Sean the Blade
Member
Winston Smith trudged, drone-like, through the gates of the Swillistry of Truth, the tarmac crumbled underfoot. Winston looked up at the unkempt wall of the building, six men dabbed cheap paint on the flaking walls, everything was, as usual, silent.
Queuing to pass through the turnstile he looked up at the great bird, sat atop the words “OZZIE OWL IS WATCHING YOU!” which begged the question IN Winston’s mind “Why the fuck isn’t he watching the football?” Winston gasped at his mind’s rebellion, and quickly pushed such ideas to the dark recesses of his mind. The Thought Police had been known to remove such dissenters, torturing them and takling them to seat 101 where they were pummelled with gagging orders, made to watch unimaginative football and marked ‘Un-Person’.
As he took his seat at his booth, he felt the tight constriction of his secretive post. He was literally a drone, he modified the truth to fit in with the board’s wishes, all other false records were destroyed for ever. On the right of his booth a printer port spat a small ticket at Winston, he tore it from the port, placed his glasses on his nose and read “Amend record, Milan Mandaric owns Sheffield Wednesday, Milan mandaric has ALWAYS owned Sheffield Wednesday, all records of the antics and words of Lee Stafford are FALSE, Lee Strafford is now an UN-PERSON.” Smith uttered the words into the microphone, stammering, his mind told him this was wrong, he fought the thoughts, the images of Ossie Owl, telling him he was being watched, made the clerk sweat with fear. Flames licked at his hand as he placed the ticket in his incinerator, his vizzi screen showed the Sheffield Star dutifully adopt the REAL, updated version of the truth. Another ticket, “Dave Allen is the enemy of Sheffield Wednesday, Dave Allen has ALWAYS been the enemy of Sheffield Wednesday”. Winston’s soul and mind reeled as the border between truth and real truth merged and swirled, until he didn’t know what was right or wrong.
The final whistle blew, and the Proles were released from their labours. Winston, a lower orde party member, left the Swillistry of Truth and caught a tram, his mind a flood of confusion “Sheffield Wednesday have ALWAYS played direct football” “Brian Laws and Trevor Francis have NEVER been incharge of the team” “Sheffield Wednesday ARE bigger than Barcelona” “Sheffield Wednesday ARE a premier club”.
Whilst on the tram Smith noticed a girl he had seen at the Swillistry, he noticed a tiny pin badge, a badge of resistance, a badge showing the crossed blades of truth and justice. He took a seat next to her and, whilst looking straight ahead, he whispered “I want to resist, I want to think for myself, I….” He was stopped as Julia gripped his hand, as if by warning “This is our stop love, are yer comin’ or what?” Dazzled by her beauty Winston followed like a puppy.
Julian led him down past a deserted bus station (come on even in apocolyptic stories everybody hates travelling by bus!) and towards beckoning lights. As they walked, more and more people thronged around them, not party members like him, but more proles, those the party cared little for. He saw the universal sign of resistance everywhere, the Crossed Blades.
At first Winston thought it was some sort of trick, played by the Swillistry, yet another football ground, one that never appeared on a Swillistry map, Sheffield Wednesday were far too massive for two clubs to be in Sheffield, but there it was. Julia placed a card ina reader and pushed the clean, painted electronic turnstile, and slipped efficiently through, Winston followed her example.
Once inside, Smith was struck ny the newness of everything. Modern floodlight illuminated a modern, well kept stadium, no scaffolding, no crumbling buildings, dated designs or prohibition orders, his heart raced. Winston took his seat beside Julia and watched cultured football in awe.
As half time approached, Julia turned “Do you want a cuppa old cock?”
“Yes, yes please” A breathless Smith replied. As Julia left, a man, who Winston didn’t know whether he recognised or not, took Julia’s place. He was of a slight build, dressed in black. He placed a small brown envelope in Winston’s hand, his ginger hair alight in the floodlights, he nodded unsmilingly at Smith and left.
Winston, sensing danger quickly slipped the envelope inside his coat pocket as Julia returned. They drank the warm sweet brew, Smith savoured the quality of the PG Tips, remembering the grey, bitter Max-Pax slurry served up at The Swillistry of Truth.
Winston felt intoxicated as he left Bramall Lane, he said his goodnight to Julia, promising to exchange glances at the Swillistry, where they would next see each other, when they were once again subjected to the lies, yes, Winston now realised they were LIES!
On reaching his flat, he hurried inside, almost sensing the urgency of the envelope in his coat pocket, he could hear the permanent buzz of the vizzi screen, currently it was Harry Gration going on and on “… And remember folks, Ozzie Owl is watching you, goodbight”. Taking a torch, smith hid in his bed, pulling the covers up over his head he turned on the torch and opened the envelope. There inside was a, a, a part season ticket, for Bramall Lane, wrapped in a note. Opening the note he greedily read “Welcome to the truth Winston, If you want the ticket, I shall call for the payment this evening, cash only please” It was signed “O’Megson”.
A curt knocking at the door alerted Winston, he opened it slightly ajar, and there stood O’Megson “Have you got the money?” he hissed. Winston passed the folded notes to the humourless face. Suddenly, the door burst inwards as the Thought Police Thug Squad Masseeve stormed the room. Winston offered no resistance, these were veterans of relegation violence, he immediately knew he had been set up by O’Megson. He prayed Julia had escaped notice, his heart yearned for her…
Slowly his eyes came in to focus, he saw O’Megson sat beside the bed, to which he was strapped. He remembered the torture, the agony, the shame. Continuous DVD’s of thuggish, uncultured, physical, Sheffield Wednesday football. He began to shake, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow O’Megson, his eyes now soft said to him “Do you love Ozzie Owl?” Winston so wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t lie to O’Megson, O’Megson knew, O’Megson knew everything “No, No I don’t” Smith sobbed. O’Megson withdrew a red and white scarf from a plastic bag “What colour is this scarf?” He asked.
“Red and white” answered Smith, honestly. O’Megson pressed ‘play’ on the DVD remote control, and more full match coverage of Sheffield Wednesday flashed up on the fifty inch vizzie screen “NOOOOOOO!” screamed Winston.
“The scarf is BLUE AND WHITE, BLUE AND WHITE!” yelled O’Megson.
Hour after hour followed, Winston lay, a broken, defeated, empty man. Once again O’Megson held up the red and white scarf. Winston looked and looked, and, yes, yes, he saw it, it WAS blue and white IT WAS BLUE AND WHITE. O’Megson stroked his head “Nearly there Winston, nearly there, just…”
“No, NO PLEEEASE, NOT SEAT 101”
“Yes, sit through one training session, and you will have been rehabilitated” Winston’s mind reeled, the only thing worse that watching a match, his worst nightmare, watching training, he had never felt more alone in his life, he was consumed by fear as the Thought Police Thug Squad tied the velcro straps, used on match days to keep the crowd in their seats, around his wrists and feet, he strained and convulsed as the players began to practice set plays “PLEEEEEASE NO MORE!” he screamed “MAKE JULIA< MAKE HER WATCH IT NO MORE NO MORE!!!!”
He awoke in a cell, dressed in his Swillistry of Truth uniform. The cell door opened and there stood O’Megson “I told you that you would betray Julia, I told you. You WILL love Ozzie Owl. You’re now free to go Winston”
Stepping into the street, shame dragged his head down. He wandered aimlessly, and found himself on Shoreham Street. He looked around at the red and white scarves and badges and shirts as they passed him by, and, indeed, all he saw was blue and white, just as O’Megson promised. He looked to the sky and realised, he loved Ozzie Owl
Queuing to pass through the turnstile he looked up at the great bird, sat atop the words “OZZIE OWL IS WATCHING YOU!” which begged the question IN Winston’s mind “Why the fuck isn’t he watching the football?” Winston gasped at his mind’s rebellion, and quickly pushed such ideas to the dark recesses of his mind. The Thought Police had been known to remove such dissenters, torturing them and takling them to seat 101 where they were pummelled with gagging orders, made to watch unimaginative football and marked ‘Un-Person’.
As he took his seat at his booth, he felt the tight constriction of his secretive post. He was literally a drone, he modified the truth to fit in with the board’s wishes, all other false records were destroyed for ever. On the right of his booth a printer port spat a small ticket at Winston, he tore it from the port, placed his glasses on his nose and read “Amend record, Milan Mandaric owns Sheffield Wednesday, Milan mandaric has ALWAYS owned Sheffield Wednesday, all records of the antics and words of Lee Stafford are FALSE, Lee Strafford is now an UN-PERSON.” Smith uttered the words into the microphone, stammering, his mind told him this was wrong, he fought the thoughts, the images of Ossie Owl, telling him he was being watched, made the clerk sweat with fear. Flames licked at his hand as he placed the ticket in his incinerator, his vizzi screen showed the Sheffield Star dutifully adopt the REAL, updated version of the truth. Another ticket, “Dave Allen is the enemy of Sheffield Wednesday, Dave Allen has ALWAYS been the enemy of Sheffield Wednesday”. Winston’s soul and mind reeled as the border between truth and real truth merged and swirled, until he didn’t know what was right or wrong.
The final whistle blew, and the Proles were released from their labours. Winston, a lower orde party member, left the Swillistry of Truth and caught a tram, his mind a flood of confusion “Sheffield Wednesday have ALWAYS played direct football” “Brian Laws and Trevor Francis have NEVER been incharge of the team” “Sheffield Wednesday ARE bigger than Barcelona” “Sheffield Wednesday ARE a premier club”.
Whilst on the tram Smith noticed a girl he had seen at the Swillistry, he noticed a tiny pin badge, a badge of resistance, a badge showing the crossed blades of truth and justice. He took a seat next to her and, whilst looking straight ahead, he whispered “I want to resist, I want to think for myself, I….” He was stopped as Julia gripped his hand, as if by warning “This is our stop love, are yer comin’ or what?” Dazzled by her beauty Winston followed like a puppy.
Julian led him down past a deserted bus station (come on even in apocolyptic stories everybody hates travelling by bus!) and towards beckoning lights. As they walked, more and more people thronged around them, not party members like him, but more proles, those the party cared little for. He saw the universal sign of resistance everywhere, the Crossed Blades.
At first Winston thought it was some sort of trick, played by the Swillistry, yet another football ground, one that never appeared on a Swillistry map, Sheffield Wednesday were far too massive for two clubs to be in Sheffield, but there it was. Julia placed a card ina reader and pushed the clean, painted electronic turnstile, and slipped efficiently through, Winston followed her example.
Once inside, Smith was struck ny the newness of everything. Modern floodlight illuminated a modern, well kept stadium, no scaffolding, no crumbling buildings, dated designs or prohibition orders, his heart raced. Winston took his seat beside Julia and watched cultured football in awe.
As half time approached, Julia turned “Do you want a cuppa old cock?”
“Yes, yes please” A breathless Smith replied. As Julia left, a man, who Winston didn’t know whether he recognised or not, took Julia’s place. He was of a slight build, dressed in black. He placed a small brown envelope in Winston’s hand, his ginger hair alight in the floodlights, he nodded unsmilingly at Smith and left.
Winston, sensing danger quickly slipped the envelope inside his coat pocket as Julia returned. They drank the warm sweet brew, Smith savoured the quality of the PG Tips, remembering the grey, bitter Max-Pax slurry served up at The Swillistry of Truth.
Winston felt intoxicated as he left Bramall Lane, he said his goodnight to Julia, promising to exchange glances at the Swillistry, where they would next see each other, when they were once again subjected to the lies, yes, Winston now realised they were LIES!
On reaching his flat, he hurried inside, almost sensing the urgency of the envelope in his coat pocket, he could hear the permanent buzz of the vizzi screen, currently it was Harry Gration going on and on “… And remember folks, Ozzie Owl is watching you, goodbight”. Taking a torch, smith hid in his bed, pulling the covers up over his head he turned on the torch and opened the envelope. There inside was a, a, a part season ticket, for Bramall Lane, wrapped in a note. Opening the note he greedily read “Welcome to the truth Winston, If you want the ticket, I shall call for the payment this evening, cash only please” It was signed “O’Megson”.
A curt knocking at the door alerted Winston, he opened it slightly ajar, and there stood O’Megson “Have you got the money?” he hissed. Winston passed the folded notes to the humourless face. Suddenly, the door burst inwards as the Thought Police Thug Squad Masseeve stormed the room. Winston offered no resistance, these were veterans of relegation violence, he immediately knew he had been set up by O’Megson. He prayed Julia had escaped notice, his heart yearned for her…
Slowly his eyes came in to focus, he saw O’Megson sat beside the bed, to which he was strapped. He remembered the torture, the agony, the shame. Continuous DVD’s of thuggish, uncultured, physical, Sheffield Wednesday football. He began to shake, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow O’Megson, his eyes now soft said to him “Do you love Ozzie Owl?” Winston so wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t lie to O’Megson, O’Megson knew, O’Megson knew everything “No, No I don’t” Smith sobbed. O’Megson withdrew a red and white scarf from a plastic bag “What colour is this scarf?” He asked.
“Red and white” answered Smith, honestly. O’Megson pressed ‘play’ on the DVD remote control, and more full match coverage of Sheffield Wednesday flashed up on the fifty inch vizzie screen “NOOOOOOO!” screamed Winston.
“The scarf is BLUE AND WHITE, BLUE AND WHITE!” yelled O’Megson.
Hour after hour followed, Winston lay, a broken, defeated, empty man. Once again O’Megson held up the red and white scarf. Winston looked and looked, and, yes, yes, he saw it, it WAS blue and white IT WAS BLUE AND WHITE. O’Megson stroked his head “Nearly there Winston, nearly there, just…”
“No, NO PLEEEASE, NOT SEAT 101”
“Yes, sit through one training session, and you will have been rehabilitated” Winston’s mind reeled, the only thing worse that watching a match, his worst nightmare, watching training, he had never felt more alone in his life, he was consumed by fear as the Thought Police Thug Squad tied the velcro straps, used on match days to keep the crowd in their seats, around his wrists and feet, he strained and convulsed as the players began to practice set plays “PLEEEEEASE NO MORE!” he screamed “MAKE JULIA< MAKE HER WATCH IT NO MORE NO MORE!!!!”
He awoke in a cell, dressed in his Swillistry of Truth uniform. The cell door opened and there stood O’Megson “I told you that you would betray Julia, I told you. You WILL love Ozzie Owl. You’re now free to go Winston”
Stepping into the street, shame dragged his head down. He wandered aimlessly, and found himself on Shoreham Street. He looked around at the red and white scarves and badges and shirts as they passed him by, and, indeed, all he saw was blue and white, just as O’Megson promised. He looked to the sky and realised, he loved Ozzie Owl
