When Orwell met Eagleton on the edge of Wigan Pier

With the Labour leadership contest almost over (in fact as I write this, it has officially finished...) and the [previously inconspicuous] leftie, Jeremgy Corbyn, emerging as the resounding favourite to win and transport labour back to its previous ‘socialist’ hard ground, we thought we would visit moral socialist, George Orwell and somewhat contradictory anti-capitalist, Terry Eagleton, down at the Wigan Pier, to discover their thoughts around socialism in today’s society and other pressing issues.

It’s the 12th September and surprisingly warm on Wigan pier; there’s little in the way of wind and the sun is smirking down upon Terry Eagleton, who sits staring into the abyss, arms by his side, his Jeremy Beadleesque little hands meet in the middle. He wears a black leather jacket; alas, Terry isn’t rocking the Danny Zuko T-bird look today; the egotistical eccentric persona we know and love [or hate] eludes him. Eagleton appears almost nervous; apprehensive; perturbed.

The reason becomes abundantly apparent as the Pier’s protagonist from seventy eight years ago ambles up the road he once wrote about with such sincerity. Orwell too looks different: almost a caricature of himself; his carefully combed quaffed hair has been replaced by a huge bouffant and the only quaffing that appears to have been ensuing is that of the beer at the workingman’s club he has just exited. Orwell looks positively pissed as he stumbles towards the man born only seven years before his own death and indeed only six years after The Road to Wigan Pier was published.

Orwell holds a pen in his left hand but clearly has no intention of using it to write. In fact, Orwell doesn’t know himself the reason he holds a pen.  He appears to attempt to speak; alas no words are heard, merely a gurn of a man intoxicated.

Eagleton takes the opportunity to utter the first words of the intriguing encounter.
TE: “George / Eric... I never get the need for the pseudonym...can I call you Orwell? Are you ok?”
GO: “You can call me anything you like, Perry. And, as it happens, I’m fine. Fine, sublime, splendid. Fine – thin and delicate these days as I’m somewhat dead. Alas, dear boy, I’m fine, like fine rain – but I’ll still soak you through with my mutterings, metaphors, mmm....”
Orwell appears to have forgotten what he was saying and simply sighs with, seemingly, not a care in the world.

TE: “It’s Terry...oh yes, of course, very funny...anyway, I suppose we should start by discussing the obvious – politics; although many people say they’d rather keep out of it.
As soon as the word ‘politics’ is uttered, the George Orwell of old returns: a serious expression enters, as if from above; and on its way to replace the temporary intoxicated exterior of Orwell’s face, it seems to have straightened the bouffant; flattened to become carefully quaffed. An air of intensity now exudes from Orwell; as opposed to the stale beer aroma gone before.
He speaks, with authority:
GO: “In our age there is no such thing as ‘keeping out of politics’ All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia”
A twinkle in Orwell’s eye as he uttered the word ‘schizophrenia’ suggests the drunken man was an act; a pretence that the once mighty, authoritative voice of the social classes had fallen, become silenced, unable to speak with the confidence of old.
TE: “I’m with you, Blair, I mean, take socialists for example: a socialist is just someone who is unable to get over his or her astonishment that most people who have lived and died have spent lives of wretched, fruitless, unremitting toil.”
GO: “Hang on a minute, Ecclestone.
TE: “It’s Eagleton”
GO: “It’s Orwell.”
TE: “I’m Sorry?”
GO: “Yes, you should be.
A jesting Orwell has emerged; a supremely confident and comedic tone surround every word spoken.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Eeeeagleton”, Orwell emphasises the vowel sound of the ‘E’ with a groan in his voice. You’ll be quoting that awful Margaret Thatcher, “milk snatcher” woman next, with her nonsense about how it is the concept of ‘running out of other people’s money’ that ensures socialism will never work.
My prime reason for becoming pro-Socialist was out of disgust with the way the poorer section of the industrial workers were oppressed and neglected than out any theoretical admiration for a planned society.”

TE: “Firstly, I wouldn’t usually give the air time as to mention that abhorred woman’s name. However, since Margaret Thatcher, the role of academia has been to service the status quo, not challenge it in the name of justice, tradition, imagination, human welfare, the free play of mind or alternative visions of the future.”

GO: “If you want a picture of the future look back to nineteen eighty four and imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.”

TE: “Exactly, we’re not going to change that perversely pessimistic view of the dystopia we are heading for by increasing state funding of the humanities as opposed to slashing it to nothing. We will change it by insisting that a critical reflection on human values and principles should be central to everything that goes on in universities, not just to the study of Rembrandt or Rimbaud.”

GO: “I don’t know how we got on to universities, Trevor, you almost became a politician then, spinning the conversation in the direction you want it to go. Political language, you see, is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidarity to pure wind.”

TE. “I’m Terryyyyy. If it is true that we need a degree of certainty to get by, it is also true that too much of the stuff can be lethal.”

GO: “The very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world. Lies will pass into history. In a time of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act. This is why Jeremy Corbyn is the man to lead the Labour party and lead our country. Corbyn is in his senior years, albeit, he’s not as senior as myself – I would have stood had I been alive.

Critics claim Corbyn is not a serious candidate – they say that because he does not mince his words; he is no spin doctor – he has never held any appointed office and is ‘real’ – unlike the manufactured, robotic, monotonic, Eton-boys on the opposite party. He doesn’t possess the creepy charisma of Blair, nor the authoritative awe of Prescott, he’s quiet and unassuming, a bit like you and I, Terence! [Orwell allows a sly grin to enter his face and winks at Eagleton].
Even Eagleton grudgingly allows a smirk to appear.

TE: “Genuine equality means not treating everyone as the same, but attending equally to everyone’s different needs. I agree that Corbyn will do the right thing by everyone because he will not be preoccupied by hidden agendas, expenses fiddles and the ghastly capitalists.”

Orwell fires a look of disdain as Eagleton as he dares to critically label a group he is very much part of, whether he would like to admit it, or not.
Capitalism will behave antisocially if it is profitable for it to do so, and that can now mean human devastation on an unimaginable scale. What used to be an apocalyptic fantasy, back in your day, Eric – can I call you Ezzer? What used to be an apocalyptic fantasy, is today no more than sober realism. Corbyn will not be party to this.

Successful revolutions are those which end up by erasing all traces of themselves.

The unassuming Jeremy Corbyn will rise and the Labour party will follow their revolutionary leader to the left, where the Labour Party belongs; socialism as it should be will return and the working classes will at last be represented fairly, having been forgotten or so very long.
GO: “Indeed, our man from the South west of this wonderful isle will shake up the sad state of affairs British politics has become and people will be given back their choice; get ready “middle classes”, the workers are coming back fighting and this time the despicable behaviour of the nineteen eighties’ police will not be brushed under the carpet; the carpet has been uprooted and the hard ground socialists are back in play, fighting for their right to paaaaaartaaaay!!!”

Both Eagleton and Orwell perform a little jig, shall we say, and skip away towards the working men’s club for a well-deserved quaff.

Just before Orwell enters, he turns around and speaks to himself a sober thought; a soliloquy of sort: “Literature, especially poetry, and lyric poetry most of all, is a kind of family joke, with little or no value of its own language group......Yes.....I think I shall pay Oscar Wilde a visit soon; he’s full of shit!”

If George Orwell is backing Jeremy Corbyn, I think we should all follow suit.?
Until next time...