Don’t look now, but the eighties are almost upon us. Which means that the usual Chicken Little end-of-the-world doomsters are rushing in circles, colliding with themselves and shouting, “Head for the hills, the dam is broke!” Here comes 1984. Watch out, there’s Big Brother.
Bulrushes and sauerkraut.
Nineteen eighy-four will show up, but not as a Kremlin gargoyle or an Orwellian beast. We have, for the time being anyway, knocked Big Brother into the next century.