It was in the noonday shadows of Bangalore, that history became Churchill's personal religion, the Muse that fired everything he did, his politics, his speech making, his battle cry.

Reading it, writing it, making it, were all inseparable in the personality that was unfolding ardent, impetuous, impassioned.

And it was in the empire that Winston began to write. Books, letters, dispatches to newspapers. And what stories.

It helped, of course, that he was socially shameless and physically fearless. There he was, a fleshy five foot seven, spinning a ripping yarn.

He knew how to make the headlines and he knew how to milk them. But Winston was never just gung-ho for Winston.

All his life he believed in the greatness and goodness of the British Empire.

But he knew next to nothing about what made that empire really tick -- money.

For while Churchill was humming the chorus of "The Road to Mandalay", Richard Blair, George Orwell's father, was actually on it, cashing in on tea, teak, and not least, narcotics.

Blair worked for the Opium Department of the Raj.

His job was to supervise the production of poppies and their export to Shanghai, ensuring on behalf of the empire that the Chinese habit would never knowingly go under-stocked.