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Orwell in Tribune: As I Please and Other Writings, 1943-47
Famous today for his novels 1984 and Animal Farm, George Orwell was originally known as a journalist, particularly for his "As I Please" column in the socialist journal Tribune. This collection of his journalism, never before assembled in one volume, provides an invaluable insight into the writings of a man his biographer called the "Doctor Johnson of the Left." Paul Anderson was the editor of Tribune and currently lectures on journalism.
- GenresNonfiction
240 pages, Hardcover
First published May 1, 2007
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120 people want to read
About the author
George Orwell
1,264 books50.8k followersEric Arthur Blair was an English novelist, poet, essayist, journalist and critic who wrote under the pen name of George Orwell. His work is characterised by lucid prose, social criticism, opposition to all totalitarianism (both fascism and stalinism), and support of democratic socialism.
Orwell is best known for his allegorical novella Animal Farm (1945) and the dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), although his works also encompass literary criticism, poetry, fiction and polemical journalism. His non-fiction works, including The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), documenting his experience of working-class life in the industrial north of England, and Homage to Catalonia (1938), an account of his experiences soldiering for the Republican faction of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), are as critically respected as his essays on politics, literature, language and culture.
Orwell's work remains influential in popular culture and in political culture, and the adjective "Orwellian"—describing totalitarian and authoritarian social practices—is part of the English language, like many of his neologisms, such as "Big Brother", "Thought Police", "Room 101", "Newspeak", "memory hole", "doublethink", and "thoughtcrime". In 2008, The Times named Orwell the second-greatest British writer since 1945.
Orwell is best known for his allegorical novella Animal Farm (1945) and the dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), although his works also encompass literary criticism, poetry, fiction and polemical journalism. His non-fiction works, including The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), documenting his experience of working-class life in the industrial north of England, and Homage to Catalonia (1938), an account of his experiences soldiering for the Republican faction of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), are as critically respected as his essays on politics, literature, language and culture.
Orwell's work remains influential in popular culture and in political culture, and the adjective "Orwellian"—describing totalitarian and authoritarian social practices—is part of the English language, like many of his neologisms, such as "Big Brother", "Thought Police", "Room 101", "Newspeak", "memory hole", "doublethink", and "thoughtcrime". In 2008, The Times named Orwell the second-greatest British writer since 1945.
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December 17, 2021
This review is for the essay from As I Please titled “20 December 1946”.
As I Please was the title of a column written by George Orwell for the British newspaper “Tribune”, over three and a half years. None of the essays had a heading, and they covered a variety of subjects. This series of articles written between 1943 and 1947 are some of his best journalism. Not only have they have endured for far longer than most newspaper articles, but they represent some of the greatest examples of their genre in the English language. With George Orwell we can be sure that he will write clearly and simply. In his journalism he comes across as plain-speaking and opinionated but fair-minded. He was straightforward, and in the colloquial meaning of the time, a thoroughly decent man.
George Orwell had reviewed for the “Tribune” since 1940, but As I Please was a turning point for him. In 1943, he had resigned from his job at the BBC, and left to join the “Tribune” as their literary editor. At the BBC, he had been employed as Eric Blair; but at the “Tribune”, he used his pseudonym George Orwell. What his readers had grown to expect from his journalism was direct, economical and occasionally humorous prose, and they were not disappointed. George Orwell may have appeared to be opinionated, and quirky, but he was always entertaining and thought-provoking, and he kept any private unhappiness out of his columns.
Such is the essay here, for 20th December 1946. The first article had appeared in December 1943, so by now his column was well established, and he had a “voice”. It is one of his later essays. Some of them show him switching easily from the sublime to the ridiculous, revealing his passions and his pet hates. But as always with George Orwell, the underlying message is timeless.
Many dates in the past blur, or feel insignificant, but not this one. What tone should he take, for the British public of the time? How could they celebrate Christmas in the way they used to? Ever since 1940 foodstuffs such as bacon, ham, butter, and sugar had begun to be rationed. The rules became increasingly complex, to try to ensure that nobody fell short of the basic nutritional requirements they needed. On the whole it worked, but creating a varied diet with so little, required some ingenuity. Look at photographs from those years, of people at home in England, or soldiers on leave, and you are unlikely to find anyone overweight, or even plump.
But for Christmas 1946, we might assume there was a big festive celebration. This was only the second Christmas after the end of the Second World War; there must have been huge parties, where people happily gorged themselves celebrating, yes? But the answer is no. The end of the war in May 1945 did not mean an end to rationing. Shortages persisted and even bread, which had been freely available during the war, was now rationed for two years, from July 1946. Animal products such as cheese and the ones mentioned, plus fats and sugar also remained scarce. It actually took until mid-1954 before rationing finally ended. Nearly eight years earlier, at the time of this essay, nobody realised it would take so long.
George Orwell, as he usually did, tried to rally people’s spirits. He begins with a sort of joke:
“AN ADVERTISEMENT in my Sunday paper sets forth in the form of a picture the four things that are needed for a successful Christmas. At the top of the picture is a roast turkey; below that, a Christmas pudding; below that, a dish of mince pies; and below that, a tin of —’s Liver Salt.
Because everyone knows, he’s saying, that at Christmas you push the boat out a bit. You spoil yourself—indulge your taste buds—and eat a sumptuous meal, of the sort first described by Charles Dickens. No matter that the next day you might well need a patent indigestion remedy. For the moment, you celebrate.
“It is a simple recipe for happiness.” Even the Ancient Romans knew this, (although George Orwell does point out that the “vomitorium” as a place in which the ancient Romans are supposed to have vomited during feasts to make room for more food, is a popular misconception). But he insists, it is perfectly alright to overeat at Christmas. In fact it is expected:
“The whole point of Christmas is that it is a debauch—as it was probably long before the birth of Christ was arbitrarily fixed at that date.”
Overindulging in alcoholic drink too, he approves of, “provided it is infrequent—twice a year, say.” George Orwell pokes fun at vegetarians and teetotallers, who he maintains are always “scandalized by this attitude”. He’s talking this up for effect of course. As a representative of both, I don’t consider myself to be a spoilsport or a sobersides—but he paints an entertaining picture—and I cannot gainsay that life would be very boring if we never ventured to do something different, just for the pure pleasure of doing it, and with no other agenda.
There is plenty of fine literature throughout history, George Orwell says, about the joys of eating, and also about indulging in drinking, but nothing whatsoever about the pleasures of drinking water.
Children know what it’s all about. They know that this is the one time of year when they are allowed to be greedy. It’s a day of:
“fierce pleasures which they are quite willing to pay for with a certain amount of pain”.
Or as my parents wisely used to say “there’ll be tears before bedtime”. Not that it ever dampened the excitement of finding a pillowcase of presents at the bottom of the bed, or rushing downstairs to see if Father Christmas had eaten the mince pie, and drunk the cup of cocoa we had left him. (Oh the thrill, when we saw the pastry crumbs on the plate, and dregs of cocoa at the bottom of the cup. He never failed us!) We all have our memories of what we think to be an ideal Christmas; even the smallest child has their own. Some are recent recollections, perhaps as recent as the last year pre-Covid. This essay is likely to bring some of yours flooding into your mind.
George Orwell loved Christmas food. In 1945, the year before, he had written “Animal Farm”, which brought him world renown. He had written the year before that “only trivial books make big money”, but “Animal Farm” had made him rich. A few months later, the British Council commissioned an article from him on British cookery. The article was not published (although he was paid thirty guineas for it), perhaps because it would not have been popular, especially at that time. But George Orwell spoke his mind. He was not a fan of the current British diet, which he called “simple [and] slightly barbarous”. Neither did he like British restaurants which he said were either awful, or imitation French.
“It is not a law of nature that every restaurant in England should be either foreign or bad, and the first step towards an improvement will be a less long-suffering attitude in the British public itself.”
But he did like his food, and since at the end of the article he included his own recipes for treacle tart, marmalade, plum cake, Yorkshire pudding and Christmas pudding, clearly he did have a yen for English cooking after all, and this essay shows his passion.
We are nicely full of the thoughts and memories of George Orwell’s traditional plum pudding and brandy, or whatever your tipple; of convivial times, of family and friends gathering together, or simply quiet moments in front of a roaring fire. Now he moves on. He might ramble a little, but now he asks us to consider. And although George Orwell was writing for a very particular time, in the first year after the Second World War had ended, the broad points he makes in this essay can still speak to us nearly 80 years later, in the 21st century.
“The world as a whole is not exactly in a condition for festivities this year. Between the Rhine and the Pacific there cannot be very many people who are in need of —’s Liver Salt. In India there are, and always have been, about 10 million people who only get one square meal a day. In China, conditions are no doubt much the same. In Germany, Austria, Greece and elsewhere, scores of millions of people are existing on a diet which keeps breath in the body but leaves no strength for work. All over the war-wrecked areas from Brussels to Stalingrad, other uncounted millions are living in the cellars of bombed houses, in hide-outs in the forests, or in squalid huts behind barbed wire.”
Different wars; different countries. We only need to expand the geography and change a few locations to find that, tragically, this is still true. George Orwell is full of hope:
“I am writing in praise of Christmas, but in praise of Christmas 1947, or perhaps 1948.”
He had no knowledge of the future genocides, or of a plague which would spread around the world. And perhaps after all it is best, to live without such knowledge, and enjoy our present rich quality of life. George Orwell looks to the future:
“may there be no gloomy voices … to lecture us about the things that we are doing to the linings of our stomachs. One celebrates a feast for its own sake … Christmas is here, or nearly. Santa Claus is rounding up his reindeer, the postman staggers from door to door beneath his bulging sack of Christmas cards, the black markets are humming, and Britain has imported over 7,000 crates of mistletoe from France. So I wish everyone an old-fashioned Christmas in 1947.”
Thinking back to the family members I used to know, who lived through these times, I remember the tendency to keep things “for best”. Bone china and fine linen would be kept hidden away, and only brought out occasionally. This was not really very surprising. For people who had very little, they valued what they had, and kept their prize possessions safe. But it was taken to extremes.
More than once, my mother, clearing out a relative’s house, would come across a domestic item which had been carefully hidden away, to be safe. Perhaps it might be a delicately embroidered tablecloth, or some lace-edged handkerchiefs; something which the owner had considered a little finer than the workaday ones. They would be carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and put away for decades. Sometimes it would have been a wedding present to the deceased old person. On one occasion there was a set of six silver teaspoons which were carefully polished, but considered so precious that they had never been used.
It used to upset my mum. She had things she kept for best, and I was amazed at the number of different china tea-sets she collected, but they would all be brought out proudly, one or another, on special days, or when we had “company”. “What a shame” she’d say of the hidden secret items. “What a waste. They should have enjoyed them.” Yes, the items would remain perfect, but who would enjoy them?
I echo the thought, although my family are now long gone, and my “treasures” are different. Enjoy the moment, and indulge yourself on special days. Enjoy living! Be grateful you can eat and be merry; the pleasure of convivial festive meals is good for everyone’s spirits. Life is short; make the most of it.
“For health is not the only thing that matters: friendship, hospitality, and the heightened spirits and change of outlook that one gets by eating and drinking in good company are also valuable.”
“I only add in passing that when we gorge ourselves this Christmas, if we do get the chance to gorge ourselves, it is worth giving a thought to the thousand million human beings, or thereabouts, who will be doing no such thing.”
And of course, please stay safe!
As I Please was the title of a column written by George Orwell for the British newspaper “Tribune”, over three and a half years. None of the essays had a heading, and they covered a variety of subjects. This series of articles written between 1943 and 1947 are some of his best journalism. Not only have they have endured for far longer than most newspaper articles, but they represent some of the greatest examples of their genre in the English language. With George Orwell we can be sure that he will write clearly and simply. In his journalism he comes across as plain-speaking and opinionated but fair-minded. He was straightforward, and in the colloquial meaning of the time, a thoroughly decent man.
George Orwell had reviewed for the “Tribune” since 1940, but As I Please was a turning point for him. In 1943, he had resigned from his job at the BBC, and left to join the “Tribune” as their literary editor. At the BBC, he had been employed as Eric Blair; but at the “Tribune”, he used his pseudonym George Orwell. What his readers had grown to expect from his journalism was direct, economical and occasionally humorous prose, and they were not disappointed. George Orwell may have appeared to be opinionated, and quirky, but he was always entertaining and thought-provoking, and he kept any private unhappiness out of his columns.
Such is the essay here, for 20th December 1946. The first article had appeared in December 1943, so by now his column was well established, and he had a “voice”. It is one of his later essays. Some of them show him switching easily from the sublime to the ridiculous, revealing his passions and his pet hates. But as always with George Orwell, the underlying message is timeless.
Many dates in the past blur, or feel insignificant, but not this one. What tone should he take, for the British public of the time? How could they celebrate Christmas in the way they used to? Ever since 1940 foodstuffs such as bacon, ham, butter, and sugar had begun to be rationed. The rules became increasingly complex, to try to ensure that nobody fell short of the basic nutritional requirements they needed. On the whole it worked, but creating a varied diet with so little, required some ingenuity. Look at photographs from those years, of people at home in England, or soldiers on leave, and you are unlikely to find anyone overweight, or even plump.
But for Christmas 1946, we might assume there was a big festive celebration. This was only the second Christmas after the end of the Second World War; there must have been huge parties, where people happily gorged themselves celebrating, yes? But the answer is no. The end of the war in May 1945 did not mean an end to rationing. Shortages persisted and even bread, which had been freely available during the war, was now rationed for two years, from July 1946. Animal products such as cheese and the ones mentioned, plus fats and sugar also remained scarce. It actually took until mid-1954 before rationing finally ended. Nearly eight years earlier, at the time of this essay, nobody realised it would take so long.
George Orwell, as he usually did, tried to rally people’s spirits. He begins with a sort of joke:
“AN ADVERTISEMENT in my Sunday paper sets forth in the form of a picture the four things that are needed for a successful Christmas. At the top of the picture is a roast turkey; below that, a Christmas pudding; below that, a dish of mince pies; and below that, a tin of —’s Liver Salt.
Because everyone knows, he’s saying, that at Christmas you push the boat out a bit. You spoil yourself—indulge your taste buds—and eat a sumptuous meal, of the sort first described by Charles Dickens. No matter that the next day you might well need a patent indigestion remedy. For the moment, you celebrate.
“It is a simple recipe for happiness.” Even the Ancient Romans knew this, (although George Orwell does point out that the “vomitorium” as a place in which the ancient Romans are supposed to have vomited during feasts to make room for more food, is a popular misconception). But he insists, it is perfectly alright to overeat at Christmas. In fact it is expected:
“The whole point of Christmas is that it is a debauch—as it was probably long before the birth of Christ was arbitrarily fixed at that date.”
Overindulging in alcoholic drink too, he approves of, “provided it is infrequent—twice a year, say.” George Orwell pokes fun at vegetarians and teetotallers, who he maintains are always “scandalized by this attitude”. He’s talking this up for effect of course. As a representative of both, I don’t consider myself to be a spoilsport or a sobersides—but he paints an entertaining picture—and I cannot gainsay that life would be very boring if we never ventured to do something different, just for the pure pleasure of doing it, and with no other agenda.
There is plenty of fine literature throughout history, George Orwell says, about the joys of eating, and also about indulging in drinking, but nothing whatsoever about the pleasures of drinking water.
Children know what it’s all about. They know that this is the one time of year when they are allowed to be greedy. It’s a day of:
“fierce pleasures which they are quite willing to pay for with a certain amount of pain”.
Or as my parents wisely used to say “there’ll be tears before bedtime”. Not that it ever dampened the excitement of finding a pillowcase of presents at the bottom of the bed, or rushing downstairs to see if Father Christmas had eaten the mince pie, and drunk the cup of cocoa we had left him. (Oh the thrill, when we saw the pastry crumbs on the plate, and dregs of cocoa at the bottom of the cup. He never failed us!) We all have our memories of what we think to be an ideal Christmas; even the smallest child has their own. Some are recent recollections, perhaps as recent as the last year pre-Covid. This essay is likely to bring some of yours flooding into your mind.
George Orwell loved Christmas food. In 1945, the year before, he had written “Animal Farm”, which brought him world renown. He had written the year before that “only trivial books make big money”, but “Animal Farm” had made him rich. A few months later, the British Council commissioned an article from him on British cookery. The article was not published (although he was paid thirty guineas for it), perhaps because it would not have been popular, especially at that time. But George Orwell spoke his mind. He was not a fan of the current British diet, which he called “simple [and] slightly barbarous”. Neither did he like British restaurants which he said were either awful, or imitation French.
“It is not a law of nature that every restaurant in England should be either foreign or bad, and the first step towards an improvement will be a less long-suffering attitude in the British public itself.”
But he did like his food, and since at the end of the article he included his own recipes for treacle tart, marmalade, plum cake, Yorkshire pudding and Christmas pudding, clearly he did have a yen for English cooking after all, and this essay shows his passion.
We are nicely full of the thoughts and memories of George Orwell’s traditional plum pudding and brandy, or whatever your tipple; of convivial times, of family and friends gathering together, or simply quiet moments in front of a roaring fire. Now he moves on. He might ramble a little, but now he asks us to consider. And although George Orwell was writing for a very particular time, in the first year after the Second World War had ended, the broad points he makes in this essay can still speak to us nearly 80 years later, in the 21st century.
“The world as a whole is not exactly in a condition for festivities this year. Between the Rhine and the Pacific there cannot be very many people who are in need of —’s Liver Salt. In India there are, and always have been, about 10 million people who only get one square meal a day. In China, conditions are no doubt much the same. In Germany, Austria, Greece and elsewhere, scores of millions of people are existing on a diet which keeps breath in the body but leaves no strength for work. All over the war-wrecked areas from Brussels to Stalingrad, other uncounted millions are living in the cellars of bombed houses, in hide-outs in the forests, or in squalid huts behind barbed wire.”
Different wars; different countries. We only need to expand the geography and change a few locations to find that, tragically, this is still true. George Orwell is full of hope:
“I am writing in praise of Christmas, but in praise of Christmas 1947, or perhaps 1948.”
He had no knowledge of the future genocides, or of a plague which would spread around the world. And perhaps after all it is best, to live without such knowledge, and enjoy our present rich quality of life. George Orwell looks to the future:
“may there be no gloomy voices … to lecture us about the things that we are doing to the linings of our stomachs. One celebrates a feast for its own sake … Christmas is here, or nearly. Santa Claus is rounding up his reindeer, the postman staggers from door to door beneath his bulging sack of Christmas cards, the black markets are humming, and Britain has imported over 7,000 crates of mistletoe from France. So I wish everyone an old-fashioned Christmas in 1947.”
Thinking back to the family members I used to know, who lived through these times, I remember the tendency to keep things “for best”. Bone china and fine linen would be kept hidden away, and only brought out occasionally. This was not really very surprising. For people who had very little, they valued what they had, and kept their prize possessions safe. But it was taken to extremes.
More than once, my mother, clearing out a relative’s house, would come across a domestic item which had been carefully hidden away, to be safe. Perhaps it might be a delicately embroidered tablecloth, or some lace-edged handkerchiefs; something which the owner had considered a little finer than the workaday ones. They would be carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and put away for decades. Sometimes it would have been a wedding present to the deceased old person. On one occasion there was a set of six silver teaspoons which were carefully polished, but considered so precious that they had never been used.
It used to upset my mum. She had things she kept for best, and I was amazed at the number of different china tea-sets she collected, but they would all be brought out proudly, one or another, on special days, or when we had “company”. “What a shame” she’d say of the hidden secret items. “What a waste. They should have enjoyed them.” Yes, the items would remain perfect, but who would enjoy them?
I echo the thought, although my family are now long gone, and my “treasures” are different. Enjoy the moment, and indulge yourself on special days. Enjoy living! Be grateful you can eat and be merry; the pleasure of convivial festive meals is good for everyone’s spirits. Life is short; make the most of it.
“For health is not the only thing that matters: friendship, hospitality, and the heightened spirits and change of outlook that one gets by eating and drinking in good company are also valuable.”
“I only add in passing that when we gorge ourselves this Christmas, if we do get the chance to gorge ourselves, it is worth giving a thought to the thousand million human beings, or thereabouts, who will be doing no such thing.”
And of course, please stay safe!
October 18, 2025
η γνωριμία με τη δοκιμιακή μη μυθοπλαστική γραφή του ανθρώπου που έγραψε το καλύτερο βιβλίο* όλων των εποχών, ήταν αποκαλυπτική και απολαυστική. απόψεις για τη λογοτεχνία, την πολιτική και την αλληλεπίδρασή τους, διορατικότητα για την κατεύθυνση των κοινωνικών, οικονομικών και πολιτικών εξελίξεων. ενδιαφέρουσες και οι 563 σελίδες, ξεχωρίζω τα δυο κομμάτια για το ΕΑΜ (σε αντιπαραβολή με την Πολωνία, θέτει το ζήτημα της ενιαίας δημοκρατικής στάσης έναντι της πολιτικά συμφέρουσας) και το κείμενο για τον Κέσλερ. για τον ίδιο, προκύπτει η ειλικρίνεια, η ευθύτητα, το πάθος (πάντα συνοδευμένο από το λάθος), η ανυπόκριτη στάση και η ενεργός δράση, η μη πολιτική ορθότητα και η αδέσμευτη κριτική ένταξη στην Αριστερά. προέταξε μια μορφή δημοκρατικού σοσιαλισμού (ψήγματα, μόνο, της οποίας έχουμε δει εδώ και κει). δεν το συνάντησα πουθενά, αλλά νομίζω ότι το 1984 είναι αναγραμματισμός του 1948 (του έτους κατά το οποίο το έγραψε), ενώ (ο ίδιος εξηγεί ότι) Η φάρμα των ζώων είναι μια ιστορία για την αποδόμηση του σοβιετικού μύθου (σε ότι σχετίζεται με την ανελευθερία και τις πολιτικές διώξεις, κυρίως τις Δίκες της Μόσχας, πολύ πριν το 20ο συνέδριο).
* μαζί με τον Ξένο (παρεμπιπτόντως και οι δυο άφησαν πίσω τους το(ν) Παράλογο (κόσμο) καθώς διένυαν το 47ο έτος). και ένα εκ των Υπόγειο και Έγκλημα και Τιμωρία. βεβαίως υπάρχει και το Darkness at noon, o Οδυσσέας και Το ταξίδι στην άκρη της νύχτας.
* μαζί με τον Ξένο (παρεμπιπτόντως και οι δυο άφησαν πίσω τους το(ν) Παράλογο (κόσμο) καθώς διένυαν το 47ο έτος). και ένα εκ των Υπόγειο και Έγκλημα και Τιμωρία. βεβαίως υπάρχει και το Darkness at noon, o Οδυσσέας και Το ταξίδι στην άκρη της νύχτας.
June 9, 2022
Μα είναι δυνατόν να κάνω κριτική στον Όργουελ;!Ελάτε τώρα!Πάρτε το βιβλίο!Αξίζει!
March 28, 2014
Dearest George. You are quite wonderful. A triumph of commonsense radicalism in every shade of grumpy.
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September 26, 2014828.91209 O79 2006
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