There were endless courses to this George Orwell celebratory feast, each one more repulsive than the one it followed. Roast bullfrog, and a crown of sparrows roasted with herbs. How ludicrous that we were celebrating a great socialist with this repellant bacchanalian spectacle, I thought.

Later, as the festival-goers became more drunk, a group of my ex-boyfriends began to do the oke-cokey underneath the Millennium Wheel.