The last time I was back in the Glasgow area, at the Braehead Shopping Centre, I came across John.

I was at school with John and hadn't seen him for probably 30 years. I instantly recognised him even though in the intervening years, by the look of him, life hadn't exactly dealt him the best of hands.

He still looked the same. Sort of. His once red hair was now grey, trailing down the shoulders - Catweazle chic, I think it's called - he'd said farewell to all his teeth, and walked with a stick.

I say walked but actually it was more of a shuffle. Super skinny too he was, never a good sign when you're in your 50s, and I noticed he'd developed those protruding high cheekbones which, accentuated by the toothless gums, the rasping 100-fags-a-day voice and the baggy trackie bottoms don't exactly emit an impression of comfortable affluence .

He was a Rangers supporter too. Yep, everything in John's life - it seemed - had turned bad.

We got talking. John was a bit knackered bodily wise but, despite everything, the brain was still pretty sharp. He told me that he was on what used to be called Invalidity Benefit - had been for years - due to a medical-science-baffling, self-diagnosed back injury.

Hence the stick? I suggested. Too right, he said.

'You never f******know who the f***'ll see you here - last f*****g thing I want is some f******g snoopers from the f*****g dole seeing me scooting around on my f*****g skateboard.'

He was joking of course. John was clearly too decrepit to ride a skateboard, though he did have a bicycle - but it'd be a toss-up to determine whether his present state of affairs was as a result of the back or the bevvy. John was a piss artist. You could just tell.

John, of course will be a prime candidate for the new whizz-bang scheme drawn up by the Tories to issue 'smart cards' to welfare benefit claimants that can only be cashed in certain shops.

And for certain things. Beer, Superkings and a fiver each way on a nag at Plumpton being very much out of the equation.

If it takes off - and given the Tories are desperate to attract the sort of tit that votes for the UKIP, it probably will - my mate John will be even more knackered than he already is.

Good thing too, some people will say. Anyone working to make a crust is bound to harbour some sort of grudge against people on the long-term dole. Especially those with a love of the bevvy. The people my Granny used to describe as 'neither work nor want'.

Why should we work our rings off, paying taxes to keep these bozos, goes the pretty understandable logic. They're all scum anyway (I watch Jeremy Kyle) and I knew a bloke who knew a bloke who knew a bloke with 10 kids and hadn't worked for years. Coining in a fortune, he was. F*** 'em… as John might say.

The Australian Government have had a similar scheme for years. The Intervention, it's called: an attempt to stop people from poverty-stricken, marginalised communities abusing their dole cheque at the consequential expense of their kids/education/health/personal circumstances/addiction/fecklessness/criminal activity/lack of motivation/whatever.

But, get this, The Intervention is only applicable to Aboriginal Communities. Everyone else in Australia is still entitled to piss their benefit up the wall if that is indeed their wont. Being forced to buy baked beans only applies to the Indigenous Communities.

Now, leaving aside the blatantly discriminatory nature of that decision, the relevant point is that - five years down the track - The Intervention isn't working.

Continued poverty and discrimination (No kidding?). Record levels of addiction, family violence, offending and mental health issues.

Taking away the right to choose how you spend your own benefit - forcing you to buy food and clothes, the basics - hasn't actually achieved a thing.

Because if you're a drinker, or a drug-taker, or any other kind of addict, you'll find a way. You're too down and out not to.

You'll find a way. Even - no matter if - it's at the expense of your family, your health, your liberty or your sanity.

Lack of work, for whatever reason, is a de-motivator. You get stuck in a hole with everyone else looking down at you and unless you're given a hand out or a wake-up call or you just simply get lucky, it's almost impossible to climb your way out of it.

I freely admit to having been on the dole. And spending all day Thursday in the pub because it was Giro Day and I'd been hanging out for it all of the dull, uninspiring, disconnected week.

(What's the difference between a Paisley Man and a Giro? You can get a drink from a Giro.)

I got lucky. I found a job. Then another one and so on and so forth. Luck, mostly.

Incidentally, I don't know what the answer is. But I do know that you don't - can't - motivate or encourage successfully through fear and loathing.

You can't force someone to improve their circumstances. You provide opportunities. Jobs, good education, spreading the wealth, the usual stuff, establish and service a society and system that promotes hope; people say it doesn't work, but that's basically because it's never truly been tried.

All the other stuff - the suspicion, the targeting, the blame and the draconian methods - they've all been tried. And failed. Again and again. Actually making things worse.

So anyway, I said goodbye to John at Braehead. Sure he was knackered but there was a still a spark, an essence in him of the funny, smart, likeable guy he always was, and essentially still is.

As I left, John looked me up and down and delivered the perfect parting shot. He said: 'By the way Big Man. Do you take a drink? Cos you look f****** knackered!'