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Can a sane, normal and slightly self-righteous man (well only when I have an opinion or my mouth is open) pass judgment on whether one is a Village Idiot or not?

I would argue an emphatic “yes”, if he has known one or two, or has been one himself once or twice.

I fit both these criteria.

One’s first exposure to a Village Idiot, whether vicariously or personally, is always a memorable one, because they are a true rarity in this young and vibrant country, with its penchant for multi-partners and up-duffing, which, on the whole, precludes that greatest producer of Village Idiots: inbreeding.

That said, and taking a world view, I am sure a consensus could be reached that the best place to secure a prime example would be that traditional hot bed of Village Idiots, The English Rural Community.

How many of us, in our formative years, whilst skylarking or making a pest of ourselves, were told “stop acting like the Village Idiot”? Having not a clue what one was but knowing full well that it was, in the opinion of the castigator, A Bad Thing.

Not including footballers (and they are the same worldwide) my first confirmed exposure came late in life, in rural Gloucestershire.

It was a pleasant village; church built in A.D 1040, pub built in A.D 1462 (always thought they were 400 years behind the meaning of life!!) pond in the middle of the village green, obligatory stream running through, ducks abounding and a steady tourist trade of rubbernecks, gawking at the inherent beauty of the Cotswolds.

Little did they know that lurking below the surface of this tranquil vista was a cell of confirmed producers of Village Idiots, well known to all, but only spoken of in hushed tones, certainly not to strangers and definitely not to foreigners, as my mates and I most definitely were.

Well for three years at least, until the 14 year old Vicar’s daughter paid a nocturnal visit to my mate (climbed through the second story bedroom window) to express her, um, significant affection for him.

After that we were perceived as being somewhat more normal and the facts started to emerge.

Rural England in the 80’s and 90’s still had a strong whiff of the feudal system in the air. There was a firm hierarchy which included the Local Member, the Local Squire (who lived in the biggest pile of bricks you have ever seen) and, of course, the vicar, whose pile of bricks and stipend had set him up sweetly (he had been a lorry driver until he was called to the cloth and a life of abject luxury, and he was certainly no idiot when it came to using the system!!)

Then came the professionals, who chose to live in the serenity of the countryside because they could afford it, courtesy of a “suit” job in the city.

It was they who shattered that serenity every morning at 6.20 precisely when, like lemmings, they screamed through the village in all manner of expensive motors, hell bent on getting to the huge British Rail carpark in time to catch the 6.31 to Victoria (22 Squids, one way!!)

The value of the Mercs and Beemers in that car park that had been thrashed over salted roads for 400 yards at top speed, just to sit and rot for twelve hours everyday, had to be seen to be believed.

Village Idiots? Maybe.

The pecking order then moves down to the farm workers and serfs.

The Farm Manager (there was only one farm, owned by the Squire and stretching from horizon to horizon) was a fine pillar of the community. He had his own pew in the church, and his own hatch in the pub, he was seemingly a powerful man.

Oh! What is a hatch?

A small hinged flap at eye level in the wall between the Public Bar and the gentility of the Lounge and Dining Room.

Any rabble rousing in the “Public” which might upset the sensibilities of the Farm Manager or his guests was dealt with swiftly with an opened hatch, a loud “go home, we ‘ave ‘arvesting int’morning” and that was that!!

From the Farm Manager’s standing though, looking up the order to the Squire and the pile of bricks (which he wasn’t allowed to enter) he was as a beetle that could be crushed at a whim.

I never once saw him with the Squire without his flat hat in his hand, punctuating all their conversations with forelock tugging and “yes guv’nor”s

He knew his place, and was no Village Idiot.

Down the order to the hotbed, nay, breeding ground of village idiots: the realm of the serfs. Cases in point:

Gilbert, who could only introduce himself as Nilbert because his palate didn’t allow for a “G”, was regularly seen cycling through the village with both the pedals of his velocipede in the same orientation instead of being opposed.

This led to a strange hopping motion as both his feet and knees went up and down together.

He coped all right, but couldn’t rectify the late night pub prank until the perpetrators took pity and reversed the cotters for him.

Antony, a pleasant enough fellow who had just passed his driving test at the age of 37 after 23 attempts and was off on a big adventure. Driving the local pool team 5 miles to a neighbouring pub!!

His dad, Jack: 72 with a toothless grin, his war surplus trousers held up with sash cord, string bowyangs over sockless feet and laceless boots, grew spuds and sold eggs to get by. He was my next door neighbour so I found out that he had always lived in the same house and had never been further from the Village than to Stow Gypsy Horse Fair to drink beer and find a wife. A big annual trip, 4 miles, achieved by walking.

Robin, 23 stone of ale-swilling, welfare-produced, prime English manhood. When I oversaw his shopping list in the village store one day the item that leapt off the page at me was Cus-turd powder!! On welfare his whole life because there was no work within 300 yards of his place of dwelling. The Pub was 450 yards away and the welfare office 3 miles. Go figure, but no idiocy here!!

I could continue, but the word boorish comes to mind and suffice to say that all of these, and the Pheasant Plucker (oh, yes, they do exist, 80P /brace) had the same surname and had been born in the same house the family was in when the Domesday census was taken in 1086.

Now to my own qualifications and indiscretions.

They have been many and legion, but I think any of us who have woken up, looked in the mirror and said “You Idiot” know that you fit the description and are qualified to have an opinion on idiots.

In conclusion, if you are in doubt as to the veracity of somebody’s claim that so and so is a Village Idiot, or that they themselves have made a similar spectacle, or that you yourself have transgressed, I, as an experienced observer, am available for verification of authenticity for a small fee, You Idiot.

“Never argue with an idiot. They will bring you down to their own level, then beat you with experience!!”

 

 

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