Community Service Ch. 01

I had voted for the Authoritarian Female Party, led by Caroline Flynt ... It had seemed like a good idea, at the time.

My name is David Smith. And I live in Canford, south London.

I was an eighteen-year-old school leaver, and because I hadn't paid the kind of attention I should have, in school, I finished my education with poor grades. What can I say? I just wasn't much of a student. I just wanted to fool around, have a few laughs.

Which was the main reason I hadn't found a job, after almost six months on the dole.

Not from lack of trying. But, after almost six months of job searching; of writing to employers, e-mailing them, knocking on their doors, and despite telling them that I was prepared to do anything, and prepared to work for minimum wage, for the privilege, I still couldn't find work.

Job vacancies were thin on the ground as it was, and the job seekers out there chasing them surely had better CVs than I had. The phrase, 'Not worth the paper it's written on', just about covers it.

My job prospects bleak, to seemingly non-existent, I was almost in despair.

* * *

My parents, to whom I was the youngest of their four children, and the only one of the four siblings to be still living at home, weren't exactly over the moon either.

After all, they'd been telling me for years to buck up my ideas. Telling me for years, to do better at school; to apply myself and strive for improved exam results. In short: to knuckle down to learning.

Just like my brother John, nineteen, and my two sisters, Alison and Denise, twenty-one and twenty-three, respectively, had done. And, who all had good, well-paid jobs now, as a result of their knuckling down.

John worked as a chef on the North Sea oil rigs. He was away from home a lot, but the money was great, he said. When he visited home, cash was practically spilling out of his pockets -- and his pockets were deep.

And Alison and Denise both held well-paid, and highly responsible positions, working for Canford's most eminent firm of solicitors, Black, Brown, and Grey.

While, I ... All too late, I found myself wishing that I'd listened to my parents. Wishing that I'd paid more attention to what my teachers had been trying to drum into my head, for all of those wasted school years ... Wishing, that I had knuckled down.

But, I was where I was. And I just had to get on with it.

Then, in early May, came the general election ... and then things really started to get interesting.

* * *

The long suffering tax-payers of Britain wanted change, and were demanding change. A change from inept, incompetent governments.

Above all, hard-working, hard-pressed citizens were crying out for a major crackdown against the idle, malingering, sponging ne'er-do-wells of the long-term unemployed. In particular, the hard core, parasitic 'career claimants'.

Britain's Social Security bill was astronomical, and the 'career claimants' were largely to blame. Making a career out of claiming for this, for that, and for something else -- anything and everything they possibly could -- they were bleeding the country dry.

It was, and had long been, an outrageous waste of the tax-payers' money.

Caroline Flynt, leader of the Authoritarian Female Party, said that it had to stop. And it had to stop now.

*

Caroline Flynt was a rising star in British politics, and the general mood in the country seemed to be right behind the highly charismatic leader, and her up-and-coming, all-female member Party. A party of no-nonsense, highly capable, and very ambitious women.

And ... according to some rumours I'd heard, a party of ultra-feminist, man-hating ball-breakers. But, I thought, that had to be a load of tosh ... Didn't it?

In the Authoritarian Female Party's manifesto pledges, Caroline Flynt was promising to eradicate male unemployment. Vowing, to make joblessness a thing of the past. In future, she said, there would be no such thing as male idleness.

All of the opposition parties had laughed derisively. It couldn't be done, they had jeered. The A.F.P.'s promise was unattainable, it simply couldn't be achieved. Full employment, said the opposing parties, was a pipe dream. The stuff of fantasy.

For Britain's females, voting for Caroline Flynt and the Authoritarian Female Party was a no-brainer. Females knew they were onto a winner, with the A.F.P. For them, it was win, win, win, all the way.

But the A.F.P. managed to raise a lot of support from the country's male population, too ... Including myself.

Because I wanted to work, and the A.F.P. were promising to put me to work.

But, I was short-sighted. Blinkered. I was a one-issue voter. I didn't pay much heed to all of the other, female-friendly, not-in-my-interest policies that the A.F.P. were proposing.

Having said that, I hadn't seen anything that should have raised a red flag, as it were, because I certainly had no gripe with females getting a better deal. But, little did I know, that this was just the thin end of a very thick wedge.

*

And so it was to this background, this groundswell of nationwide support, for the A.F.P., that Caroline Flynt and her all-female member party were swept to power. Swept to power in an all-time record, landslide victory.

The streets of Britain's towns and cities were filled to overflowing with joyful, celebrating crowds. Thousands of A.F.P. flags, banners and placards with their distinctive party colours of blue, green, red and yellow quarters fluttered and waved in a frenzy of happiness and new-found optimism ... mine, among them.

Celebrations and revelry carried on late into the night. All over Britain the mood was positive and upbeat. A bright new future was dawning. A new, golden era.

On the evening of that fateful Friday, I celebrated quietly at home, with a bottle of red wine. Wine; a bottle of cheap, 3-for-£10 off-licence claret, that I could ill afford, but that I felt the occasion called for.

On the other hand, Mum and Dad simply could not believe that I had actually voted for the A.F.P. "You silly, silly fool, David," Mum had sternly admonished. And Dad hadn't disagreed with her, shaking his head sadly, at his youngest son's folly.

With my first glass of red wine, I had toasted Caroline Flynt. And, at consuming my second and third glasses of wine, not only my sense of wellbeing had seemingly improved, but also my eyesight: for I was seeing, with 20/20 vision, through rose-tinted glasses ... I had done the right thing, in voting A.F.P.

Yes, it would be different now, I had thought, under this new government. Things would be different, under the rule of Caroline Flynt and the Authoritarian Female Party.

But, before I had even finished my bottle of wine, my sense of optimism was fast waning.

I finished my bottle of red wine; not because I was still enjoying it, but because I felt as if I needed a drink ... and then I raided my precious stash, and opened another bottle of my cheap claret.

There would not be, I began to realise, a bright new future dawning. Not for me. Just one hell of a hangover.

My inattention at school had resulted in blighting my job prospects. And now, by the sound of things, my having listened to the A.F.P.'s election manifesto pledges with equal inattention, was going to blight my future. Voting for the A.F.P., I began to realise, had been a dreadful, dreadful mistake.

Not that my single vote would have mattered a jot, one way or the other, in the great scheme of things. But, if I had voted differently, at least I would later have had the small consolation of being able to say: 'I told you so!'. Or: 'I knew, that something like this was going to happen!'

And, listening closely to the news on TV, and watching the various TV studio talk shows, and watching the A.F.P. political broadcasts over the weekend following their meteoric rise to power, I was gradually filled with a deep unease. A relentlessly growing sense of disquiet.

By the end of Sunday evening, I was experiencing trepidation. Dread.

Now that the Authoritarian Female Party were actually in power, they were moving fast. Over that weekend, the A.F.P. membership took up office; initiating their projects, and changing the face of Britain.

Galvanized into feverish, all-hands-on-deck purposeful activity, the all-female member party set about preparing for government. Set about the task, of installing their female-friendly governmental apparatus -- their anti-male administration.

Over the weekend, as I watched the news updates, my sense of foreboding deepened.

My feeling of dread deepened, as I watched on TV the many A.F.P. broadcasts. Deepened, as I listened to the opinions of panel guests on countless TV studio discussions. And deepened, as I watched the more in-depth interviews of senior political figures, by TV station anchor-men and women, and by other journalistic luminaries.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. What I was hearing. What was actually happening. And, what I had actually voted for ... Mum had been right.

Prime Minister Caroline Flynt announced that, from Monday, all females would be exempt from paying income tax. Their earnings would be paid to them tax-free. Their tax burden, she said, would be passed on to the male workforce.

Caroline Flynt went on, promising the country's females that the introduction of many more female-friendly changes were on the way, and would be implemented as soon as possible.

I was astounded and shocked.

Of course, although I'd paid them little heed, I'd heard about many of the A.F.P.'s female-friendly election manifesto pledges.

But this was the first that I had heard, of these ... more sinister, proposals. These, formerly kept under wraps, but now, completely overt, anti-male measures.

Carefully, sneakily, craftily hidden away -- cunningly secreted -- in the 'small print'; in the clauses and sub-clauses of their election manifesto pledges ... maybe they were.

But these vague, ambiguous, open to interpretation, delicately nuanced clauses were there, nonetheless.

Somehow, the A.F.P.'s deeper, darker, underlying design just hadn't been picked up on. Just hadn't been spotted, by the people who usually so closely scrutinized these things.

And, although the A.F.P. members had kept studiously quiet about these slyly hidden anti-male measures, before the election, their Cabinet Ministers were certainly giving them a good airing now.

Now, that the Authoritarian Female Party were safely in power. Safe, to show their true colours. To flaunt them, flying them high and proud.

But the worst bombshell was Caroline Flynt's announcement, that the A.F.P. would be introducing their Community Service Programme.

For, Britain's male long-term unemployed (over six months), immediately upon their being unemployed for six months, would from now on be sent a Letter of Notification. After which, they would then promptly be served with a Community Service Order.

Until they found gainful employment, such male benefits claimants would be made to earn their weekly Unemployment Benefit payments, by means of working as community servants.

And the same, working-for-their-benefits policy would apply to school leavers, who had no job or training to go to upon their leaving education.

All such male school leavers would be assigned to a placement, on the A.F.P. government's new Work Motivation Programme scheme. These placements being specifically designed, to 'motivate' claimants into finding gainful employment.

This was the biggest bombshell, because I was just one week away from reaching the six-month limit.

The Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater, announced an immediate recruitment drive.

Females, aged between eighteen and fifty, were invited to apply for jobs as Community Service Officers. Their role: to supervise -- and, as and when they deemed fit, to chastise -- the community servants under their authority.

The Community Service Officers (C.S.O's) would be armed, with the symbol of their authority: their A.F.P. issue cane. And C.S.O.'s would be free to use their canes, to chastise community servants at their own discretion.

Helen Highwater announced that females signing up as Community Service Officers would earn £10 per hour. A standard 40-hour week, would pay a wage of £400. And then overtime would often be available, and rates would be very generous, she said.

Helen Highwater said that Job Centres all over Britain would be open all over the weekend, and she urged females who thought this line of work appealing, to visit their local Job Centre, now ... Because these jobs were sure to be snapped up quickly.

And the one week, crash-course induction training for Community Service Officers, was to start on Monday.

All other unemployed females, not wishing to avail themselves of this exciting new employment opportunity, would, with effect as of Monday, have their Unemployment Benefit payments tripled, to £240 per week. Until employment opportunities more to their liking, might become available to them.

Most unsettling of all was Helen Highwater's announcement that: all males who had been unemployed for six months or longer, must remain at their home address on Monday week.

These A.F.P. broadcasts were repeated frequently throughout the weekend. And the faces of the new Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt; the Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater, and various other Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet Ministers, were never absent for long from my TV screen.

With only one more week left in which to find a job, I was fearing the worst ...

And my fears were duly vindicated. For, at the end of that final week I was still jobless.

On Saturday morning, delivered by courier, I duly received my Letter of Notification from my local Job Centre. Their terse instruction: "Dear Mr. Smith. You are to remain at home on Monday."

I did not sleep well, on Sunday night. My fevered mind would give me no peace. I either tossed and turned with worry ... or just lay awake, fretting about what might be in store for me.

For, according to the TV news, all over Britain: England, Scotland, Wales -- and, as it came under the jurisdiction of the UK government, Northern Ireland too -- much of the A.F.P.'s female-friendly governmental apparatus was now up and running.

* * *

In accordance with my local Job Centre's terse, "You are to remain at home on Monday." instruction, I remained confined to barracks, as it were.

The TV news programmes and talk shows were still being dominated by one topic: the winning of the British general election, by the Authoritarian Female Party.

The ramifications of the A.F.P.'s rise to power were discussed endlessly; the items of discussion, seemingly inexhaustible.

And, I couldn't help but notice, that the (predominantly) female contributors to these TV studio discussion panels, could not keep the excitement out of their voices ... or the new, manic light, that seemed to shine out from their eyes.

*

At exactly 8 a.m., just as the national news was coming on TV, looking out of the window I saw a white van stop outside the house. The side of the van bore the now familiar Authoritarian Female Party insignia: a flag of blue, green, red and yellow quarters.

So, then. This was for real. This was really happening ... They were actually coming for me.

I continued to gaze through the living-room window; the TV news, now just some white noise in the background.

And then I saw two young women emerge from the A.F.P. van, both of whom, I estimated to be only slightly older than myself; maybe nineteen or twenty.

The two young women were, of course, Community Service Officers.

The two C.S.O.'s both had blonde hair. And, as an integral part of their C.S.O. uniform, their hair was cut in the distinctive 'concave bob' style: with a straight fringe, coming to just above the eyebrows; straight at the back, and cut to just above the nape of the neck; and hanging straight at the sides, the cut slightly angled to follow the jawline, and with the hair teased to curve inward under the jaw.

The two C.S.O.'s were both quite attractive, I thought. Their faces were pleasing to the eye, and their figures were shapely and curvaceous; a pleasing picture of blossoming womanhood. But, for all of that, I had a feeling I wasn't going to like them very much.

As well as their distinctive hair style, the uniform of the C.S.O.'s was very distinctive, too, and incorporated each of the four colours of the Authoritarian Female Party (to which, C.S.O.'s automatically became members upon their being employed by the party).

Community Service Officers were unmistakable; if they were approaching you in the street, you could have absolutely no doubt as to who was walking towards you ... And, if you had any sense, you would turn around and walk the other way -- and quick.

The two C.S.O.'s who were now unlatching the front gate, were dressed in their uniform of blue blazer, green blouse, short, red skirt, and yellow cotton ankle-socks. On their feet, they wore the black, backless, thick rubber-soled clog-like shoes that were the standard C.S.O. issue footwear. Around their waist, they wore their C.S.O.'s Velcro-fastened, nylon utility belt. Their utility belts were pouched; the pouches' contents, hidden from view. But, clipped onto their utility belts, among other things I saw a bunch of keys, a walkie-talkie, and a pair of handcuffs.

And if a further clue as to the C.S.O.'s identity was needed, one was readily provided. For, in their hands they brandished the dreadful symbol of their authority -- their A.F.P. issue cane.

The A.F.P. issue cane was fearsome to behold; the C.S.O.'s implement of chastisement, being of flexible bamboo, and gradually tapering, so as to be almost whip-like at its tip.

When the two C.S.O.'s saw me watching them through the living-room window, one of them pointed her finger at my front door, in an unmistakable command: Open up! And the two of them casually sauntered -- arrogantly swaggered -- towards the front door; the power and authority vested in them, by their new positions, quite obviously having already gone straight to their concave bob framed heads.

Turning from the window, I walked towards the TV, intending to turn it off.

On TV was the new Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt. She seemed to be never off the screen. Yet again, she was assuring the British public that her government would not fail to keep their promises, but would vigorously pursue the speedy implementation of their female-friendly election manifesto pledges.

My finger hovered over the TV's Off button ... Caroline Flynt was an attractive woman, I thought. Very attractive, actually. How old was she ... late thirties ... early forties? It didn't matter. With her shoulder-length black hair, dark brown eyes, her full-lipped, sensual-looking mouth, and her very shapely figure, she was a real eye-catcher. Certainly, she caught my eye. Even if she was, probably old enough to be my mum!

But, for all of that, this was all her doing: My undoing. Ultimately, she was responsible for my predicament. Caroline Flynt, and her Authoritarian Female Party, were—

I was startled out of my reverie by the two C.S.O.'s, who rattled their canes against the front door in their impatience ... And, to this day, I can still remember the highly unsettling sound they made.

I finally turned off the TV, and hurried to open the front door to the two C.S.O.'s ... I had a feeling they wouldn't take too kindly to me keeping them waiting.

Upon my opening the front door to them, the two Community Service Officers looked at me for long moments, without speaking; chewing gum, and blowing bubbles with it, till they burst with a popping sound. Pop! Pop!

As they stared at me, the corners of their mouths formed a smirk of amusement, and of mockery, as they enjoyed my obvious discomfiture. Clearly, the two C.S.O.'s were revelling in my humiliating predicament.