In the General Election, Churchill received the thanks of the nation by being handed a tremendous drubbing.

Labour took office with a huge mandate for reform.

The socialist press greeted the triumph as the coming of the New Jerusalem.

But instead of joining the Hallelujah Chorus, Orwell, like Churchill, was profoundly worried about a new world order where we would be slaves in another way.

To clear his head of the static hum of post-war London, Orwell went as far away as he could without actually leaving Britain, to the very edge of the kingdom, the Hebridean Island of Jura.

No electricity, no telephone, post twice a week, maybe.

And it was here, in a remotest cottage you could find, typing in bed with the machine on his knees, knowing he hadn't much longer to live, that Orwell concentrated on what mattered most to him, and to Britain -- the fate of freedom in the age of superpowers.

As Churchill issued his grim warnings, Orwell created a common or garden plain man's Winston -- Winston Smith. The year was 1948.

In our world, there'll be no love but the love for Big Brother. No laughter but the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy.

No art, no science, no literature, no enjoyment. But always and only, Winston, there will be the thrill of power.