Out of the grey, and slightly violet, mists which make up the unformed state of matter, there once formed a being, whose body brain intercircuitry was peculiar to a degree, that was unprecedented by a greater degree than that by which normal people are unprecedented.
Nature was to endow him, not only with a strong sturdy body and sturdy, and somewhat winsome bone structure, but also the sensitivity, to a degree, that, mixed with a ready call on comparative imagery and lateral thinking, a large vocabulary was forthcoming with alacrity.
And it conceived within his boiled brain that mankind, having supplied evidence that it remained in thrall to mysterious kings and queens and their dictates for millennia, mankind needed a somewhat sturdier kick up the back side, as it learned, from science, general, gradual comparison of experience, that mystery, though undoubtedly still there, was no longer placed exactly where it used to be, in kings and queens, but elsewhere, and that the rules of humans having authority over one another, and restricted access to resources, were somewhat shifting, and that they needed to move a little quicker from accepting their roles of subservience.
Of course the first to appeal to his rabid senses for justice were those ministers whom the ruling class let into the house of lords, who championed the rights of the ‘Labourer’. He also felt that since he was not present at all the meetings that took place between those that were shifting money and influence around, that these figures must doubtless be in ‘secret’ societies, and that those members of ‘secret’ societies, may be members of other ‘secret’ societies, until they may be all secret from one another, until they become individuals again, a bit like double and triple, and quadruple, agents. And so, having come across the idea of pamphleteers, essayists, and satirical novels, from his beloved literature, the idea formed itself, in his boiling brain, to produce not only some work founded in the mysteries that continue to present themselves, but which also crossed over between two forms, a piece of writing that was both pamphlet, and work of literature, with all due quotes and references to tradition, a work that was both a novel, and a political evaluation, a work that was no less a novel and a pamphlet. And so it was that he conceived to present the novel, in the form of a newspaper, giving over the sense that the work was indeed news, and one that could be distributed easily, and one that he, if necessary, would pedal himself, with the help of his tiny family, and his small handful of friends, doing whatever it took, to further his purpose, raise his name and status, while in the same stroke, improving mankind.
His temperament could only be described as choleric, with bouts of phlegmatic, never really by melancholy, but occasionally haunted by sanguinity, or lyricism, which was always fluttering under the surface somewhere. Therefore, though he considered himself to be, or always considered himself as, choleric, with occasional bouts of phlegmatic, nevertheless, all of this was somehow suspended in a happy sanguinity, which formed a poetic, singular self absorption. In other words, he was a character, which, in itself, and taken just by itself, is not, in itself, the most uncommon thing. But since, when someone is inherently good-natured, it doesn’t matter how they rant and rail, or are cast down in the dumps, by outward appearance, their body remains undoubtedly becoming, with benign aspect, which is the singular characteristic of all characters, who take themselves very seriously.
Well, then, the story begins with tracing this young Robert back to his little house in Oxford, which formed the centre of all his operations. He drove in a tiny rusty Ford Fiesta, which always had some his pamphlets in the back, and his job it was to further his news, taking whatever opportunity he could, to do so.
We catch up with him as he rolled over hill and dale, through the Chilterns, as fast as his little wheels would carry him. The birds sprang from his path and the trees, as his little Ford Fiesta dove along the lanes completely destitute of any other traffic. His mind was boiling over with all the promising rendezvous and conversations he’d just had, all for the furtherance of his name, and the pamphlets, though all the while, the pamphlets lay unread on their coffee room coffee tables. The point was, they had looked fantastic, there, on their coffee tables, and no longer blocking the light from his house, and with delight he greeted the visage of each new road: its splendid wavering trees, each sight more intricately and variagatedly wonderful than the last, the ploughed dales rolling down from the sides of the road, the trees swaying vigourously with the summer gusts, the cattle lowing, and exclaiming, perhaps with surprise at this little rusty beetle, the only thing to pierce this majestic and tranquil day, as it busied along the road. At any moment, Robert felt the urge to park up, and, spreading his arms aloft, marvel at the glory of this English country side.