The Ragged Arsed Philanthropists

By M J Dees

Frank, a resident of the Cave Court Care Home, spends his days trying to convince his fellow residents why socialism must replace capitalism. 

 

However, his audience is less than receptive to his political ideals.

 

Sue and her fellow staff are overworked, understaffed and underpaid. Their life is a constant struggle to pay the bills and keep their heads above water.

 

The Ragged Arsed Philanthropists follows the lives of the staff and residents of Cave Court.

 

Will they overcome all the obstacles thrown at them as they navigate 2020s Britain.

 

Based on the 1914 novel, the Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: M J Dees
• Release date: Dec 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223548904

M J Dees

M J Dees has published eleven novels and ranging from humour to dystopia to political to historical to space opera. He makes his online home at mjdees.com. You can connect with him on Twitter at @mjdeeswriter, on Facebook at mjdeeswriter and you should send him an email at [e-mail] if the mood strikes you.

Book preview

Chapter One

The house was originally named The Cave. It was a large old-fashioned three-storied building standing on an acre of ground in the suburbs of Mugsborough. It stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by a concrete drive, on each side of which was a brick wall.

In its heyday, the house had been the private home of a wealthy individual in Mugsborough society. It was one of many similar large homes in the town and developers had converted most of them into offices, medical centres, hotels filled with the town’s disproportionate share of refugees, or homes of multiple occupancy. They had converted The Cave into a care home and had renamed it Cave Court Care Home (Mugsborough).

Susan stopped to catch her breath at the end of the driveway. She wasn’t getting any younger and the hill leading up to the house was not getting any less steep. Stopping for a moment to rest at a bus stop, she could allow herself this brief rest as she was on time for the handover from the night shift for a change. Her partner, Carole, had been sleeping when Sue had left this morning, and that always simplified the procedure required to get herself out of the front door.

Morning Sue, Binajit was the first to greet her colleague as she walked through the door.

Morning Bina, all quiet on the western front?

Not bad. I had time to peel the potatoes, and I’ve got some residents up. Is everything good at home?

Yes, thank you, Susan lied. You’re a star. What are Femi and Matt doing?

They’re just trying to get a couple more up before they go.

Susan checked the rota.

Only Kath, Julie and Amanda? None of them here yet?

Not yet. I’ll stay on longer for you.

Thanks Bina, and thanks for clearing the dinner stuff yesterday.

Don’t mention it. I know what it’s like when you don’t have enough hands.

Tell me about it.

That’s it, I can’t do anymore, said Matt, as he entered the office. Day shift will have to do the rest. Morning Sue.

Morning Matt. Anything I should know about?

No, I think everyone is back in their own rooms now.

Had a few walkers, did you?

Just a few, anyway enough about me, more about you. How’s Carole?

Oh, you know. Can’t complain, Susan lied again. Want a cuppa?

No thanks, Sue. As soon as my shift is over, I’m out of here. Breakfast trolley is almost ready.

Thanks.

Don’t thank me, thank Femi. It was all his doing, so if there’s anything wrong, you can blame him.

Thanks, I will. Matt, any chance you can hang on a bit until the others get here?

Muggins here? Of course I will.

Bina? Tea? Coffee?

I just had one, thanks. I didn’t have time to finish the medications, so I’ll get those ready for you now.

Thanks Bina, you’re a star.

All their heads turned as they heard the door open and shut.

Sorry I’m late, said Katherine, bustling into the office and looking around. Have you finished already?

Morning Kath, said Matt. Fun and frolics on the school run?

Isn’t it always?

Morning Kath, tea?

Morning. Yes please, Sue. Have I missed the handover?

No, we’re still waiting for Julie and Amanda.

The door opened and shut again.

Speak of the devil, said Matt.

Sorry I’m late, said Julie, bustling into the office and looking around. Have you finished already?

Anyone else have a feeling of déjà vu? said Matt. Morning Jules, you’re not the last. Amanda’s not here yet. Sue’s got the kettle on if you want a cuppa.

Oh, yes please, Sue. I tell you what, these buses will be the death of me.

They could hear a car pulling up outside.

That’ll be Amanda, said Matt.

She’s the only one with a car and she’s the last one here, said Julie.

I’ll tell her you said that.

Be my guest.

The traffic was terrible, said Amanda when she entered the office.

Jules was saying you’re the only one with a car and you’re the last one here.

Matt!

Yeah, I know, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Amanda admitted.

Coffee? The kettles just boiled.

Yes please, Sue. I could murder a cuppa. I didn’t have time to make one this morning.

Are you okay? asked Kath.

Yeah, Amanda sighed. I think Oliver is being bullied at school. He says he’s not, but he keeps coming home covered in bruises.

Have you told anyone?

I spoke to his teacher this morning. That’s why I’m late. She hasn’t noticed anything, but she said she’d keep an eye on him.

That’s awful. Kids can be horrible, can’t they?

So can adults, said Matt.

You should know, said Julie.

On that note, I’m outta here.

Nothing else we should know? asked Sue.

Don’t think so. Unless Femi knows something I don’t.

Okay, thanks Matt. See you later.

Not if I see you first.

As Matt left the office, Binajit came back in.

All the meds are ready. Morning everyone.

Thanks Bina, said Sue. Everyone’s here now, so you can get off now if you’d want.

Right, I’ll be off then. See you later. Have a nice day.

We won’t, said Julie.

Sue handed out the drinks just as Femi entered.

Femi! Drink? The kettles just boiled.

No thank you, Sue. If it’s all the same with you, I will go home now.

Of course, thanks Femi. Anything we should know about?

Nothing different from normal. I got as many up as I could, but I have to go now.

Thanks, Femi. See you later.

Olufemi was born in Nigeria. He fled the country after being sentenced to death for being gay. When he first arrived in the UK, he was full of optimism and took a course in documentary-making, choosing to report on the lives of London’s homeless, never imagining he would soon be in their shoes.

At first the Home office refused his request for asylum because he did not recognise gay icons when presented with photos of them. When the charity acting as his advocate asked the Home Office which gay icons they were referring to, they said they had showed him photos of Kylie Minogue and George Michael and he didn’t know who they were.

When they refused his request, it left him with two options: go home to Nigeria where his death sentence would be carried out, or disappear. It wasn’t a difficult choice.

Finding himself on the streets, Femi spent the nights on London buses. He travelled light, carrying a small tote bag, to avoid the stigma of homelessness during the day. If he was lucky, he would get two hours of sleep a night.

He made friends who regularly saw him on the buses. A church minister bought him a monthly pass to save him multiple nightly fares. She continued to do so, month after month, and other friends would chip in if she wasn’t around.

During the day, Femi volunteered at churches. When his work was done, he would head to Westminster Reference Library, where he would catch up on the day’s news and pick up where he’d left off in the book he’d been reading. Then he would ask a restaurant manager if they could spare some food. He was rarely turned away. No later than 9pm, he would step aboard a bus for the first of three or four nightly trips across the capital.

At dawn, friendly staff at the Leicester Square branch of McDonald’s would give him food and let him shave in the bathrooms. Fellow customers could be kind, too.

Eventually, the legal team at the church where he volunteered offered to apply for ‘leave to remain’ on his behalf, provided he could prove that he had continuously lived in the UK for at least five years.

He had spent his time avoiding all records and evading detection. Femi asked the friendliest bus drivers to write him a letter of support. One obliged, confirming he was ‘a regular rider throughout the night’. The churches he had volunteered at over the years provided supporting statements and dug out old photographs recording his presence at charity events.

A change in home office rules meant that after a year of waiting for a decision, Femi could apply for a job. He signed a zero hours contract to work nights in a care home and continued working there when, finally; they granted him leave to remain in the UK.

Back in the Cave, Sue was making the rounds with the medication, and Julie and Kath were assisting residents in getting up, dressed, washed, and bathed. Meanwhile, Amanda was in charge of the breakfast trolley.

Cave Court provided what they called a flexible breakfast. This comprised a fixed breakfast menu which could be eaten at the resident’s time of choosing within agreed limits. The idea of the flexible breakfast service was to enable residents to eat and drink soon after rising, allow choice, provide a steady flow of people to the dining area, require minimal preparation and service time, and allow the catering staff to start at the proper time and still be able to start preparing lunch early.

Some residents, sat at the breakfast table, were already getting impatient and one resident began complaining about the wait.

Well, go to the restaurant down the road, Betty, and see if they keep you waiting so long, said Amanda.

I wouldn’t wait this long in a restaurant, Betty muttered.

You know how understaffed we are.

Amanda had already prepared the initial breakfast offering, which comprised cereal, toast, pre-prepared portions of porridge that could be microwaved, prunes, apples, oranges, yoghurt, tea, coffee and water. However, residents wanting a cooked breakfast had to wait for whatever was on the menu that day to be prepared and they only offered a cooked breakfast three or four days a week and never on Sundays when there was a Sunday roast with pudding.

What do you want, Betty? asked Bill.

Bill was the care home’s maintenance person and wasn’t responsible for distributing the breakfasts. However, Bill was well aware of the implications of short staffed shifts and knew that helping a little reduced the level of resident complaints and that was beneficial for everyone.

I want my egg, Bill, said Betty. I can’t start my day without my egg.

Amanda will sort your egg out. Why don’t I get you tea or coffee while you’re waiting?

Tea please Bill. Milk, no sugar. You are good to me, not like the others.

Now, now, Betty, you mustn’t be harsh on them. You know how understaffed they are.

Well, why don’t they employ more staff then?

It’s difficult to find people these days, Betty.

Bill knew that this was partly true. It was difficult to fill vacancies in the care sector, partly because of the poor pay and working conditions. But Bill was also well aware that the care home owners were reluctant to employ more staff whose wages would cut into their bottom line.

There you are, Betty, said Bill, setting her cup of tea in front of her. Amanda will be along with your egg shortly.

Amanda was in the kitchen attending to Betty’s egg. She didn’t want to work in Cave Court, but she needed to work around school hours, which limited her options. She wasn’t earning as much money as she wanted, but it was the best arrangement for her, allowing her to drop her children at their schools’ breakfast clubs before work and collecting them afterwards. Difficulty in accessing a suitable job led Amanda and her husband, Daniel, into taking on additional debt. They had suffered a reduction in earnings due to furlough during the pandemic and were still suffering lower levels of income because Daniel’s employers had reduced his hours. Now the couple were struggling to make their debt payments, and it was this that was worrying Amanda more than the late arrival of Betty’s egg.

Chapter Two

While Betty was still waiting for her egg, Frank arrived. Betty didn’t like Frank. He had odd views on religion and politics and shared them. He kept going on about how the vast minority owned most of the wealth while the vast majority kept voting to maintain the status quo. It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow residents concluded that there was probably something wrong with his mind.

Slowly, but surely, the other residents who had been washed, dressed and medicated, filtered into the dining room and were eventually served their breakfasts.

Some buried themselves in their favourite newspapers or magazines, others went back to sleep in the armchairs, some watched TV and others either returned to their rooms or stayed there.

The care home was owned by Mr Sweater. He had inherited the property and heard from a friend that it could be very lucrative if he converted it into a care home. His friend had been right. The care home business had proved very profitable, especially during the pandemic, and Sweater had given himself a pay rise to congratulate himself. Cave Court Care Home (Mugsborough) Ltd received £1.2m from the Mugsborough council to look after residents in the last two years. Over a similar period, Sweater withdrew £652,435 in dividends, loans and salary. He had implemented various efficiency measures, such as replacing food and cleaning products with cheaper substitutes, not serving fruit and biscuits with tea, and reducing meal portion sizes.

Private companies now ran 84% of beds in care homes in England used by older people, as local councils almost totally withdrew from a key area of social care they used to dominate.

Some of the biggest operators had enormous debts, and were alleged to use tax avoidance schemes and drive down staff pay. The Care Quality Commission (CQC) watchdog said inadequate staffing levels at care homes lead to some residents receiving poor-quality care.

Sweater was an influential figure in the Mugsborough community and had sat on the Town Council for many years, as had his great grandfather. He was a successful business owner and had companies in the financial and property development and management sectors. This proved very convenient. He set up one company to manage the care home, that company rented the house of his property management company and also borrowed money from his financial services company.

Betty, having finished her egg and therefore able to start her day, had retired to the day room where she picked up the day’s edition of the Mugsborough Obscurer and slumped into an armchair next to John.

Funny name for a care home, said John.

What did you say? Betty had her hearing aid in but still missed things if she wasn’t paying attention.

Funny name for a care home, Cave Court. I mean, caves are dark, damp places, aren’t they?

Sums this place up, Betty joked. They give care homes all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,

Betty started reading the Mugsborough Obscurer. She started an article about the current problem of inflation and how the greedy workers striking for higher pay had to understand that everyone had to make sacrifices in order to pull the country through its current crisis. Betty didn’t really understand the arguments, but she was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining the country, and she thought it was about time the Government did more about it. 

What do you think of the economy, John? she asked.

Haven’t thought much about it, replied John. I never worry my head about politics.

Much better left alone, chimed Jim, in the next chair. Arguing about politics ends up with a bloody row and does no good to nobody.

At this, there was a murmur of approval from several of the other residents that were still awake. Most of them were averse to arguing or disputing about politics. If two or three of them with similar opinions were together, they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company, it was better left alone. The current economic policy emanated from the Tory party and that was the reason some of them were in favour of it, and for the same reason others opposed it. Some of them considered themselves to be Conservatives, others Liberal Democrats. Most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did about the condition of affairs on the planet of Jupiter. They had voted for the same party the whole of their lives, the same party their parents had voted for.

Betty regretted she had broached such an objectionable subject when she saw Frank looking up from his copy of The Guardian.

Does the fact that you never trouble your heads about politics prevent you from voting at election times? Frank asked John.

No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Jim, however, could not refrain from talking.

I don’t go in for politics, but if what’s in that paper is true, he gesticulated towards the rag, Betty was trying to hide behind. It seems to me we should take some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.

You can’t believe everything that’s in that bloody rag, said Tom.

The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Tom had been a member of the local Liberal club. Tom’s remark roused Jim.

You know very well that the country is being ruined by foreigners, he said. Just go to a shop to buy something; it all comes from bloody China.

We’re overrun with them in Mugsborough, said Betty.

Yes, said old Jim, All them refugees coming over the channel.

Frank laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a very serious state of affairs.

It’s a damn shame they allow these people to take the bread out of English people’s mouths, said Betty. They ought to be driven back into the bloody water.

The papers they read were filled with vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of aliens constantly arriving, their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to British life. These were the seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them, the mysterious thing they called the problem of the economy was a great anti-foreign crusade. The country was in a hell of a state. Poverty, hunger and misery had already invaded millions of homes and stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. It was all the fault of the bloody foreigner and that is why they had voted for Brexit to get their country back.

This was the conclusion reached by Jim and Betty, who thought they were Conservatives. It was unnecessary to think or study or investigate anything. It was all as clear as daylight. The foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and poor trade.

Do we know the numbers of how many single men have come here from France alone in the past 2 years? asked Jim. Now, imagine all these men got together and took our country. Am I being dramatic, or is it genuinely scary?

They don’t need to ‘take’ anything - it’s all being handed to them, said Betty. It’s not just the UK, it’s all the West.

They shouldn’t be here. Access to Whites isn’t a human right. They have their own countries, countries which have far stricter immigration laws than the West. Should Whites have any lands of their own? Or should we continue to be forced to integrate at gunpoint against our will?

What should happen to the brown people here? asked Frank, who had been listening to the conversation.

If someone broke into your house, stole your food and raped your daughter, should you be required to let him live there permanently because he successfully broke in? asked Jim.

Are you saying brown people are more likely to be rapists?

Yes, the facts say that nonwhite populations are committing crimes at vastly higher rates than whites. Am I right or wrong?

I think we should not be racist.

So what race is being harmed by all unique people having their own homelands? Because my race will literally cease to exist with your policies. Who is hurt by mine?

Let’s be clear. Are you suggesting that brown people, born in Britain, should be sent somewhere else?

I’ve lived around blacks and browns all my life. I get along with some and don’t with others. Where I grew up, I was the minority and faced far more discrimination than any of these people ever have. Some are good, some are bad. I prefer my own. None have a right to live in White lands and displace us out of our own countries, unless they conquer it via war.

They may be single when they arrive illegally in the UK. But, many of these males will ask their wives and children to apply to come to the UK. We haven’t seen the tip of the iceberg, said Betty.

Overall, males represented 87% of small boat arrivals in the year ending March, said Jim, reading from the Obscurer. Maybe they’ve been recruited by the World Economic Forum sponsored government to be given uniforms and used against the citizens of this country when the police realise they are supposed to protect the people, not stand against the people.

Sinister in the extreme, said Betty. There is a master shepherd.

A man fleeing war takes his wife and children. A man going to war leaves them behind, Jim continued. Thousands of undocumented fighting-age men who are put up in military bases and 4 star hotels is not normal. Dark forces are coordinating this, and we have to push back or we’ve had it.

It’s got to be at least 80,000, said Betty. Wait till the number swells to over five times that, as it will, without action. The boats are getting bigger and each year sees record numbers. We haven’t seen nothing yet.

We know over 90% the majority are young men. How can you say you’re from a war-torn country yet leave wives and children behind? That’s not what men do, said Jim. In addition, a reluctance to embrace British culture and language and expecting people to accept this is naïve.

They clearly outnumber our armed forces. I’ve said this for a while and it’s chilling.

It’s scary. I’m in the latter part of my life, but I have significant concerns for my grandchildren. We are no longer Britain. They have taken our country over. I am terrified there is nothing we can do about it because our consecutive governments are standing by and allowing it.

Scary definitely. That’s why in the UK we must not vote Labour or Liberal or Greens. Let’s send them packing once and for all. They want a reset. Well, let’s give them one. A clear out of parliament.

"It’s an invasion alright. I’m concerned