IN THE eponymous year of George Orwell’s repressive, totalitarian nightmare, Ken Bates wrote a book of his very own. I haven’t read Chelsea… My Year, but it’s not difficult to imagine where these two narratives might overlap.

Nowadays, of course, the proles in Bates’ world wear white, not blue, and if there’s anything more horrifying than the thought of Big Brother, it’s the reality of watching it.

Who knows why people traipse all the way down to London to witness the show’s rejects in the flesh, but when they’re as otherwise discerning as this particular chap, we’re glad they do.

Well done, that man. Here’s a PDF should anyone wish to follow this up.

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