Big Brother’s watching. So is your phone, fridge, and probably
your nan’s toaster.
This is satire for the surveillance age — a London-flavoured deep
dive into Orwell’s 1984.
Laugh. Learn. Obey.
Their love for the system is entirely authentic. We checked.
(Ministry of Watching You | Surveillance)
Welcome, Citizen. You’ve made it to London, the world capital of
“Smile, you’re on 942,562 cameras — and counting!” Yes, that’s
right. Nearly a million cameras. One for every tear shed during
your commute. From council-run CCTV to Greggs’ donut-cam to
Carol’s suspiciously high-resolution doorbell feed, you’re under
24/7 surveillance from government agencies, corporate overlords,
and your neighbour’s cat cam.
But don’t worry — it’s not paranoia if it’s policy.
But hey, it’s not spying. It’s smart living!
And by “smart,” we mean: we know what you did last Deliveroo
order.
That’s right: London boasts approximately 942,562 CCTV cameras. That’s more eyes on you than your nosy aunt at Christmas dinner. Operated by the government, private companies, and Terry from number 12, this citywide surveillance system captures every moment of your glorious, anxiety-laden existence.
Think of algorithms as your emotionless digital stalker with a
clipboard. They monitor everything.
They’re not judging…
They’re just quietly calculating your likelihood of dissent.
And don’t worry — it’s all in the name of public safety,
behavioural efficiency, and monetising your breakdown.
By checking your phone, using contactless, owning a smart
speaker, and letting Alexa control your heating, you’ve become a
volunteer surveillance contributor.
No one asked you to help.
But you did.
Oh, how beautifully compliant you are.
I love how I never feel alone anymore. Sometimes I wave to the lampposts, just in case.
Walking through a city where the bins are smarter than your ex, the
traffic lights are counting your blinks, and your Google Maps
history knows you cried outside a Tesco Express.
But this isn’t surveillance.
This is community engagement, baby.
So wave at the cameras.
Smile at the sensors.
Give Alexa something to gossip about.
The Ministry is watching.
And honestly? You’re looking great today.
(Ministry of Shelterlessness | Housing)
Welcome to the London housing market — the Hunger Games with
estate agents.
A place where £1,800/month gets you a “cosy” studio that’s 40%
asbestos, 60% lies.
Whether you’re renting, pretending to save for a deposit, or just
squinting sadly at Zoopla, the system is rigged — and you’re the
punchline.
(Because you can only pick two. And even that’s pushing it.)
They say “we’re like a family here,” right before increasing
rent by 22% and charging £85 to “professionally tighten a
tap.”
Modern landlords are part-time slumlords, full-time escape
room designers.
Thinking about getting on the property ladder?
Well, the ladder’s been pulled up, set on fire, and sold to a
Qatari investor as “art.”
Average deposit in London: £120k.
Your savings: £8.52 and a Tesco Clubcard.
Mould is included. Hot water is a maybe. The fridge door falls
off if you insult it.
But hey — it’s “zone-adjacent.”
Monthly payments, zero equity, and a flat inspection every
time your houseplant sneezes.
You’re not renting a home — you’re paying to not be evicted
yet.
where dreams go to sign 12-month contracts with break clauses, damp walls, and a kitchen you share with six strangers and a fox.
(Community & Relationships | Now With 25% Less Human Interaction)
London is a city of 9 million people and zero eye contact.
We live stacked on top of each other like human Jenga, but no one knows their neighbour’s name — just their WiFi password (and honestly, that’s more useful).
Want to meet people in London? You’ve got three options:
• Work (soul-draining)
• Apps (soul-eroding)
• Pretending you’re “super into climbing now”
You’re in 47 WhatsApp groups. You know someone in every
borough.
And yet, when you choke on a Deliveroo dumpling, no one will find you until your parcel delivery guy notices the smell.
You could be living next to a serial killer or an ex–Love Island contestant and you’d never know.
You share a wall, not a life.
Community spirit now comes in push notifications and awkward parcel signings.
London dating is like trying to find a functioning phone charger
in a bin fire.
Everyone’s emotionally unavailable, “too busy,” or in a
situationship with their career.
you collide with them, swipe past them, or hear them through a paper-thin wall.
But community?
That’s for the group chat.
This is it, Citizen.
You’ve been watched in public, rinsed in private, and ghosted by your entire postcode.
Welcome to Room 101 — the final stop on the Ministry tour.
A curated pit of everything we’d rather forget, from overpriced shoebox flats to the haunting silence of your neighbour’s existence.
It’s not a place.
It’s a mood.
Drowning in “affordable” rent, aka 78% of your paycheck and your will to live.
Smile! You’re on CCTV, Alexa’s logs, Ring cams, and your neighbour’s suspicious doorbell app.
You’ve got 8,432 followers, zero weekend plans, and a thumb sore from doom-scrolling.
Running on caffeine, cortisol, and the faint hope of a cancelled morning meeting.
Yes, it’s listed twice. Because your commute broke your brain *and* your spirit.
Nervous? Good. You remembered something you forgot to do three weeks ago — at 3AM.
Room 101 isn’t a location.
It’s when you realise your Deliveroo driver knows you better than your flatmate.
There is no “back.”
There is no “exit.”
There is only reflection, possibly rage, and maybe — if you’re lucky — the vague sense that laughing at this mess is all we’ve got.
But hey…
You’ve made it this far.
Might as well share the site with a mate before they get evicted.
Let the Ministry know what fresh hell you’ve endured — from landlord sins and ghosted flat viewings to emotional damage inflicted by Pret queues and Northern Line heatstroke.
