1984

           Thenewtunewhichwastobethetheme-songofHateWeek(theHateSong,itwascalled)hadalreadybeencomposedandwasbeingendlesslypluggedonthetelescreens. Ithadasavage,barkingrhythmwhichcouldnotexactlybecalledmusic,butresembledthebeatingofadrum. Roaredoutbyhundredsofvoicestothetrampofmarchingfeet,itwasterrifying. Theproleshadtakenafancytoit,andinthemidnightstreetsitcompetedwiththestill-popular‘Itwasonlyahopelessfancy’. TheParsonschildrenplayeditatallhoursofthenightandday,unbearably,onacombandapieceoftoiletpaper. Winston’seveningswerefullerthanever. Squadsofvolunteers,organizedbyParsons,werepreparingthestreetforHateWeek,stitchingbanners,paintingposters,erectingflagstaffsontheroofs,andperilouslyslingingwiresacrossthestreetforthereceptionofstreamers. ParsonsboastedthatVictoryMansionsalonewoulddisplayfourhundredmetresofbunting. Hewasinhisnativeelementandashappyasalark. Theheatandthemanualworkhadevengivenhimapretextforrevertingtoshortsandanopenshirtintheevenings. Hewaseverywhereatonce,pushing,pulling,sawing,hammering,improvising,jollyingeveryonealongwithcomradelyexhortationsandgivingoutfromeveryfoldofhisbodywhatseemedaninexhaustiblesupplyofacrid-smellingsweat. 

           AnewposterhadsuddenlyappearedalloverLondon. Ithadnocaption,andrepresentedsimplythemonstrousfigureofaEurasiansoldier,threeorfourmetreshigh,stridingforwardwithexpressionlessMongolianfaceandenormousboots,asubmachinegunpointedfromhiship. Fromwhateverangleyoulookedattheposter,themuzzleofthegun,magnifiedbytheforeshortening,seemedtobepointedstraightatyou. Thethinghadbeenplasteredoneveryblankspaceoneverywall,evenoutnumberingtheportraitsofBigBrother.