Flight SH123 to Corfu

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 together.

A 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 claimants'.

'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.

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."

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 leaving education.

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.

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.

The special ones, who, through their unconscious actions, unwittingly enslaved Danny's attentions, and stoked up and fanned the flames of his fevered desires.

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 obsess him.

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 exams.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 sun.

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.

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.