Is Liverpool’s Baltic Triangle Losing Its Soul?

Once a forgotten patch of derelict warehouses and post-industrial decay, the Baltic Triangle in Liverpool rose like a phoenix from the docklands’ ashes to become one of the city’s most celebrated cultural and creative districts. Artists, designers, musicians, tech start-ups and independent businesses found a home there, giving the area a reputation not just for reinvention but for authenticity.

In 2025, however, some are asking whether the Triangle is still a haven for creative independence or whether it has become a lifestyle brand for a different kind of consumer. Creative independence isn’t just a nice phrase. It means people having the space to experiment, take risks and shape the character of a place from the ground up—without being priced out or reduced to background decoration for someone else’s marketing campaign. The Baltic once offered that: messy, yes, but alive in a way that didn’t revolve around selling a curated “experience” to outsiders.

The Triangle’s early appeal lay in its rough edges. You could host a club night in a disused garage or start a street-food pop-up without crippling rents. Venues like Camp and Furnace, 24 Kitchen Street and the Baltic Market reflected that DIY ethos, and the art spilled onto the streets in murals and graffiti. No one is arguing the area should stay locked in romanticised dereliction. Investment has always been part of the story: from European funding that seeded Baltic Creative CIC, to private ventures that brought in new businesses and infrastructure. Growth is necessary. But there’s a difference between growth that builds on grassroots culture and growth that displaces it.

As the Triangle’s profile rose, it drew developers, investors and a wave of affluent newcomers. New apartment blocks appeared, workspace rents rose, and in some cases, the culture that made the area attractive began to be flattened into a branding tool. This is the familiar pattern seen in Shoreditch, Manchester’s Northern Quarter, Berlin’s Kreuzberg and beyond: artists create the buzz—the buzz attracts capital—the capital remakes the place—the artists leave. Polish isn’t the problem. But when “polish” comes at the cost of affordability, spontaneity and space for experimentation, a district risks becoming efficient but hollow: a place to consume, not create.

A city that balances growth with cultural depth and local input can produce something far more lasting. This doesn’t mean endless committees or blocking development until nothing happens. It means deliberate consultation with local creatives, residents and businesses so new projects respond to real needs; whether that’s workspace that stays affordable, public areas genuinely open for community use, or housing that offers a mix of price points, not just high-yield apartments. Liverpool has done this before. Baltic Creative CIC showed how targeted investment, combined with local initiative, can turn a neglected area into a thriving hub. The challenge now is to keep space in the Triangle for grassroots energy, not just as a starter phase before the next upgrade, but as a permanent part of the city’s DNA.

The Baltic Triangle still has genuinely independent spaces, but its future isn’t guaranteed. If it evolves into just another polished playground for rich digital nomads and cocktail tourists, it will have lost not only its edge but also its meaning. The question isn’t whether the Baltic should grow, it’s whether that growth will leave room for the kind of creative independence that made it matter in the first place.

Whatever Happened to the Tramp?

When I was a teenager in the late 1970s, tramps were a familiar sight. They nearly always dressed in the same “uniform”: a long, shabby overcoat with string-tied boots and a straggly beard. Yes… I know that sounds like a stereotype—but I saw them dressed like this.

They could usually be seen either sleeping on park benches or gathered in groups chatting and drinking on the steps of disused buildings etc.

They weren’t homeless in the modern sense of systemic failure and desperation, but part of a now extinct subculture, with its own unspoken rules.

The word “tramp” has largely vanished from modern vocabulary. We now speak of the “homeless”, a term that covers a wide and shifting range of circumstances: people living in tents, hostels, cars or sofa-surfing. Many are young (under 40), affected by addiction, mental health issues or a system that has failed them. They are often seen sitting outside banks or in sleeping bags in shop doorways. But they are not tramps, not in the older sense.

“Tramping” was a way of life: itinerant, solitary and based on a sort of freedom. The tramp of old was usually an older man (though a few women tramps did exist), sometimes an ex-soldier or labourer, who had dropped out of ordinary life through choice.

He would sleep most nights in the “spike”: the local workhouse-style “doss house”, where you were allowed a bed for one night in exchange for chores. George Orwell wrote about spikes in Down and Out in Paris and London, describing the indignities of the places from firsthand experience.

This subculture also had its “infrastructure”. Certain cafés, park shelters, hostels, church halls and quiet parts of railway stations were its hubs. Some cities had what might be called "tramp cafés", often in poorer areas, where for a few pence you could get a mug of tea, a badly-made sandwich and sit unbothered for hours. Ralph McTell in Streets of London mentions these. There was one in Berry Street in Liverpool, that I would go to occasionally with a school friend out of a sort of fascinated curiosity.

Sometime in the 1980s, tramps vanished from our streets. One reason for this is that spikes were abolished and city centres became cleaner, more policed and more commercialised. Loitering was outlawed. And being visibly poor became unacceptable.

Another reason is that the very idea of dropping out lost its romantic cultural acceptance. The tramp of old was seen as a figure of a bygone era; romanticised in literature and folk songs as a sort of wise old philosopher. Today, the idea of living outdoors, without possessions or ambition, is no longer viewed as eccentric, but is seen as a problem to be solved.

So tramps have disappeared, not because they chose to, but because society made it impossible for them to exist.

Scents Before Modernity

I was a young child in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and the world I grew up in was saturated with everyday scents that were distinctive and ever-present. These smells, like the pop music of the time, formed the background texture of my life. Most have vanished. Some for good reason: safety, health and progress. Others were lost due to modern manufacturing processes and production methods.

The most noticeable absence is tobacco smoke, especially from pipes and cigars. Those two had a richness I associated with sophistication and gentility. I don’t advocate smoking, and I’m glad it’s gone. But I miss the smell, at least from pipes and cigars. Cigarettes didn’t smell as nice.

Other scents I miss are: petrol fumes, coal fires, the smell of woollen school blazers and caps, the real leather of school satchels, chalk dust, wax crayons, freshly sharpened pencils and rubbers (erasers). Wellington boots also had a smell. So did the diesel from buses, trains and ferries. As did sweets (candy) with their variety of aromas. And bookshops smelled of paper and cardboard.

Everywhere had a smell! Now, virtually nothing has!

Clean air. Sanitised surfaces. Air-conditioned buildings that emit nothing at all. Supermarkets are scentless. Public transport provides no odour, unless something has gone wrong. Homes are heated by scentless electricity, not by gas or paraffin heaters, that had “cosy” aromas.

This isn’t just nostalgia. Something has been lost; faded away without mourning. Smell is the oldest sense we have, wired directly into memory and emotion. The scents of childhood shaped us, or they did so for me. They fashioned a world rich in texture and associations, that you carried with you. Today, we have replaced scent for sterility. 

I miss the world when it smelled of life.

‘The Poetics of Ambiguity: Romanticism, Empiricism and the Modern Mind’ - free ebook

The new ebook from Argotist Ebooks is ‘The Poetics of Ambiguity: Romanticism, Empiricism and the Modern Mind’ by Jeffrey Side.

Description: 

“This book began life as a doctoral thesis written between 2000 and 2007, a period during which I became increasingly disillusioned with the dominant aesthetic assumptions underpinning both Romantic and contemporary mainstream poetry. At the heart of my research was a single question: why did so much poetry—even that which purported to challenge cultural norms—remain epistemologically conservative? Why did it continue to treat language as a transparent medium, perception as unmediated access to reality and the self as a stable, expressive core? The answer, I gradually came to realise, lay in the unexamined legacy of empiricism. What I found in Romantic poetry—especially that of Wordsworth, Coleridge and their successors—was not the radical inwardness or imaginative freedom often celebrated in literary histories, but rather a poetics that remained fundamentally tethered to an Enlightenment faith in perception and observation. Far from breaking with empiricism, Romanticism often perpetuated its core assumptions, reconfiguring them within a poetic vocabulary that lent affective weight to what were essentially epistemological structures of the empirical gaze.” 

Available as a free ebook here: 

https://argotistebooks.blogspot.com/2025/07/the-poetics-of-ambiguity-romanticism.html

'Reassessing "The Boys from the Blackstuff" in the Context of Today’s Welfare System by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

The Boys from the Blackstuff is regarded as a landmark of 1980s British TV drama, praised for its uncompromising portrayal of unemployment and working-class hardship during the Thatcher years. The series gave a human face to the economic devastation caused by deindustrialisation and mass unemployment. Yet, in its aim to expose social suffering, it used a level of dramatic licence that sometimes overstated the harshness of the welfare system, which—compared to today's—was far less punitive, even under Thatcher.

The drama focused on unemployed Liverpool dockworkers, dealing not only with joblessness but with the loss of dignity and community. This portrayal powerfully captured the emotional and social impact of economic decline. However, it often implied that the benefits system was punitive and inadequate—an impression that doesn’t fully align with the welfare environment of the time. In reality, the system was comparatively generous and less conditional, with no strict requirement to prove active job searching in order to claim support.

While the series depicted a system that appeared harsh, the reality of the early 1980s welfare state was more complex, and, in some respects, more supportive than today’s. Contrary to the suggestion of near-total institutional indifference, claimants could access additional help beyond regular weekly payments, including for essentials like furniture and heating.

Support was available through Supplementary Benefit, the main means-tested system in place throughout the 1970s and early 1980s. Under this scheme, claimants could apply for Exceptional Needs Payments to cover urgent or irregular expenses, such as beds, cookers and other basic furnishings. Those with special circumstances (such as illness, disability or caring responsibilities) could also receive Additional Requirements Allowances to help with higher living costs, including heating during colder months. Though discretionary, these payments reflected a genuine commitment to poverty relief that is largely absent from today’s system.

Claimants were required to sign on only every two weeks, with no obligation to demonstrate active job hunting. There were rules about working while claiming, but no digital surveillance, mandatory job applications or routine sanctions of the kind now embedded in the benefits system.

What the series captured with emotional force may have overstated the cruelty of the system itself. Even under the tightening social policies of the early Thatcher years, the welfare state still provided a relatively humane safety net—one that recognised need and made provision for basic dignity.

The depiction of a relentlessly harsh system overlooked this reality. Instead, the drama focused on the psychological and social fallout of unemployment, which was indeed severe and deserving of attention. Yet by conflating the trauma of joblessness with a draconian benefits regime, it contributed to the impression that state support itself was a source of suffering—something that is truer today than it was then.

The series also highlighted the risks faced by those caught “moonlighting” while on benefits: characters who took informal work to supplement their income, only to face sanctions or loss of support. While this reflected a real anxiety, the need to moonlight was arguably less about systemic cruelty and more about claimants striving to maintain self-respect and meet needs that went beyond the scope of benefits.

Compared to today's benefits climate, the contrast is striking. Modern support is far more conditional, closely monitored and punitive, with frequent assessments and sanctions that make claiming both stressful and uncertain. By contrast, the 1980s system prioritised financial support over enforcement.

In this light, The Boys from the Blackstuff was both a product and an amplifier of its time: a dramatic work that rightly spotlighted the human cost of economic upheaval, but which arguably overstated the cruelty of the benefits system. Its powerful emotional truths remain compelling, but its depiction of 1980s welfare needs historical perspective. The system it portrayed as oppressive was, in fact, a comparatively generous support network—one without which the hardship of the era would have been far worse.

Ultimately, The Boys from the Blackstuff is best appreciated not as a literal account of welfare policy, but as a dramatic exploration of the social and psychological toll of unemployment, set against the backdrop of a welfare state that, while imperfect, was more accessible than its reputation, or its screen depiction, might suggest.

'The DWP Restart Scheme Exposed: The Secret Job Searches and Sanction Threats Unveiled by an Insider' by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

Recent insider disclosures from an Employment Advisor (EA) working within the UK government’s Restart Scheme, shared openly on Reddit (see link at the end of this article) in 2023, reveal unsettling realities about how the scheme operates. These revelations highlight the significant power EAs hold over claimants and raise important questions about fairness, transparency and the true purpose of Restart.

The EA explained on Reddit that their role goes beyond simply advising jobseekers. They are actively responsible for securing job starts and outcomes, with their performance closely monitored against strict targets set by the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP). The EA stated, “Part of an EA’s job is to get you into work, we are targeted on job starts and outcomes”.

This performance pressure leads to intensive management strategies designed to move participants quickly into employment, often regardless of job suitability or quality. The EA also revealed they have access to the “hidden job market”—vacancies not publicly advertised—and personally conduct job searches and “reverse market” by contacting local employers directly. “I do job searches myself for all my participants and send through jobs, I will also reverse market and ring local employers to find out jobs on the hidden job market i.e jobs that are available but not advertised in the usual places”, the EA wrote.

While this insider access may seem beneficial, it means claimants may be offered jobs without prior knowledge or choice, potentially being pressured into poor matches, sometimes at considerable distance. The EA admitted they hold sanction powers for non-engagement or refusal of suitable jobs, cautioning that sanctions can be cumulative: “602 [sanctions] is not the main focus, but for someone who is deliberately not engaging it can be a good shot across the bow to show how bad things can get, you can be under multiple sanctions in theory”.

The advisor made clear that their own job depends on meeting targets: “If my job is going to be put at risk by not being able to hit targets then I am going to use every tool I have to enable me to hit those targets”. Although supportive of participants with genuine barriers, the EA expressed a clear intent to push “work ready” individuals into employment quickly.

This insider perspective shines a stark light on why many claimants are wary of Restart, especially older people or those with alternative plans like education. The scheme’s design—focused on rapid placements rather than individual suitability—can coerce participants into accepting unsuitable roles, under threat of sanction.

While Restart offers access to exclusive job leads and active advisor support, the power imbalance and sanction pressures mean claimants should carefully consider whether engagement suits their circumstances. Awareness of this inside information, now available publicly thanks to the EA’s Reddit post, may help individuals navigate their options more strategically or decide that avoiding Restart altogether is the safer path.

Link to EA's Reddit post

https://www.reddit.com/r/DWPhelp/comments/12fo3bc/comment/jfxhk0p/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

'How the DWP's Restart Scheme Funnels Welfare Money to Private Firms' by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

The UK government claims to be cutting back on welfare spending: tightening eligibility, toughening work requirements and cracking down on so-called “benefit cheats”. But behind the scenes, billions are being quietly diverted into the coffers of private employment firms via schemes like Restart. These firms are paid not for helping people, but for simply tracking them.

What’s happening is not illegal. But it’s a system designed in such a way that providers can profit handsomely with minimal effort or accountability. In effect, the Restart Scheme turns Universal Credit claimants into data assets. If you’re referred while on UC, and you later go on to earn a modest income (even if entirely through your own efforts) the Restart provider gets paid by the government.

Restart providers are paid in stages, according to a commercial model buried in the DWP's contracts. Once a Universal Credit claimant is referred into Restart (via the PRaP system), a clock starts ticking. For the next 547 days (about 18 months), the provider is eligible to claim job outcome payments if that claimant hits certain earnings milestones:

£1000 earned: First outcome payment

£2000 earned: Second outcome payment

£4250 earned: Final “sustained employment” bonus worth up to £3,000

These earnings can be cumulative, across multiple short-term jobs. And here’s the thing: the job doesn’t have to be found with their help. If the claimant gets work on their own (or even returns to a job they already had lined up) the provider still profits, as long as that PRaP referral is in place.

This is not about employment support. It’s about monetising unemployment. Once you're tagged in the Restart system, your financial movements are monitored for 18 months via real-time data sharing between HMRC and the DWP. This continues even after you close your Universal Credit claim, with earnings still reported for six months.

Restart doesn’t exist to help people into work. It exists to ensure providers get paid when people return to work anyway. That’s why Work Coaches are under pressure to refer as many people as possible.

These outcomes are funded through the Department for Work and Pensions. Restart is part of a vast ecosystem of outsourced welfare services, built on a logic of per-capita capture, automated tracking and staged monetisation.

The public is told that tough love and strict rules are saving money. But the truth is that a significant portion of the welfare budget is quietly redirected into opaque private contracts that are rarely scrutinised and often rewarded for doing little more than watching you earn.

There’s no fraud here, just an exploitative business model that feeds off claimant data. It's technically legal, politically useful and financially lucrative. But it’s also profoundly cynical.

At the same time claimants are harassed, sanctioned and made to jump through hoops for support, Restart providers are cashing in on their efforts, even when they contribute nothing at all to those outcomes. This is the hidden cost of welfare outsourcing. And it’s time more people knew about it.

The Evolution of the Western Film Score

I first came across the music of Aaron Copland in 1989. I already knew that his work had influenced the sound of Hollywood Western film scores, most notably Elmer Bernstein’s The Magnificent Seven. I had assumed Copland had been the only influence behind this kind of music. I didn’t realise that what we now think of as “Western” film music had developed over time, influenced by several composers before Hollywood adopted it as the sound of the cinematic American West.

One of those earlier composers was Ferde Grofé. His Grand Canyon Suite came out in 1931, before Copland produced a similar sound with Prairie Journal in 1937. Though not written for film, its sweeping orchestration would go on to influence Hollywood composers during the 1940s.

While Grofé wasn’t a film composer himself, his orchestrational style gave Hollywood composers new techniques for evoking the American West. This can be heard in Max Steiner’s score for They Died with Their Boots On (1941), which has strong similarities to Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite.

Before the 1940s, the Western genre had no fixed musical identity. Early Westerns relied on film orchestrations that followed general film music conventions, without any attempt to sound specifically “American” or “frontier”.

That changed with composers like Dimitri Tiomkin and Jerome Moross. Tiomkin’s scores for Red River (1948) and High Noon (1952) incorporated folk melodies, hymns, guitar and harmonica. And Moross’s score for The Big Country (1958) had a spacious feel that matched the landscape.

So far, we’ve looked at how this musical style evolved through Grofé and the film composers he influenced. Now we will look at how Copland’s music fits into this evolution.

As mentioned earlier, Copland’s first foray into the kind of sound we now associate with the American West came with Prairie Journal. While this was not written with Western tropes in mind, it used many of the musical elements (open harmonies, folk-like melodies and a sense of spaciousness) that, as we have seen, would later become associated with cinematic depictions of the American West.

The following year, Copland’s ballet, Billy the Kid (1938), marked a turning point. It used cowboy songs, square dance rhythms, and a more minimalist style of orchestration. Although it was written for the stage, it would define how the West sounded in film, especially by the 1960s, when Elmer Bernstein drew heavily on it for his score for The Magnificent Seven.

Interestingly, though Copland had written a score for the 1948 Western, The Red Pony, it had no influence on Western film music in the '40s and '50s.

What emerges, then, from this brief history is not one clear origin point for Western film music, but two separate paths developing alongside each other. One came from Grofé (lush, grand and pictorial), which dominated the Hollywood Westerns of the '40s and '50s. The other came from Copland (minimalist, folk-based and direct), which became predominant in the 1960s and thereafter.

Exposing the Flaws in the Observer’s Salt Path Critique

A recent article in The Observer called ‘The real Salt Path: how a blockbuster book and film were spun from lies, deceit and desperation’ has caused some controversy. It presents a damning investigation into Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir The Salt Path, calling into question its truthfulness and suggesting that Winn and her husband “Moth” built their public image on a foundation of legal trouble, financial misconduct and selective storytelling.

While the article presents serious claims, and cites multiple sources to support them, its tone, framing and rhetorical style raise their own questions, about journalistic bias, assumption-laden reporting and what truth in memoir really means.

From the headline alone, the tone is set: “spun from lies, deceit and desperation”, is not neutral language. It prepares the reader for scandal before the evidence has even begun. This isn’t unusual in click-bait media, but in investigative reporting, such language can subtly (or not so subtly) shape a reader’s judgement.

Throughout the article, sources who speak critically of Winn (especially Ros Hemmings, a former employer’s widow) are presented as credible and emotionally grounded, while Winn herself is largely silent, represented only by a short legal statement. The article makes no serious attempt to balance its narrative with a fuller version of Winn’s perspective. The effect is to turn one side of a complex story into a presumed truth.

The article depends heavily on Winn’s past legal and financial troubles, most notably an alleged embezzlement case from 2008, settled out of court with a non-disclosure agreement. It’s a serious allegation, but the reporting treats this as a smoking gun that discredits The Salt Path entirely, without acknowledging that memoirs often include omission, thematic shaping and selective focus.

Similarly, the article notes that Winn and her husband owned property in France during their supposed "homelessness", and later refers to it as "uninhabitable". But this key context is folded into a paragraph mid-article, with little exploration of what "uninhabitable" actually meant in practice. The framing leans toward suspicion rather than clarity. If the property was uninhabitable in the sense that it could not be lived in, then Win and her husband were indeed homeless. The lack of clarity about this in the article, allows for the implication that they had options that they hid from readers. That might be technically true, but without examining the real condition or accessibility of that French property, the reporting veers into insinuation.

An assumption running through the article is that because Winn omitted parts of her past, she must have intended to deceive. But memoir is not autobiography. It’s an inherently selective genre, based around emotional truth and narrative arcs, not exhaustive chronology. Many people who write memoirs, write under pseudonyms, simplify time-lines, or emphasise thematic resonance over literal precision.

The article also assumes that because some readers were moved by the story, they might have acted on it in misguided ways, and that therefore Winn’s alleged misrepresentations could cause “real harm”. That claim is speculative and unsupported by evidence. It functions as a rhetorical device, not a documented consequence.

One of the strongest challenges raised in the article is over Moth’s diagnosis of corticobasal degeneration (CBD). Several neurologists are quoted expressing scepticism about the longevity and reversibility of his symptoms as portrayed in the book. Yet even here, the article admits there is nothing to disprove the diagnosis. It also acknowledges that medical anomalies do happen.

Ultimately, the article tries to draw a hard line between fact and fable in a literary form that has never been that tidy. The claim that The Salt Path misrepresents Winn’s life might have merit, but does that invalidate the emotional and symbolic journey that so many readers found meaningful?

The article suggests that Winn’s supposed deceptions disqualify her from telling a redemptive story. But that’s a moral judgement, not a literary one. The uncomfortable reality is that flawed people can write true things, and inspirational books don’t have to be written by saints. Of course, redemptive arcs can be misused or feel too convenient—but that doesn’t mean they’re always inauthentic, or that "flawed" narrators can’t earn them.

The article raises serious questions. It uncovers contradictions, omitted facts and unresolved tensions between the private past and the public story. But its tone is adversarial. 

It’s worth noting that the journalist behind the Observer piece, Chloe Hadjimatheou, was previously found by the BBC’s own Executive Complaints Unit to have breached editorial standards in a separate investigation—specifically, a 2021 Radio 4 documentary that included false claims and unsupported insinuations. The BBC later admitted the programme failed to meet its accuracy standards. Given this prior finding, it’s reasonable to approach her current reporting with caution—especially when it relies heavily on implication and selective framing.

This kind of history suggests a need for caution when weighing reporting that relies heavily on implication and selective framing.

Good journalism should probe. But when it loses sight of balance, it can resemble the thing it critiques.

‘How the UK Benefits System Became Punitive’ by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

In 1989, if you were unemployed in the UK, you were entitled to Unemployment Benefit, Income Support and Housing Benefit without being subjected to regular interrogations at the Jobcentre. Today, the welfare state looks very different. Universal Credit claimants are forced into relentless job search routines, and sanctioned often for no reason. This shift didn't happen by accident. It’s the result of a decades-long transformation—one that replaced the old welfare state with a system designed not to support the poor, but to discipline them.

The roots of today’s punitive benefits system lie in the 1980s, when the Thatcher government began framing welfare as a problem rather than a public good. The introduction of the Restart Programme (a predecessor to today's Restart Scheme) in 1986 was a significant moment. Unemployed people were summoned to interviews a couple of times a year to discuss their job prospects. In theory, if you missed one your benefit would be stopped, but this seldom happened.

This marked the beginning of what policy makers called “activation”—the idea that claimants should be prodded or pushed into work. Thatcher’s successors took this even further. Under New Labour in the late 1990s, people had to earn their benefits. The New Deal introduced under Blair linked welfare to mandatory training and job applications. Rights were increasingly tied to responsibilities.

The real transformation came after 2010, when the Coalition and Conservative governments built an entire system on coercion. Universal Credit rolled six benefits into one, but more importantly, it introduced digital control mechanisms that let the Department for Work and Pensions track claimants in real time. Under Universal Credit, you can be sanctioned for:

Missing a job centre appointment

Applying for “too few” jobs

Turning down a zero-hours contract

Not updating your journal promptly enough

A missed click or misunderstood instruction can mean weeks without income. The DWP doesn’t need to prove you’re lazy or fraudulent, they only need to catch you failing to meet their requirements. The result is a system of bureaucratic cruelty, dressed up as “encouraging independence”.

The most glaring contradiction is that all of this has happened during a period when secure, decent jobs have declined. In 1989, the UK still had large-scale manufacturing and public sector jobs. The labour market has since fractured into insecure work, gig economy scraps and stagnant wages.

And yet the benefits regime assumes there’s a job for everyone—as if full employment still exists, and the only obstacle is personal failure. It’s a fantasy. But it’s a convenient one, because it justifies cutting support while blaming the claimant.

Several forces have driven this shift:

Welfare has been reframed as a problem to be fixed rather than a right to be upheld.

Crackdowns on “scroungers” play well in the press and among older, property-owning voters.

Algorithms make it easy to track, control and punish claimants.

After 2010, slashing welfare became a core part of budget-cutting measures

Perhaps most crucially, the idea of a social contract, where the state protects the vulnerable, has eroded. In its place is a doctrine of compliance, where you have to prove your worth every week, or go without.

The UK benefits system has not failed—it has been redesigned to behave exactly as it does: to deter claims, enforce low-paid work and punish those who fall through the cracks. It’s no longer about lifting people out of poverty. It’s about managing poverty through pressure, stigma and surveillance.

And all of this in an era where there are no jobs for a large majority of the working age population.

‘A Critical Look at the Restart Scheme’s Structural Flaws’ by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

The UK government’s Restart Scheme is presented as a lifeline for long-term Universal Credit claimants, an intensive employment support programme designed to help people back into sustainable work. But behind the glossy promises of “tailored help” and “enhanced support” lies a system riddled with structural flaws. For many, Restart doesn’t feel like support, it feels like coercion dressed up as care.

Restart is framed as something that helps you, but for most claimants, it's not optional. Once a person has been on Universal Credit for six months or more, they can be referred without choice or prior agreement. Participation is backed by sanction threats: fail to engage, and you could lose some or all of your benefit.

Even the introductory “warm handover call”—which sounds friendly—is part of a formal compliance chain. It marks the beginning of a process where your cooperation is no longer simply encouraged, but expected and enforceable.

Restart isn’t delivered by Jobcentre Plus. It’s outsourced to private providers: companies that are paid by the government per referral, and can receive further payments when a claimant secures employment. This structure has built-in negative incentives.

Providers are financially rewarded for getting people through the door, not necessarily for giving them useful help. The pressure to meet performance targets can outweigh the quality or relevance of the support offered. And individual needs are often overlooked in favour of tick-box exercises, quick job placements or unsuitable training schemes. In short, profit is prioritised over people.

Claimants are often asked to sign documents like participation agreements and data consent forms. These forms are presented as routine, but they carry real consequences. The participation agreement gives the provider leverage to enforce tasks and activities (including job searches, training courses and workshops). And the data consent forms may give the provider access to share personal details with third-party organisations.

These documents are not always mandatory, but the pressure to sign is immense. Refusal can lead to friction, suspicion or implied threats of being reported as “non-compliant”. Those who exercise their right not to sign certain documents are often met with passive-aggressive resistance. While they retain legal autonomy, they may:

Face hostility or resentment from provider staff

Be treated as “problem claimants”

Have to constantly defend their position and remind staff of their rights

It creates an adversarial atmosphere where the burden is on the claimant to assert their rights repeatedly—a psychologically exhausting task, especially for those with mental health conditions.

Restart is particularly hard on people with anxiety, depression or other vulnerabilities. The scheme’s structure (regular appointments, compliance demands and the threat of sanctions) often worsens mental health rather than improving job prospects. Instead of personalised support, many claimants experience:

Micromanagement of job search activities

Inflexible scheduling

Patronising workshops

And an overwhelming sense of being watched, judged and pushed. Rather than building confidence, Restart can strip away autonomy and dignity.

Once someone is referred to Restart, they are usually on it for up to 12 months. During that time, they are expected to:

Attend multiple appointments

Complete provider-set tasks

Accept job offers, training or interviews—sometimes regardless of suitability

There is no easy way out. Requests to leave the scheme are refused—even when alternatives would be more helpful.

Despite claims of being “personalised”, Restart operates on a one-size-fits-all model. People from all backgrounds, including skilled professionals, carers, those with long-term health conditions and those already engaged in their own job-seeking strategies, are treated identically. Instead of flexibility and genuine help, the scheme offers rigidity and delivers bureaucracy, surveillance and pressure.

The structural flaws in the Restart Scheme aren’t accidental—they’re built into the foundation:

It punishes non-compliance more than it rewards effort

It treats claimants as risks to be managed, not individuals to be supported

It serves the needs of contractors and targets, not the people it claims to help

Any real solution would require more than tweaks. It would need a complete rethinking of what support for unemployed people should look like: with respect, choice and real empowerment at its heart.

People on Universal Credit deserve genuine support, not mandated compliance under threat. The Restart Scheme may work for a few, but for many, it is a source of unnecessary stress, surveillance and stigma. Until the system stops prioritising targets and payments over people, schemes like Restart will continue to fail those they claim to serve.