John Drinkwater’s Robinson of England is a very peculiar novel indeed. I don’t mean funny-peculiar, but peculiar in the sense of being curious and unusual. It is, to use a word, that Drinkwater’s contemporaries might have employed in the circumstances, a queer book.
Base camp: Russell Square. The Tartan Army has taken control of the area and hoisted its flags. Detergent has been added to the fountain, footballs are being kicked randomly about and the banter and beer are flowing.