It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of CWCMansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of Freedom Fries, McNuggets and Dirty Crapped Briefs. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man who eerily resembled an overweight toddler and a doter at the same time. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Anti-Troll-Rage-Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. GREAT DIRECTOR CHANDLER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat on the telescreen some old Pokemon episode was re-aired. The telescreen could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the red and blue striped overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn anime lovedolls into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The fat pimply face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. GREAT DIRECTOR CHANDLER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the eyes, on blue and one slightly more green, looked deep into Winston's own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word SONICHU. In the far distance a winged electric hedgehog pokemon skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Anti-Homosexuality Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back on the telescreen Team Rocket once again got their asses kicked. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of My Little Ponies, his place of work, towered vast and pink above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was CWCville, chief city of Korea, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Yurrop. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether CWCville had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of My Little Ponies -- Minipony, in Newspeak -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering pink plastic, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its pink face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
TROLLS MUST BE EXTERMINATED
AUTISM IS STRENGTH
THE GREAT DIRECTOR CHANDLER IS STRAIGHT
I think a McDonald's job would suit Chris perfectly. Hell, he might even be able to take some of the leftover food home with him at times. 
And then 
