60 after 40 years.

AFTER the massive adrenaline rush of my one and only stage appearance, I am brought down to earth with a bump.

I still have no job and no prospects of one for the future.

So now, after 42 years of constant moil and toil, I have to go cap in hand to those sons of fun at the labour exchange, now known as the Jobcentre Plus.

It starts with a phone call from home, and from that point on it's all downhill.

To have to bare your soul, bank balance, family income and all that you hold private and personal is not a nice experience.

Especially when you know that some government muppet might leave it on the 5.34pm from Victoria.

The next step, and the most daunting, is the visit to the government types, who seem to hold all the power over your life and death.

One wrong word or incorrect statement and you could receive exactly zilch.

It is a belittling experience for me to have to ask strangers for help.

I have in the past prided myself on my ability to provide for my family.

But now, due to circumstances way beyond my control, I have to beg from the state.

I expected cream and green painted brickwork, a quarry tiled floor, a cold, dank and gloomy interior, smelling of sweat and fag smoke.

Instead, what confronted me was a well-lit carpeted entrance, uniformed staff to point you in the right direction, smart seating and a calm, well-ordered staff.

The first interview confirms your identity.

You find yourself revealing all your most personal details of your finances.

Meanwhile your interrogator trawls through documents that have been transcribed from your telephone conversation the previous day.

Next more questions, and you get the feeling that this is how the Gestapo and the KGB were able to exert total and absolute control over their enslaved subjects.

Now I am feeling decidedly uneasy; too much personal information in the hands of total strangers.

The second interview with a very personable young man put me at my ease, and more questions, but this time the tone is relaxed.

I can only surmise from his relaxed demeanour that I have passed the first hurdle and that I am now well on my way to receive the magnificent sum of pounds 60 a week.

Not bad after over 40 years of paying into the system. I wonder, can I claim for a bath plug? How about some iffy films? Or maybe I can re-register as an Albanian one-legged pregnant albino lesbian nun with TB. Or a dope-raddled Estonian pickpocket with a police record.

I then can be sure of a fully-furnished house, pocket money, vouchers for food, free medical care and the knowledge that when I am banged up for burglary I will not be sent back - yuman rites, innit! Thanks for the pounds 60 quid Gordon; that really goes a long way.

AD LEVY, Wednesfield