A week before I left, I went to the Austrian Jobcentre and told them I was relocating to England for one year and three months. They offered me three months’ worth of benefits while I looked for a job. Upon arrival, I had to go to my local job centre and provide them with the Austrian paperwork so they could register me. The three-month benefit would be sent to England, and I could pick it up at the post office. On Wednesday morning, I made my way to the Putney job centre. Unfortunately, my girlfriend was tied up with her English course and was unwilling to skip one of her class hours to accompany me and help explain my situation. Her English was sufficient to register me at the centre within a few minutes and then head back to her school, which was within walking distance. Instead, she handed me a black-and-white A to Z, possibly taken from her host family’s paper recycling bin near the fireplace.
The road atlas’s pages were faded. It had likely served five au-pairs, six relocations, and three home floods because it was worn, greasy, and had missing pages. Equipped with a German-English dictionary and that battered road map, I stepped into the Jobcentre. My English was close to non-existent. My vocabulary was around 40 words, and my grammar and pronunciation were terrible—more or less like a caveman. I don’t deny that we had English at school from secondary to college, but I always cheated my way through the exams by buying the teacher tea and my classmates fizzy drinks, so I passed all the exams. At the Jobcentre’s information desk sat an African lady in her late twenties with fingernails like those of the 1988 Seoul Olympic 100-meter gold medalist, only hers were white instead of red. It was impossible to communicate with her. I agree it wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t see her making any effort either. So, we struggled for the first 10 minutes, but I stood my ground. I had one job: to register at the job centre. “If you do not register upon arrival, we will not send you the benefits,” this message had been ping-ponging through my head ever since I left Austria. She couldn’t cope with me, but I was persistent. I needed to register these documents and myself; otherwise, I would lose the three months of benefits from the Austrian government. It was a no-brainer for me, and I had plenty of time. So, as far as I was concerned, something had to give, and it wasn’t going to be me. She passed me on to one of her white colleagues, who also had no idea what was happening. After several phone calls, dictionary exchanges, and an hour of back-and-forth, the whole Jobcentre staff became involved in my case. It wasn’t funny, but it was hilarious and theatrical. This scenario was well before social media and video platforms, but if someone could have captured this moment, it would have gone viral within the hour. We couldn’t find common ground, but I refused to leave the premises. People began to drop out of the conversation, and those who remained started raising their voices towards me and each other. Finally, a higher power descended upon the situation when one of the ladies stepped back with some oomph and tipped the huge paper litter bin over.
It’s hard to imagine, but my case turned from unsolvable to solvable because of a disrespectful staff member. The angel, named Anna, arrived—a sizeable Portuguese cleaning lady. Someone had dumped a paper cup with half a pint of hot chocolate into the paper litter, and as it tipped over, the hot chocolate began to seep into the beige carpet. I watched the scene unfold and cracked up laughing while looking around the office. The African lady who had tipped the bin asked me in a raised voice, “You, what’s funny?” I had no idea what she meant, but as the cleaner cleaned up the mess, I grabbed my dictionary and started searching for the words “want” and “fanny.” Of course, with almost no English, I used the German spelling in my head, and “what’s” became “want,” and “funny” became “fanny.” After putting that simple sentence together, I was shocked. “You want fanny?” It made sense to me in some way, because I had never experienced any ethnic minority women before, and I did look like a rock star. So how likely was it that she had encountered an Austrian rock star? There was only one absolute Austrian rock star, the late Johann Hölzel, alias Falco, but when he rocked with Amadeus and hit UK number one on May 9, 1986, she must have been a little girl. Maybe she wanted to comfort me while the cleaner cleaned up the mess she had caused. I must admit that all sorts of ideas shot through my head after translating “You want fanny?”
However, as the talks over my paperwork and registration continued, the Portuguese lady, Ana, got involved.
I don’t know exactly what she said, but within minutes, another lady arrived with a bunch of papers and compared them with mine, and it all made sense to everyone involved. I assume she had gone through the whole scenario when she arrived in this country and knew exactly which paperwork needed to go where.
Finally, after one and a half hours, we succeeded. The paperwork was all recorded and signed off, so now it was up to them to send it off to Austria. They told me goodbye, but this was different from my idea of a job centre. I made two fists, smashed them together, and showed them I was looking for work. They said, “No, no, benefit.” I had no idea what “benefit” meant, nor could I spell it, so I gave the dictionary to one of the ladies, who looked it up. Unfortunately, the pocket dictionary translated the word “benefit” with the German word “nutzen,” which, as far as my German was concerned, meant “to use.” Yes, of course, I told myself, “please use me; I am here to work, please use me.” OK, the African lady had asked me if I wanted fanny, and that didn’t work out, so she probably meant something else, but I was happy to do any other job, too.
I said, “Please work address, work address.” The office worker said, “No, you are on benefit.” It didn’t make sense. I thought this was wrong; “benefit” must mean something else. After another half hour, someone came up with the idea to call a translator. They found one in the phone book, and it turned out that I shouldn’t worry about getting work because I was on benefits. When the Austrian government stopped sending me the money, I should go back and apply for benefits from the British government.
I didn’t want those benefits from the Austrian government, but they said I was entitled to them and should take them. I just followed protocol on the advice of the office worker and took the money. Benefits weren’t in our DNA back then. We were Eastern European, hard-working people, and there were no benefits where we grew up. If you didn’t work, they made you work within minutes.
A police patrol drove around midday and looked at the people on the streets.
A random guy walked into the town centre at 12:30 p.m. on a Wednesday.
The police car stopped.
Police: “Hey mate, how is your day? All good? What are you up to?”
Guy: “Well, I’m enjoying my holiday and walking about.”
Police: “How long are you on for?”
Guy: “Couple of weeks!”
Police: “OK, sorry for bothering you. Enjoy your day.”
Guy: “It’s OK, thanks.”
Fast forward two weeks later.
Police: “Hey mate, you’re still on holiday?”
Guy: “No!”
Police: “OK, have a seat in the car.”
They didn’t even bother to ask him why he wasn’t working or if he’d lost his job. They took him straight to the nearest building site, gave him a shovel, took his ID away, and told him, “Either you return to work tomorrow, or we’ll see you at 7:30 a.m. here. Alternatively, we’ll pick you up from home, and you won’t get paid for the day.”
In a nutshell, Romania in the 80s and before. Everyone had a job, but everyone also had a home, and there wasn’t a single homeless person in the town where I grew up.
I am at the Jobcentre, and I’m telling myself: I’m 24, healthy, strong, have a decent college degree, three years of work experience, and I’m willing to start working immediately—and they can’t help me because I’m receiving benefits. There wasn’t much I could do, so after almost 3 hours, I understood and gave in. As they started to get highly annoyed by my persistence, I thought I would leave the battle for another day. I was out, but I was not down, and they had no idea what would descend upon them in the weeks and months to come.
I returned home and told my girlfriend the story. She cracked up laughing but failed to give any moral or mental support.
Her attitude disappointed me, to be frank, but I was full of adrenaline, and as far as I was concerned, I came out on top. I went there to register my documents and to let the British government know of my presence in this country, that I was here to stay and desperately looking for a job.
To me, it was a success! Even though I failed to secure a job, I gathered vital information! The NI number came up a few times during the three-hour battle, and it was important because the lady gave me an address and made sure I understood that I needed it and that I must go there.