Once you've wrapped up this podcast, how about trying a very British cult?

What happens if the person you trust with your future isn't what you think they are?

I did feel the whole time he was watching me Yeti. I saw a footprint and that really gave me gusmas.

Or people who knew me. Emme, I remember every secret, every lie. I'm the only one who knows the truth.

Discover more of our biggest podcast from 2003.

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A tall thin man sits up in bed with a typewriter on his knees chain smoking. The air is thick with smoke, thickened by a leaky

stove. He looks worn, ill and tired and is coughing. Outside, a winter storm sweeps the rocky moorland and below waves batter the shore.

The nearest phone is 8 miles away and it's another 25 miles to the nearest shop where steamers bring supplies twice a week to the island.

In the room the man sits back from his typewriter.

He's feeling awful but is gnawed by the suspicion that seldom leaves him that he's

behind with his work and should have done more. The first draft of his new novel lies on the

bed. He may or may not know it, but this will be his last book, though

he is only 46. He calls it 1984. George Orwell, whose real name was in fact Eric Arthur Blair, was born in India

on the 25th of June, 1903 and died in hospital in London on the 21st of January, 1950, a year after I was born.

He'd suffered for years from tuberculosis and it finally it finally killed him.

His last years were spent in near isolation

on that remote island of Jura in the Scottish

Hebrides frantically battling against his own body

to keep writing. An author of fiction, polemical

journalism, literary criticism and poetry, Orwell is perhaps best known for the

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