danny's Letter of Notification from
his local Job Centre would actually herald for him a change for the better.
Very much so, in fact. It was just that he
wouldn't know that ... Not yet.
And so, as Danny Dawson, freshly liberated
from the pointless tedium of school, walked homeward in the pleasant,
late-afternoon September sunshine, he whistled cheerily as he envisioned a
golden and bone-idle future: Of following in his father's footsteps.
But, as Danny negotiated his local streets,
in a suburb close to Manchester Airport, he found himself thinking, with
more than a tinge of regret, that he would definitely miss the strangely
exciting – and sexually arousing – white-socked, absentminded,
under-the-seat shoe-play, as was so thrillingly exhibited by some of the
female students in his various classes at school.
Not many of them. Just a few ... a special
few. The special ones.
The special ones, who, through their
unconscious actions, unwittingly enslaved Danny's attentions, and stoked up
and fanned the flames of his fevered desires.
And these female students; these special
ones, were his Goddesses.
Because they did what they did: They did
their ... 'thing'. Their very own, individual – unique – 'thing'.
These female students could be the plainest
of plain Jane's – and some of them were – but that didn't matter to Danny.
Didn't matter at all.
Because they all had in common that one
special quality that, to Danny, was far more important than girls' looks.
They all had the same, conquering power, over
him. The power, to drive him crazy with desire – with need. The power, to
As Danny's growing ... interest, had
inexorably blossomed during his last few years at school, these were the
girls he had sat behind and watched; captivated, as they unwittingly caused
his pulse to race, his heart to pound – thud in his chest – in response to
their absentminded, under-the-seat shoe-playing antics.
These were the girls, who unknowingly caused
his excitement to grow – grow to incredible heights – in reaction to those
inexplicably spellbinding, under-the-seat sights. Sights, that drove Danny
half-crazy to watch – yet couldn't tear his eyes away from. Even during
And, the irrefutable evidence of Danny's
excitement was right there – obvious in the crotch of his pants.
And this was Danny Dawson's big and terrible
secret. If his secret should be discovered ... Danny didn't know what he
would do. Didn't think he could cope with the awful shame at being found
out. At being found out ... that he worshipped female feet.
What would his friends say? His mum and dad?
And his two sisters, Elaine and Melanie! His two older sisters
would gleefully shout his big and terrible secret from the rooftops. Tell
all and sundry.
It didn't bear thinking about.
But Danny was hooked and helpless. He was in
the grip of some kind of ever-present, all-consuming obsession. An
obsession, that seemed to occupy his every moment. It was like a madness –
but a wonderful madness.
A madness, that he had no wish to be cured
The sight, the awesome sight, of the soles of
those female students' wonderfully active, white-socked feet; damp from
their foot sweat. The girls, with their absentminded shoe-play, unwittingly
teasing Danny to fevered distraction.
The female students' unconscious floor-show
antics, holding him in thrall. In their power. In their complete and total
and utter power. Driving him out of his mind, with an all-consuming desire –
an irrepressible need.
Instilling within him, a desperate yearning to smell the girls' white-socked
soles. A yearning, to sniff deeply; to inhale and to know their individual,
in-between-the-toes foot scents. And, most of all, instilling within him, a
craving to kiss their feet. In respect, in reverence – in homage.
If only he could!
Most school days, Danny could hardly wait to
get home; was desperate to get home ... to pay homage. To pay homage, to his
female classmates – the special ones.
To pay homage to his Goddesses, by reporting
to his bedroom, and solemnly performing his sacred ritual: pulling his
penis, in worship.
Pulling his penis, in worship, and paying his
devotions. To his Goddesses.
Spilling his seed, in their honour.
Making his solemn 'sacrifice', as he replayed
in his mind, his 'sightings'. The incredibly exciting, absentminded,
under-the-seat shoe-playing scenes of the day.
But now, all of that was over – the end of an
era. Danny Dawson, now, had left his school days behind him.
* * *
Almost home, Danny heard the all-too-familiar
sound of a jet-liner making its final approach into Manchester Airport.
Reaching Danny's ears, the sound interrupted his wistful reverie and, out of
sheer habit as much as anything else, Danny looked skywards towards the
direction of that commonplace sound.
The aircraft, Danny saw, was a 'Sunshine
Holidays' air liner, so close now, that Danny could clearly see the holiday
company's well-known and readily identifiable logo: a bright and uplifting,
golden-yellow, happy-faced shining sun.
Danny stopped for a moment and he gazed,
admiringly, at the up-close and majestic beauty of the Sunshine Holidays
passenger jet. He watched the aircraft as it continued to descend on its
final approach to the runway at Manchester Airport, bringing its contingent
of suntanned, Duty Frees laden holiday-makers home from a week or two in the
Watching the Sunshine Holidays passenger jet
finally disappear from sight, Danny wistfully said to himself, 'Nice plane.
And I could use a nice holiday in the sun – to celebrate leaving school!
Greek Islands, maybe ... Corfu, yeah!'
And, as young Danny Dawson, an
eighteen-year-old school-leaver with no job or training to go to immediately
upon his leaving education, whistling happily while walking homeward that
Friday afternoon in the September sunshine, and serenely envisioning a
lifetime of idleness and uninterrupted leisure and pleasure at the
tax-payers' expense – just like his father – he was totally oblivious to
the fact that, come Monday, he would actually be aboard that very same
Sunshine Holidays passenger jet.
And flying to ... Corfu.
But, it would be a flight with a
difference. And it would be a difference, that Danny Dawson could not –
could not, even in his wildest dreams – have possibly imagined.
Flight SH 123 to Corfu continues in Ch 2 (of
story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to