Trivia question -- whioch season?

He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling
lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of
heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched
in, followed by two guards.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at
Winston either; he was looking only at the dials.
He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of
glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions
at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he
had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire
history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the
guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Mr
Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with
laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had
somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right,
there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare,
understood, forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he
had heard O'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had
never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just
out of sight. It was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who
set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It
was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should
have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs
should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and
suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was
the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once -