Orwellian Nightmares

A number of years ago, back in New Zealand, I was blissfully going about my business and stumbled upon an ad for this funny thing called ‘Big Brother’. I had heard it bandied around here and there for about a year, but had never really thought to ask about it. My flat didn’t have a telly so I never floated through life wondering which insurgents had captured Gaza, or what level the Department of Homeland Security had arbitrarily set its threat indicator to. In other words, life was good.

So when I asked, I think it was a cashier, I was greeted with a raised eyebrow or two. I must have appeared primeval. The thing to do would be to watch an evening of telly, and see what the fuss was over this Big Brother malarkey.

It was like the world had gone on speed. Reality TV, shaky cameras, cheap programming. Even the serial blockbusters appeared to have been filmed on handy-cam. And of course then there was the main event, ripped from the pages of Orwell’s masterpiece, whittled to attract an audience with an IQ of eighty.

Zoom to the present, and I find I can’t escape this beast. I go on the tubes and the newspapers are telling me why Zoië (or whoever), should just, like, go or something, yeah. You can flick your TV to the Big Brother channel (a twenty-four hour voyeur live feed), or wait for the weekly live eviction episodes. Even writing this, I know I’m behind on the times; this has been happening for several years now. It suddenly makes me feel, well, old.

And here’s my gripe. I don’t care. In fact, I could go even further and wish that I could erase any memory of ever knowing about the program. But it’s unavoidable. Every paper I’ve picked up has some trashy column dedicated to this nonsense. Someone in the halls of power has decided that This Is Still Important. And it strikes me: this isn’t Orwell, it’s Huxley. It’s no brave new world, but rather one catered for idiots.