Tariq

I've always been good with my hands. Growing up in Fallowfield, watching my dad Mohammad work endless shifts in his taxi after coming from Lahore in the eighties, I knew I wanted to build something more solid than just getting by. My mum Sarah worked as a teaching assistant in Bolton, and between them they scraped together enough to keep us going. When dad had his accident in 2019, crushed three vertebrae when some drunk lad slammed into his cab on the Curry Mile, everything changed overnight. I was sixteen, just finished my GCSEs. University stopped being a conversation we could have.

I spent the next few years doing warehouse shifts at Amazon, Sports Direct, wherever would take me. The work was mind-numbing but it paid enough to help with dad's physio and keep the lights on. Then in 2022, our neighbour Ahmed asked if I could help him rewire his kitchen. His usual electrician had quoted him three grand and Ahmed, who runs a small restaurant in Rusholme, just didn't have it. I'd watched enough YouTube videos and helped dad with basic household repairs growing up. We spent a weekend figuring it out together. When we flicked the switch and everything worked perfectly, Ahmed grinned and said I had a gift for it.

That's when I started researching electrical training properly. The government was all over the news talking about construction skills shortages, promising thousands of new apprenticeships, building back better. It felt like the perfect time to make the leap. I wanted to become a qualified electrician, maybe start my own business eventually. Help people like Ahmed who couldn't afford the big contractors but needed the work done right.

In September 2023, I walked into Manchester College on Nicholls Campus, full of hope. The electrical installation course looked perfect. Level 2 and 3 qualifications, hands-on training, direct pathway to employment. The woman at the desk looked at my application and sighed. "I'm sorry, love, but the programme's oversubscribed. We've had to turn away forty-three applicants this term alone." I asked when the next intake would be. "We don't know yet. Depends on funding allocations."

I tried Trafford College next. Same story, different building. The careers advisor, a kind woman named Janet, sat me down and explained it gently. "Look, Tariq, there's just no funding for new apprenticeships this year. The CITB levy isn't covering demand. We've had to cut our electrical cohort from thirty-six places to twelve."

But that didn't make sense to me. If there was such a skills shortage, if the government was promising all this investment, where was the bottleneck? I started calling electrical contractors directly. First was Redbrook Electrical in Didsbury. The manager, Paul, was frustrated before I'd even finished explaining what I wanted. "Mate, I'd love to take on apprentices. We're turning down work because we can't find qualified sparks. But I can't access the training grants anymore. Been trying for eight months."

I called Taylor & Sons in Chorlton. Same story. Then Manchester Electrical Services in Levenshulme. Same thing again. "The budget has been cut," the owner told me. "Used to be straightforward to get apprenticeship funding. Now it's like pulling teeth. We've got jobs lined up through 2025 but no way to train the people to do them."

I accepted this at first. It sounded reasonable. Everyone was saying the same thing. There was no money. Budgets had been cut. The government was strapped for cash. It was disappointing but it wasn't anyone's fault, was it?

Then in December, I was walking through Openshaw on my way to a mate's house. I passed the Manchester College campus there, the big modern building with the workshops. Through the ground floor windows, I could see the electrical training suite. Brand new equipment, workbenches set up perfectly, cable runs and testing gear that must have cost thousands. All of it sitting under dust sheets. Not a soul in sight.

I found the security guard having a smoke round the back. Nice enough lad, about my age. "What's the story with the workshop?" I asked him. He shrugged. "Course got postponed indefinitely due to budget constraints. Been like that since October. Proper shame, really. All that kit just sitting there."

That's when something clicked. I started asking around my neighbourhood, really listening to what people were saying. Within a week, I'd found six other lads in similar situations. Marcus, whose family moved here from Jamaica when he was twelve, wanted to train as a plumber. Told the same story about cut budgets. Imran, who'd been working security shifts since leaving school, dreamed of becoming a bricklayer. Same runaround. Ryan, whose dad worked construction before his back went, wanted to follow in his footsteps but was told there were no places.

One of them, Kieran, had met someone called Jermaine from Gorton who'd been through identical frustration trying to get onto a bricklaying course. The pattern was everywhere once you started looking.

Meanwhile, I'm walking through Withington every day, past three different housing developments that have been sitting half-finished for months. Victoria Park, the new flats near the station, the social housing project off Palatine Road. All of them waiting for qualified electricians. I asked one of the site managers what the hold-up was. "Can't find the trades," he said. "Been advertising for months."

So let me get this straight. The government that prints the pound told me it couldn't find enough pounds to connect me to training. But the training facility was sitting there empty. The equipment was sitting there unused. The housing was sitting there unfinished. The contractors were sitting there desperate for workers. And I was sitting there ready to learn.

What exactly was it that there was "no money" for? The buildings existed. The teachers existed. The equipment existed. The work existed. The only thing that didn't exist was the political will to spend the pounds that would bring us all together.

I used to accept the excuse that "there was no money." I hear it differently now. The government that issues the currency told me it couldn't afford to train people who were standing right there, ready to work. But that same government found billions for bank bailouts when needed. Found billions for tax cuts when it suited them. The real question was never about money. It was about priorities.

The excuse wasn't a fact. It was a choice wrapped in the language of impossibility. The limit was never the pounds in circulation. The limit was the willingness to spend them into places and people who needed them most.

Now I understand this isn't just my story. It's playing out in every constituency where people and needs exist side by side while someone in Westminster says the cupboard is bare. They're not telling us the truth about how money works. And until more people understand that, we'll keep accepting impossible excuses for solvable problems.