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Liz Carr’s character thinks her neighbour is a benefits cheat.

In this monologue starring Liz Carr, Meg thinks her neighbour is a benefits cheat. She is compiling details about him in order to shop him for fraud. But, unexpectedly, he forges a friendship with her and encourages her to claim more benefits for herself.

The Real Deal is part of CripTales, a series of fictional monologues based on factual research and the lived experience of disabled people spanning British history since 1970.
Funny, inventive, dramatic and sexy, each one places disabled voices centre stage.

Originally recorded for television, ±«Óătv Ouch is sharing three of the monologues to mark 25 years since the Disability Discrimination Act was passed.

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16 minutes

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Transcript: The Real Deal

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Mat -

Hello, and welcome to the Ouch podcast. I’m Mat Fraser, actor and writer, and also the curator of CripTales, a series of monologues written, directed and performed by disabled people. Today’s is the second that Ouch will feature in their week of podcasts to mark the Disability Discrimination Act’s 25th anniversary.

‘The Real Deal’, staring Liz Carr, is about the UK benefits system and how some disabled people don’t get what’s theirs, whilst others, who may be fakers, get the full bundle. These monologues were made originally for TV, so let me set the scene. Curtains twitch and disability rights clash with disability wrongs as a strange alliance forms. But with a benefits cheat page up on line and a finger hovering over a click what is going to happen? I don’t want to give anything away, but Meg, the heroine of this story believes in justice. I hope you enjoy it.

Liz -

[keyboard clicking] It’s when he winked at me I knew he had to be stopped. I’m not a snitch but there comes a point, and it’s a sharp one, when you can’t ignore things any longer. Hmm. 14:52. White vest is back. On the dot as usual. Say what you like about him, and I do, the one thing I can’t fault is his time keeping. Shoot. Shoot for God’s sake. Every day the same agonising performance. A slow, painful walk around the block with that stick of his. Every afternoon the same. At 14:54 precisely he limps back into his house, pulling his trousers up over his
 considerable backside as he goes.

I know a faker when I see one. We’re all meant to be good little lambs, tripping off to slaughter, but it’s a criminal act we’re talking about here. I simply can’t let him get away with it. He’s back out again. He never comes out at this time. Shoot. 15:55 white vest walking with stick. You see, it’s not even touching the ground, there’s no weight on it at all, and he’s wearing a jacket over that vest of his. Going somewhere smart are we? Hmm, if I didn’t know better I’d say someone was off to meet a lady friend.

[doorbell rings] He looms over me like a shadow, on stilts, and despite watching him day in, day out, we’ve hardly ever spoken. “All right?” he says, trying to make it sound casual. “Yes, Mr Giles? Were you and your stick just passing?” “Look, I know it’s a big favour,” he says, gripping his stick tighter, and I wonder if he might strike me, “but could I borrow your wheelchair?” “It’s broken. Sorry.” This isn’t a lie. The battery’s kaput and I haven’t had the energy to get another one. Some days I just can’t be bothered. Rage and fatigue fight it out in my body and the fatigue wins. Fatigue always wins.

White vest comes straight back with, “No problem, I can soon get it fixed up for you. What are neighbours for?” I don’t know what to do with my face so I study the carpet intensely as he barges his way in. His eyes are gleaming now. “Had my eye on one of these babies on the net for a while,” he says, “but then I thought, why don’t I go and see my old friend Sue?” “Meg,” I correct him, “but my name’s Miss Davis.” White vest plays with a bit of mucus on his finger as he studies my chair and me in it.

“Hmm, I could soon get her fixed up. Even got a battery at home, just don’t ask what lorry it fell off.” I want to shout, “Look here, Mr Giles, my wheelchair is not a baby, it’s functional, to get me from one place to another.” But before I even realised what’s happened white vest has literally taken my chair from under me. “You’re a brick, Sue. Good thing I came over isn’t it? Your knight in shining armour.” Bloody cheek. “You haven’t said why you want it,” I say. “Did I not mention?” White vest tries to look innocent. “I’ve got my face to face PIP assessment tomorrow, and well, you’re got to up your game haven’t you?” He lets the word assessment fizz like a tablet dropping in water. God, I need some painkillers.

My whole body burns. “But you don’t need a wheelchair,” I say. “Not at the moment,” he says dramatically, “but in a year, who knows? I mean, they don’t know how degenerative this condition of mine might be.” I feel sick. “I’ll bring it back,” he shouts, pushing it down the drive. “A deal’s a deal.” “Thank you,” I call, as if he’s done me the favour. Why the hell did I say thank you? [music]

White vest makes me feel like they did at the assessment centre. From the moment the x-ray eyed receptionist smiled at me I knew I’d lost. I tried so hard to look capable, smart, even though I felt like an imposter. “Just be yourself, Meg. Sit tall, smile.” My mother’s voice comes through as always. But as I sit there I think of how it was because I attended her funeral that I lost my benefits. I chose her over them and now I’m paying for it. Of course, x-ray eyes sees right through me. My guilt. The fact that I felt I didn’t deserve it. For hours the night before I made a list of all the things I couldn’t do and in the morning I felt worthless. I held it tightly in my hand but the more questions they asked me the more my hand went into spasm, and the paper crumpled. I crumpled.

The next day you-know-who is back, zooming down the road, running down my new battery. “King of the road, me!” he shouts from the street, like a pit-bull with two tails. I want to punch those yellow teeth of his as he jumps nimbly from my wheelchair. There’s not a shred of decency in the man. I brandish my assessment letter at him. “Look,” I shout, “it’s so bloody unfair! I go to them, they give me nothing, you go to them, they hand it to you on a plate. Just leave me alone.” He lunges on the assessment letter, like a hungry vulture, and for the first time I see a genuine light shining in his eyes. “You can appeal,” he says. I feel all the air go out of me, like a deflated balloon. It’s so humiliating. I say, “You have to fight.” White vest grabs me by the shoulders. “You know your trouble? You simply don’t look disabled enough.” My jaw hits the floor. “You dress too smart.” “I have my pride,” I shout. He just shakes his head. “And where’s pride ever got you?”

Without warning he waltzes in and starts rummaging through my dirty washing basket. I desperately try to stop him as bras and knickers fly but finally he holds up my oldest, dirtiest blouse. “This is the one,” he says, salivating like a huge, horny Doberman. “Where this to your next assessment and they’ll never be able to turn you down.” Then white vest tips the whole basket onto the floor, going through it like a pig searching for truffles. Out comes some sweat pants
 that I’d wet myself in last week and hadn’t been able to wash. “Lovely,” he says, smelling the crotch.

What white vest is suggesting is terrible. I mean, horrible, wrong. But they are my clothes after all. I mean, it’s not exactly lying. Stop it, Meg, don’t even think of it. But in that terrible moment I just know white vest is right. “You need to be more disabled,” he shouts at our daily training session. “I am disabled!” I screamed in his face, and I felt it. “I don’t think you really want this.” I wanted to forget I even existed. I could feel my old friend, fatigue, taking over and white vest was ready to take full advantage. “Don’t sit tall, slump. Dribble a bit. Oh, they love that. Slump more. More. Look pained. Look vacant. Don’t shake hands. No make-up. No sleep the night before. Now you’re the real deal. But most important of all, don’t speak. I’ll do all the talking.” The easiest part of white vest’s plan was the not sleeping. By going blithely along had I made myself exactly like him? A good little lamb to the slaughter.

White vest told a pack of lies, of course, but they believed every word that came from his silver tongue. “No, Miss Davis can’t wipe her own arse. Miss Davis can’t fold her own sheets. Miss Davis can’t cook a meal. Miss Davis can’t stand up, sit down or do the hokey-cokey. Don’t you understand? Miss David couldn’t even open the envelope your letter arrived in.” When we got out we celebrated. Actually, we celebrated all afternoon. White vest even bought me champagne. Okay, it was cheap supermarket stuff but I’m not complaining.

When it was time for him to go I said, “Mr Giles, thank you.” And he said, “Call me Nigel.” And then he winked at me again. That was your mistake, Nigel. You’ve made me see things clearer than I have done for weeks. You’ve made me feel alive again. You’ve reminded me that you can’t get away with it. And I am the real deal.

Mat -

As we see Meg’s screen of the ±«Óătv Office benefits cheat page her fingers hover over the click to submit a report on her neighbour. There’s a pause, with great tension. She clicks, submit.

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