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Published: January 12th 2013
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Harrow and George Orwell Days. Such Were The Joys. I know. And you think you know too. George Orwell didn't go to Harrow. Orwell went to Eton. Then he went everywhere; Barcelona, Mandalay, Wigan... which meant I had to go everywhere too.
And George Orwell wasn't really called George Orwell. He was christened Eric Arthur Blair. Eric simply called himself George in print so that he could write free from idiotic two ton Texan republicans, the Bill Mccalpin wikipedia morons, wimpering on and on about him.
Eric kept the Eric thing close to his loved family and trusted friends. He kept himself anonymous so releasing himself.
Eric didn't feel a blinging, minging, clinging
need to be recognised as Eric at all hours and in all places for self agrandissement, sad and frustrated that no one understood his obvious genius. Eric certainly wasn't trawling the internet looking for pals and a date. Eric was above all that. He wouldn't have appeared shaven headed to discuss his trip to civil war Spain on morning TV shows if you paid him. Neither would he have "chatred" on such shows about handy travel gadgets.
Eric was
more interested in discussing principles and ideas than in always promoting himself. The wily TB ridden literary sage separated the facets of his life and benefited from the sparkles on each. A top, intelligent fellah was Eric.
Fortunately ( for me ) I got into the theories and messages that Eric / George wanted to raise, and I got into them pretty early on. Right about the start of my overseas travelling days.
I devoured his writings. I did his usuals. Did his essays. Unearthed and did the pamphlets. Did the radio broadcasts. Did the magasines, the Tribunes, the Adelphis and The Horizons. Did the lot.
And Harrow helped me do them.
You see. In the late 'seventies and early 'eighties Harrow had antiquarian bookshops that you couldn't stop yourself falling into. They were everywhere in the cheap rent parts of the town where Betjamen would have enjoyed strolling and talking about in his short feature, Metroland. Dusty, damp, peaceful places. With tinkly bells, sticking front doors and a wise grey haired proprietors seated behind the desk.
I suppose the easy availability of 1st edition George's in Harrow had something to do with George's interwar middle aged readers, slightly gauche of centre, snuffing it four decades after they first bought his books and mags fresh from the newsagents and Boots. Half a century on and the works were coming back on the secondhand market when I was in my teens. How lucky for me that in my time Harrow's post Victorian semi detached mini mansions were having their lit and crit collections cleared out to antiquarian book sellers and agents by weepy, tired, "what on earth do we do with all these" sons and nieces.
"Bin them."
"I can't. It seems such a shame. Someone might want them."
"Like who? Bin them."
"There must be someone."
Aye. George's read a few times before books and magazines were all around Harrow, if you knew where to look. Bargains galore.
The public school, Harrow School, ( where the "other Winston" first debated ...and Nehru too ) also did it. Eton's competitive younger brother.
I did some of my time 50 metres below that School on the hill, at a sixth form college where post comprehensive lads and lasses were encouraged to learn and challenge, straw boaterless. Okay, we occasionally cycled or jogged up the mound to humiliate the toffs at basketball, but they came back down a few weeks later and speared us at Epee and Foil. In summer we'd walk up to the cricket pitches and roll around on the grass outside the boundary rope, snogging, before returning to triple maths post lunchbreak.
Try it. Go to Harrow. Stand in front of the 'Old Speech Room' steps and watch the breath come out of your mouth, in chilly February. Then consider the little lads who's breath also billowed out, on the same spot, right after their double period of maths. You can't but help get in spired.
George's bunking off Economics A Level lesson number one raised questions about the outdated muppetry in perpetuate to rank and class people just to make the privileged few near the top feel better. George's parents were probably struggling John Cleeses, mine were borderline Ronnies.
George's nipping out to the park in a free period lesson number two, learnt during the Falklands War, prepared me for the real life Two Minute Hates. It made me relaise that many folk need to create frightening myths about never to be forgotten historical bogey men (and women) and the 'bad old' days. The Hates are still here in our daily dose of mainstream news and internet forum chat. Possibly more so. Insecure groups of Us-es defined only by our
not being. That is, our not being like the scary Thems-es.
And George's most consistent and ever present lesson was the one about the use of history, the manipulation of the truth, and that you can't believe all you are told by the nobs on the top of the hill or the masters in charge of the game. History is not written by those who are right, history is written by those who are left. George's finest lesson, stay on the field till the final whistle blows.
I've now been to Barcelona and walked the Ramblas, supped wine in the plazas with my secondhand Harrow purchased, Orange Penguin "Homage to Catalonia" in my bag. I've been to Mandalay and when I was taken to the spot where George shot his elephant I remembered Harrow. And I've also been to Delhi on many occasions, and walked Luttyens' Avenue where Nehru walked and where Gandhi was hauled. On the Raj Path I remembered Harrow again.
Doubleplusgood is Harrow.
It helped make me.
As did George.
Whether he was Eric or not.
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