Ted Sherrell muses on life in his own inimitable fashion . . .

DURING the past century there will have been few more perceptive, visionary writers than George Orwell. His works so often seemed to expose the weakness — at times sheer folly — of blind idealism.

He, like many others in the 1930s, went to join the ‘International Brigade’ who rushed to the aid of the democratically elected socialist government of Spain, threatened by the fascist rebel army of General Franco.

Many since have written and spoken of the sacrifices and nobility of those rallying to the cause, often dying for it. In Homage to Catalonia, Orwell, whilst acknowledging such, illustrates the incompetence, ill-discipline and poor leadership from government down and, at times, sheer stupidity which gifted victory to Franco.

In what is arguably his masterpiece, Animal Farm, he shows with chilling clarity how in terms of equality and equity, ‘idealism’ can, rapidly, become ‘Stalinism’.

Then there is that which is probably his most famous work, 1984, a disturbing tale of the ultimate totalitarian state. In the story, those who offend the powers that be, are confined to ‘Room 101’ to be confronted with that which they hate — or which terrifies them most; in the case of the central character in the book, Winston Smith, it is rats (with which I can empathise).

Over the years, however, Room 101 has become as well known as the book itself and in recent times television programmes have come along with personalities saying what, or whom, they dislike (sometimes hate) sufficiently to see such consigned to the oblivion of this room, usually to a maximum of three.

Personally I would find it impossible to restrict my selection to just a trio — if let loose I would probably fill the Albert Hall with the articles, customs, ideas and folk that in my prejudiced, perhaps, bigoted way, I feel would not be missed — well, certainly not by me.

Barbecues, assuredly, would be cast into this room of horror — both the appliances and the events. The joy of sitting in a garden in our uncertain weather, trying to hold a glass in one hand, a plate in another whilst eating, presumably, using a third has ever eluded me; and the food itself can often be little short of dire — poorly cooked meat, burgers and sausages wrapped in crumbly bread rolls, grease oozing onto hands, possibly clothes, flies and midges causing mayhem; no, a session at the dentist holds more allure. So often this grim fare is created by men that would not be seen within a mile of the pristine cooker in their modern kitchen, but are delighted to stand before a primitive cooking device in an, often, rain soaked garden shrouded by smoke and fumes.

Also incarcerated will be excessively paid sports’ summerisers and pundits who clutter the television screens in absurd numbers, ensuring widespread pressing of the ‘mute button’, along with the horde of ‘celebrities’, of whom few would have ever heard, that tend to dominate the media even though, often, they display little evidence of ability; they will be in the company of those public sector workers who appear to believe they have a divine right to retire years — decades, sometimes — and on far larger pensions, than the vast majority in the private sector.

Space will be found for pubs and restaurants (usually the former) who claim ‘to be passionate about food’, serving only ‘locally sourced’ meat, veg and so on, yet produce overpriced meals of mediocrity using ingredients from far beyond the shores of our islands, often warmed up in a microwave.

Television licences would be cast into the room (it’s time the BBC funded itself) along with the vast majority of TV comedians (just not funny).

That American promoted — if not created —abomination ‘Hallowe’en’ would be amongst the first banished, along with the motley collection who spent so much of their time — and annoy many of the rest of us — doing impressions of the long gone Elvis Presley.

The mind numbingly boring curse of ‘reality television’ would follow, along with Strictly Come Dancing (although that could be reprieved if the inane hype was eliminated and meaningful time was given to the dancing itself).

Christmas would be spared, but anyone espousing sentimentality regarding Dickensian and Victorian Yuletides would be incarcerated instantly — the gloryfying of an era when the majority of people lived in poverty and would have experienced a miserable festive period is almost offensive.

There are other goods, people, events, customs and so forth which this jaundiced scribe would thrust into ‘Room 101’ but as to list them would fill the rest of this newspaper, no more will be mentioned — for now.