Today was the beginning of the end of Hitler's 1000 year Reich in 1944 when thousands of British, Americans and even some Frenchmen waded ashore on the Normandy beaches as part of Operation Overlord. This was D-Day, deliverance day and after the shambles of similar operations in earlier wars (Napoleonic and First World, for instance) no one was sure it would actually work. Troops were driven into the shallows by amphibious vehicles known as Ducks and people should have had more faith in them. They appeared as early as 1200(ish) in Russell Crowe's Robin Hood (2010). Oh, ye of little faith!
Oh for heaven's sake, 7 Double You You, yes, I am joking. No, they didn't have them. No, I have no idea what accent Russell Crowe is attempting in the film.
In other news ...
1984 hit the bookshops today in 1949. George Orwell's pessimistic view of the future looked forward to a time when two of the worst television programmes in history would actually have a following - Room 101 and Big Brother.
Two little known facts for you now:
Firstly (and obviously when you think about it) Orwell simply reversed the date when he wrote the book and as he was writing in 1948, he called it 1984. If he had chosen the publication date instead, he would have called in 1994. So there was absolutely no clever predictions going on - nothing was going to happen in 1984 and by gum, nothing did.
Secondly, George Orwell was really Eric Blair, father of a future Prime Minister.
Who knew?
Showing posts with label George Orwell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label George Orwell. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Sunday, 5 February 2012
5th February
George Orwell's Big Brother hit Mayfair today in 1958. Robot-like machines called Parking Meters were installed on pavements to make life just that bit more unbearable for motorists and the Greater London Council just that bit richer. The Americans had been doing this in some cities since 1935 but that's no excuse. This was soon followed of course by Traffic Wardens who were called Little Hitlers for obvious reasons (they all had small toothbrush moustaches and had failed to get into Art College).
Clobbering the motorist has been a national (and especially a London) sport ever since.
In other news ...
The year before parking meters, Bill Haley and the Comets arrived in London to the delight of squealing fans and to the horror of the Establishment. If you ever see footage of this Rock 'n' Roll invasion, check out (as you young people say) the extraordinary banality of it all. Bill looks well over fifty, is an unsexy chubby bloke in a shiny grey suit and has what my mother's generation called a 'kiss curl' on his forehead. Benjamin Disraeli had one too, but his band - the Conservative Party - had nothing like the success of Bill Haley.
A pre-Rock 'n' Roll generation were perfectly happy with hit numbers like 'Won't you go home, Bill Haley, won't you go home?' They don't write 'em like that any more.
I feel at this point that I need to set a record straight. When the Year Sevens arrive at Leighford High School every September, bright eyed and bushy tailed before the enthusiasm gets knocked out of them, I let them guess my age. Although not a man with a mathematical bent, as my friend can attest, I have kept a rough running total and every now and again work out my actual age against my Year Seven Age. There is probably some formula, like AA* x YSA** + fo**** = YACF*****/infinity which would help me work it out, but basically I am around 563, according to Year Seven. Not bad, but no cigar. Not even behind the bike sheds.
* Actual Age
** Year Seven Age
**** number of times I get sworn at by Year Seven
***** Years at Chalk Face.
Clobbering the motorist has been a national (and especially a London) sport ever since.
In other news ...
The year before parking meters, Bill Haley and the Comets arrived in London to the delight of squealing fans and to the horror of the Establishment. If you ever see footage of this Rock 'n' Roll invasion, check out (as you young people say) the extraordinary banality of it all. Bill looks well over fifty, is an unsexy chubby bloke in a shiny grey suit and has what my mother's generation called a 'kiss curl' on his forehead. Benjamin Disraeli had one too, but his band - the Conservative Party - had nothing like the success of Bill Haley.
A pre-Rock 'n' Roll generation were perfectly happy with hit numbers like 'Won't you go home, Bill Haley, won't you go home?' They don't write 'em like that any more.
I feel at this point that I need to set a record straight. When the Year Sevens arrive at Leighford High School every September, bright eyed and bushy tailed before the enthusiasm gets knocked out of them, I let them guess my age. Although not a man with a mathematical bent, as my friend can attest, I have kept a rough running total and every now and again work out my actual age against my Year Seven Age. There is probably some formula, like AA* x YSA** + fo**** = YACF*****/infinity which would help me work it out, but basically I am around 563, according to Year Seven. Not bad, but no cigar. Not even behind the bike sheds.
* Actual Age
** Year Seven Age
**** number of times I get sworn at by Year Seven
***** Years at Chalk Face.
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