‘As social workers, threats and intimidation are par for the course’

Published by Professional Social Work magazine, 15 August 2023

My head recoiled sharply as the nose of the gun ground into my cheek bone. My assailant's eyes burnt into mine.

He accused me of being a “fucking paedo”. Ironic, given I had spent a good part of my career trying to remove sex offenders from family homes. His eyes continued to blaze: "Leave other people's kids alone, or we’ll fucking shoot you.” It wouldn't be the first fatality on this estate. Some years ago, a rent collector had been stabbed over a dispute regarding rent arrears.

My mugger’s accomplice, agitated behind him, pulled out a large lock knife. I feared this more than the gun, thinking it would go straight through me. I visualised my stomach lacerated with my innards carved up. Their bandanas revealed little more than they were white, thin and pasty, one with pockmarked skin. Pock Mark grabbed the collar of my Gore-Tex jacket. Shaking me, he said: "Gimme it... the bike too.”

I felt a sense of relief wondering if all this was all actually just a standard robbery rather than some spurious vendetta. He checked my trouser pockets for cash, pulled out my keys and handed them back to me in a matter of fact way. Twisting the gun one last time against my face he said: "Now fuck off, remember the bullet travels faster than you do." No shit.

On reflection, I wondered whether the incident was linked to the young man who I had just visited, particularly the veiled threat. His siblings were on the child protection register due to his escalating violence. He was on bail for stabbing an elderly Pakistani man. Fortunately, he’d used only a stubby screwdriver causing a small puncture wound. Nevertheless, the racist intention to inflict serious harm had been there.

As social workers, threats and intimidation are par for the course. Frustration with the shortage of both staff and resources boil over, leading to the majority of workers being repeatedly threatened year-on-year. There were obviously assaults in residential, but the difference with field work is you are very much out on your own.

Previously, on the same estate I had narrowly avoided another aggressor. As usual I had been charging around trying to keep on top of the relentless workload.

The O’Gradys were a family with history. The difficulty was I hadn’t had time to read it. I knocked politely on their front door - and was immediately confronted by a ranting man in his 20s. His face came so close to mine I could smell his putrid breath oozing through his rotten teeth. A fresh battle scar had been crudely stitched up on his cheek, dried blood crusting round it.

All I had time to utter was that I was from social services, which proved to be a mistake as this only intensified his fury. Fortunately for me, his numerous relatives did their best to pull him back. Spreadeagled, he was not strong enough to break free although he looked like he would willingly weaponize the nearest object to hand.

I realised my vulnerability standing there with a diary in hand and a pin-coded mobile in my pocket; not quite handcuffs and pepper spray. A bit shell-shocked, I rang the police on my return. Their response was: “Oh yeah we know Paddy, he is not very receptive, we normally go with eight of us in a van.” 

Some weeks later, I went on a home visit to a 20-stone man who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia with a cop who manoeuvred behind me while we knocked on the door. He said he was retiring shortly and that he didn’t want any aggro! When I asked him where his cuffs were he said he’d left them it in the car, smiling weakly. Given we were visiting a man who had spent his Bank Holiday running amok at a family barbecue barking like a dog while wielding a knife I shook my head in disbelief. Fortunately, our “person posing a risk”, although standing there shirtless, was in a good mood when he answered the door.

Probably the closest I came to being properly thumped was when I introduced myself to an irate, intoxicated father outside a newly-created “admission to care accommodation panel”.

Most panels appeared to have been created to pull social workers apart, now it seemed to be the parent’s turn.

Although having never met, I had been asked to accompany him so he could argue his case for needing his 13-year-old son to be in care. This struck me as a ridiculously flawed process which would only serve to humiliate already marginalised, stressed out parents. The head of service who’d conceived it believed he could reduce the number of children looked after, making great cost savings if he could build this barrier.

I should have realised the risky situation I was putting myself in. The father was standing outside the panel looking dishevelled and helpless. I approached him confidently saying: “I am here to talk to you about your son.” He quickly turned his huge frame toward me snarling: “Do you want me to knock your fucking head off?” Not surprisingly all I could think of to say was no, not really, and so I walked off, shaking.

The head of service challenged me as to where father was. He nearly got it with both barrels but, being new, I thought better of it. To his credit, the parent rang me when he had sobered up, apologising for his behaviour and saying he had found the process very stressful. From then on we got on well, but that isn’t really the point.

Flashing forward, my career progressed and I was appointed as a manager in youth offending services. This was at the peak of New Labour’s spending and we were awash with funding but unfortunately some within the service had the egos to match the extra resources.

The latest senior manager came in bursting with self-importance. Socially awkward, he hid behind this with what colleagues quickly nicknamed “Cool Hand Luke”, not least because he described himself as a successful poker player. At 6ft 5, he used his size to intimidate people, although he was noticeably wary of some of our most volatile young offenders.

He quickly became my nemesis, with his arrogant style of management based on perceived superiority. One of the most difficult challenges I have found in social work is the oppressive idiots at the top of the tree. In spite of this, my team and I developed a high-quality programme with fantastic results and a reputation to match.

I experienced various attempts at provocation from Cool Hand Luke, including being poked in the chest, coupled with continued thinly veiled criticism. This was clearly based on jealousy. My colleagues were visibly troubled by his attempts to antagonise me.

The situation came to a head when we were forced to work in a wholly inadequate portacabin adjacent to a school that was being demolished. As a consequence, I refused to attend a management meeting. Cool Hand Luke walked nervously into my office shaking as much as the flimsy walls. For me, it gave a clear indication that underneath the machismo he was actually a weak, inept person.

When you go into an office it should be a safe space to reflect and recharge, not a hostile environment. The impact of bullying cannot be underestimated. Over the years I have seen many little empires rise and fall. The perpetrators take advantage of the lack of scrutiny and petty corruption is ignored by many long-standing elected members.

Service users are disenfranchised, vulnerable and living on the edge of society. This gives those abusing their power the opportunity to simply ignore them. The culture of pervasive bullying makes good practice a lot harder to achieve. You come into the profession expecting to work with some damaged, volatile people. What you don’t expect is a culture of intimidation from the top of the organisation.

Sam Waterhouse is a newly retired social worker who spent most his career working in the south of England. BASW members can read the next extract from his memoir in the August/September edition of Professional Social Work magazine. Names and some details have been changed where appropriate to protect identities