Prologue :: Let's all go down The Strand
One night half a dozen tourists met together in Trafalgar Square...
London. Saturday 24th May 2014
The five men and one woman stood with each other in silence as the flag was lowered from the arch, only for the replacement to be raised. There was no rallying cry from the Outer Party or Proles on this occasion. The noise was as muted and damp as the drizzle that fell upon the square.
In front of their platform stood a thousand quiet souls. There was no protest nor jubilation. To their right the leaders of Australia, the United States and the Indian Federation. To the left the politicians, worthies and ne'er do wells that held sway after the general election.
Eight hundred metres away the grand old clock tower rang out as it had for over one hundred and fifty years.
In pubs across the country the Proles sat and watched. Many were as disinterested as they had been before the change. All they wanted was football, the lottery and sex, and preferably not on ration.
A shout cried out from the direction of Whitehall.
Long live Big Brother
The police were as quick to react as their predecessors would have been. The lone man, the embarrassing breach of of the security of this ring of steel, was dragged away garbling the party mantra of a bygone age.
The American President looked at the Australian Prime Minister to his side. There was a look of frustration in their eyes, but satisfaction that their boys would soon be going home from this troublesome hell hole for good and not, as recent years had evidenced, in a body bag.
-----
Aston, Birmingham. 1897
The mohel muttered as the baby was presented to him by Lewis, his proud cabinet maker father. The elder brother, Samuel, only two years old, looked at his new born sibling with a mixture of fascination and fear, a view that many of the citizens of the United Kingdom would have for the latter half of the coming century.
The mother, Annie, was exhausted, but she had survived and now the child was eight days old and the men of the family delighted at the Brit Milah.
The boy would follow his father into cabinet making in the slums of Aston in the years prior to the Great War, before politics would take over. They were reasonable cabinets by the Brummagem standards that the city was often unfairly noted for. The boy would be proud of his city. A city that welcomed his parents from Poland and one that he would always call home.
The name had, as was customary, been kept a secret until the ceremony. But it was now announced to the Jewish community of Aston.
Emmanuel Goldstein
-----
Clerkenwell, London. 1984
The man warily crept into the shop. The bell above the door took him by surprise. Clerkenwell was, of course, a hotbed of the Brotherhood and dissent. Clerkenwell had always been a hub of dissent. The party said so.
But with intrepidation came excitement. The thrill of doing something brave. Of showing courage. Of doing something that was disapproved of.
He took the notebook from the shelf - it would make a perfect diary - and silently handed it to the man at the counter.
He reached into his pocket with his hand and pulled out the crumpled one dollar notes. It was almost fourteen o'clock. He'd have to hurry to get back to the ministry building down The Strand before half past.
-----
Let's all go down The Strand / Oh what a happy land! / That's the place for fun and noise / All among the girls and boys / So let's all go down The Strand
One night half a dozen tourists met together in Trafalgar Square...
London. Saturday 24th May 2014
The five men and one woman stood with each other in silence as the flag was lowered from the arch, only for the replacement to be raised. There was no rallying cry from the Outer Party or Proles on this occasion. The noise was as muted and damp as the drizzle that fell upon the square.
In front of their platform stood a thousand quiet souls. There was no protest nor jubilation. To their right the leaders of Australia, the United States and the Indian Federation. To the left the politicians, worthies and ne'er do wells that held sway after the general election.
Eight hundred metres away the grand old clock tower rang out as it had for over one hundred and fifty years.
In pubs across the country the Proles sat and watched. Many were as disinterested as they had been before the change. All they wanted was football, the lottery and sex, and preferably not on ration.
A shout cried out from the direction of Whitehall.
Long live Big Brother
The police were as quick to react as their predecessors would have been. The lone man, the embarrassing breach of of the security of this ring of steel, was dragged away garbling the party mantra of a bygone age.
The American President looked at the Australian Prime Minister to his side. There was a look of frustration in their eyes, but satisfaction that their boys would soon be going home from this troublesome hell hole for good and not, as recent years had evidenced, in a body bag.
-----
Aston, Birmingham. 1897
The mohel muttered as the baby was presented to him by Lewis, his proud cabinet maker father. The elder brother, Samuel, only two years old, looked at his new born sibling with a mixture of fascination and fear, a view that many of the citizens of the United Kingdom would have for the latter half of the coming century.
The mother, Annie, was exhausted, but she had survived and now the child was eight days old and the men of the family delighted at the Brit Milah.
The boy would follow his father into cabinet making in the slums of Aston in the years prior to the Great War, before politics would take over. They were reasonable cabinets by the Brummagem standards that the city was often unfairly noted for. The boy would be proud of his city. A city that welcomed his parents from Poland and one that he would always call home.
The name had, as was customary, been kept a secret until the ceremony. But it was now announced to the Jewish community of Aston.
Emmanuel Goldstein
-----
Clerkenwell, London. 1984
The man warily crept into the shop. The bell above the door took him by surprise. Clerkenwell was, of course, a hotbed of the Brotherhood and dissent. Clerkenwell had always been a hub of dissent. The party said so.
But with intrepidation came excitement. The thrill of doing something brave. Of showing courage. Of doing something that was disapproved of.
He took the notebook from the shelf - it would make a perfect diary - and silently handed it to the man at the counter.
He reached into his pocket with his hand and pulled out the crumpled one dollar notes. It was almost fourteen o'clock. He'd have to hurry to get back to the ministry building down The Strand before half past.
-----
Let's all go down The Strand / Oh what a happy land! / That's the place for fun and noise / All among the girls and boys / So let's all go down The Strand
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