Introduction to Derek Cameroon

Derek Cameroon, hurtling, strode, enjoying the sensation of the deep pile beneath his tapered and optimally crafted Northamptonshire footwear…

The sound of the rising and falling baying mantras outside, which were caught, now and then, on the wind, seemed, in this moment, to blend agreeably, and almost harmoniously, with that sober, clean, crisp air, in which he blew, and which was transformed in the variegated gusts which perforated the building, coming from outside, all swelling from the four corners of the globe, which breezily wound about within the building, now aereogating it throughout.

Now entering, this morning air, and light, and this cool, sensible, sober English light, having now blown into England, flowed onto that dark oak, teak, and chestnut furniture, and a light of English sobriety, glanced with an access of the erotic, becomingly on his illustriously dressed arm, singing in, and blending microscopically with the weave of his specifically tailored arm, and this highlighted in becoming deep red rich blue lakes, endlessly deep and becoming, inexhaustibly bewitching, as he breezed into the room, with the flourishes and eddies of this air, rolling off him like the curling blusters of fire which, we have seen, unfold themselves so majestically, and silently, from the surfaces of the sun.

“It’s terrible. They’ve been going on for days. I just can’t understand what’s got them so worked up. I just don’t understand what they expect us to change. Have you seen the bloody pamphlets? Can’t make head or tail of it. It’s enough to make one want to dive head-long into the Thames. Day after day after day, all day long every day, never giving up, wave upon wave, of these bloody raspscallions, yelling about God knows what – and who is this bloody R Lipscombe anyway? Got sent down from both Oxford and Cambridge, at least that’s what I heard. Handed in a bunch of illegible notes. God knows how he managed that. Rattling on about some stupid anxiety of being. Enough to make one chunder endlessly – spew up one’s roll mop herrings til they repopulate the Thames…. Sounds like a bunch of codswallop, that’s what. And what do they teach at Oxford anyway? Nothing! Nothing! I’ve had enough of this!’ He whirled wildly around, casting desperately about, a chestnut lock loosened on his illustriously shining foread…

‘Bunch of insufferable scallywags!” blighter’s!’ he yelled at the unheeding window, whose frilling curtains stirred somewhat, but whose panes stirred not one iota, and seemed not heed him in the least.

Now frustrated even more he hurtled at breakneck speed towards the window. And it flashed through his mind to cast himself through it, go out in a blaze of glory, a shower of glittering glass, and Derek Cameroon, badly injured on the grass below.

He howled outloud. He was all red in the face. It was offset by the velvet midnight blue of his collars. His little red face could be seen in the window, by the howling revellers, had they troubled to look. But it was just a little red head, in a darkened window pane. His head was expanding, his neck,bursting at the collar.

‘When are they going to get it into their thick heads? All they have to do is an honest day’s work, and all this is waiting for them! We have freedom! But they just can’t understand it. I want to die’. He was trembling, and there was foam forming at one corner of his mouth. It was agonising to see – his cool, but a distant memory.

‘And all because of these accursed pamphlets, which I cannot understand’. He took one fromn his backpocket, which was curved and warm and burnished from the shape of his rotund buttock, which thrilled with the coursing juices of roll-mop herrings.

He drew the pamphlet forth from his pocket and hurled it with all his strength onto the floor, He was now shuddering with rage. The whole room was shaking. Lord Rutherford was gingerly taking refuge behind a chair. His Crockett and Jones shoes descended repeatedly on the poor, insipid pamphlet, which, with each crushing blow, was rent asunder, and pulverized into segments upon the deep,rich pile of the carpet, while Cameroon blustered and foamed at the mouth.

‘It’s horrible!’ he cried, ‘It’s horrible!’ ‘I cant bear it!’ – and his face trembled with rage, and his head quivered, now blood and foam was spitting forth from his grizzling chops. He began to roar, the hair on his head standing perpendicularly from his temples. Lord Rutherford loosened his collar, aghast to see the permutations of Cameroon’s mood, and the extent of his emotions, such that his whole body trembled with rage, and he foamed at the mouth.

‘We’ve tried and tried and tried!’ ‘Why cant we get them to understand?’ ‘So stupid’ ‘So stupid’. The baying mantras went on and on, on and on, droaning monotonously with the swaying trees. He was short of breath. Never had one man experienced such exasperation. Except for Robert Lipscombe. How could it be that two men at odds, could feel such exasperastion? What did it mean?

Its true they didn’t go to public shool, but they can still work with what they’ve got. There’s nothing stopping them. Why don’t they have a work ethic?

Tongues of flame were beginning to flicker on Rutherford’s arm.

He had exhausted himself, and stood slumped against the wall, while the boring cries went on outside.

‘Robert Lipscombe will have to be executed’, he said, a trickle of blood exuding from one corner of his mouth.

At that moment, the gusts were favourable, and momentarily, brought the voices to ring again among the trees, among the swaying leaves: rustling, in those sturdy, strenuous, and momentarily sustained, breezes, tarrying somewhat, momentarily, in the above the Thames…

The insufferable stupidity – keeps me awake at night.

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