My entry into the benefits system late in life came as a shock. Like the eponymous hero of Ken Loach’s new film, I, Daniel Blake, I was in my late 50s. After I was made redundant I discovered that although I’d been paying my national insurance contributions for decades, I still wouldn’t qualify for a full state pension. That’s when I decided to apply for employment and support allowance: a benefit for unemployed people of working age who have limited prospects of work because of a disability or health condition. My modest teacher’s pension meant I wouldn’t receive any weekly payments: but, if I could accrue additional NI credits, that would add to the value of my eventual state pension.

So in January I rang the Department for Work and Pensions and said I wanted to apply for ESA. I was told that I’d first need to complete a written questionnaire, then, I’d be invited to a medical examination. I was asked how the DWP should communicate with me, as someone who is totally blind. I said that I needed to receive all forms and written communications electronically, and could then read and respond to them using speech software on my computer. A few days later, a print copy of the questionnaire arrived by post.

At the heart of the 21-page form were 18 questions, each one aimed at a specific disability and a single challenge associated with that disability. Thus, question eight was titled “problems with your vision” and asked about the issue of “getting around”. If I said I couldn’t do something, then I’d earn points towards a score that would decide my eligibility.

Elsewhere, there were questions about “coping with changes”, “awareness of hazards or danger” and learning “to do everyday tasks without difficulty”: all of which apply to someone who is visually impaired. However, I couldn’t earn points for these questions, because they were intended for claimants with a diagnosis of “mental health, cognitive and intellectual problems”. If I wanted those NI credits, I would have to make a good job of answering question eight.

The wording was simple enough: “Tick this box if you can get around safely on your own.” Immediately I was confused. For decades I’d travelled by tube and train across London. If I thought this was unsafe, presumably I shouldn’t have left the house. I recalled the countless commuters who told me they couldn’t possibly do what I do and others who’d made me feel like a walking health and safety hazard. In a burst of defiance, I wanted to answer: “Yes, you bet I can get around safely!”

Over a cup of tea, I discussed the problem with my wife. Together, we recalled a few of my near misses: the two occasions I’d gone down the gap between the train and the platform; and other times when I’d fallen down holes in the road or had my head clipped by the mirror of a passing lorry. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten these incidents, but, in the interest of trying to lead a normal life I’d put them to the back of my mind. Slightly crestfallen, I returned to the questionnaire and left the box unticked.

I looked through the form for any question that took account of my damaged right hand: I’m missing a thumb, first finger and half of my middle finger, meaning I can’t perform basic tasks such as cutting food. Question five asked: “Can you use either hand to: press a button such as a telephone keypad, turn the pages of a book, pick up a £1 coin, use a pen or pencil, use a suitable keyboard or mouse?” Because I can pick up a coin with my left hand, I wouldn’t get any points for manual dexterity. I thought about all the coins I’d dropped and couldn’t pick up because I couldn’t see where they’d rolled.

One effect of the DWP’s atomised approach to disability is that it doesn’t take account of the cumulative impact of two or more conditions. Thus, according to the form, my hearing loss was negligible, even though, in combination with my visual impairment, it constitutes a serious problem. By the time I’d finished the form, I felt like every ounce of competence and confidence had been drained out of me.

In April, nine weeks after my initial application, the DWP invited me to an in-person assessment in four days’ time. I’d been promised I’d be contacted by phone but, once again, I received a letter through the post. The letter warned that failure to attend the assessment could result in withdrawal of benefits. I wondered what would have happened if I’d lived alone and didn’t have someone to regularly check my post.

My wife drove me to the assessment centre. It was poorly signposted but eventually she found and rang the buzzer and we were admitted into a bleak stairwell that smelt of disinfectant. Upstairs we found the offices where Maximus, the DWP disability assessment provider, does its business. It was later confirmed to me that the premises are inaccessible to anyone who has difficulty climbing stairs.

The receptionist seemed flustered. She wanted me to sign something and, rather than addressing me directly, asked my wife: “Can he sign?” Of course, I get this sort of thing all the time, but shouldn’t someone working front-of-house in a disability assessment centre know better?

Sitting in the crowded, unventilated waiting room, I listened as an argument broke out. Newcomers were being turned away because the system was so backed up. One woman was in tears. She screamed she had mental health issues and had travelled 30 miles to attend her appointment.

I, Daniel Blake: Ken Loach and the scandal of Britain’s benefits system Read more

After 70 minutes, my name was called. My assessor explained she was a qualified nurse and led us through a security door into one of the assessment rooms. I was told nothing about the format of the assessment and, throughout the hour-long interview, my assessor began every question with the words “Michael” or “Now Michael”. Far from creating a friendly and relaxed atmosphere, I felt disempowered and patronised.

First, I had to re-answer all the questions from the original form. Then I was asked to perform a few physical activities, such as raising my arms above my head, which had nothing to do with my actual disabilities. Next came the hearing test. My assessor stood behind me and said a single word. “Now Michael, what was the word I just said?” I told her the word was “Monday” and, with no more ado, she returned to her desk and clattered something out on her computer. “Are you going to do any more tests on my hearing?” “No,” she replied.

I think this caused me to go into a bit of a rant, as my wife touched my arm and I guessed I’d better calm down. My assessor remained perfectly composed, waited a moment to check I’d shut up and resumed her computer-generated script as if nothing had happened.

Back on the street, I felt enraged. But I also felt like a tourist exiting benefits land. All I wanted were my NI credits: and, because I’m mentally stable, articulate and persistent, I’d probably succeed. In late July, six months after my application, I finally received a (printed) letter saying I was eligible for ESA.

But what about the others sitting in the waiting room for whom a wrong decision might mean genuine hardship, debt, withdrawal of housing benefit, eviction or worse? Theresa May talks about helping to create a welfare state that “works for everyone”; but what I see, and what Loach depicts in his film, is a system that is designed to frustrate, thwart and discriminate against the 11.6 million disabled Britons it’s supposed to support.