Why I Refused To Go To The Orwell Prize

I was offered a last minute invite to the Orwell Prize, the increasingly famous political writing award ceremony dancing, er, I mean built upon the memory of George Orwell’s work. I didn’t accept the invitation. In fact, the thought of going filled me with a profound counterrevolutionary nausea.

I don’t need to go to the privilidged core of the International Bourgeois City of Central London to hobnob with a load of self-promoting establishment-reshaping educated intellectualagencia types to be told how bad life is going to be for everyone else.

I don’t need to suckle that untrustworthy info-nozzle. I get my information from the streets. And, recently, a complicated system of demographically questionable focus groups. But predominantly from the streets.
It’s only a few physical miles away from tonight’s privilidged core event, but a metaparadigm shiftwards whole bunch of miles (metaphorically).

Spinning in his grave. Possibly. I don't want to upset any religious types, but I'm not convinced the dead can literally spin.

I remain, dancing, nonchalantly on the cusp. The wrong side of the butterknife. The free thinking cowboy rounding up the joint herd of Truth & Hope in the wildest of liminal zones.

Also, I have toothache.

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One Response to “Why I Refused To Go To The Orwell Prize”

  1. Orwell fought in the Spanish Civil War, and then went to live in Wales. It never fails to sicken me how many people will support his work and then act in a way that would make him turn in his grave. Like Blair saying he liked Orwell “With 1984, it’s one thing to predict a future, but it’s entirely another thing to stop a future from happening.” following it up with “Camera’s, I need Camera’s, everywhere, and a piece of legislation that I can make it look as if it’s directly targeted at young Asians but we’ll use it to keep everyone in their place.”

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