Sunday, 16 September 2012

George Orwell lives

George Orwell, MoMA
Almost two months ago, I started a blog by writing: "They say you should never meet your heroes - that they won't live up to expectations, that you'll be disappointed."

Well, having met Lee 'Scratch' Perry at London City Airport and being thoroughly undisappointed, I thought it was about time I met another of my heroes. Unfortunately, one cannot plan these encounters if one wants to avoid being slapped with a restraining order, so I had to rely on chance.

And it sort of delivered - over the last few weeks I smiled awkwardly at Dan Cruickshank at Liverpool Street station, spotted Jenny Eclair gawping at cakes in Covent Garden, and watched Dawn from Eastenders' bottom wiggle up Tottenham Court Road, along with the rest of her body.

But none of these has hero status in my slowly-failing eyes, so I strolled onto an aeroplane and let the nice pilot fly me to New York City - which happens to be in the United States of America, where lots of famous people live. And hopefully a hero or two of mine.

After five days of traipsing Manhattan's uniformly-planned streets and having no luck whatsoever, I was beginning to think the excursion across the pond had been a complete waste of time. I had to be at JFK Airport in four hours - I would have one more bagel, one more qwafee, and one more session of pacing around a really busy place in the hope of seeing a revered face.

I decided on MoMA - The Museum of Modern Art - and boom, there he was. Granted, George Orwell is supposed to have died in 1950, but he must have been cryogenically frozen, or something, after relocating to Mexico and just not told anyone. 

I felt to satisfied after laying eyes on him that I slept like a baby all the way back to London, and on arrival decided it was probably a good idea to get on with the rest of my life.
George Orwell BBC
See, I bloody well told you it was him

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