Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 21 February 2016
Keeping it in the family
This old list is pinned up inside the church at Dauntsey, Wiltshire, where the Doomboard resides. I am not quite sure what it is about, but I think it may be a list of people who you are not allowed to marry. I see it was printed in Great Queen Street, London, so it may also have something to do with Freemasonry.
I was sitting in a builder's hut at a National Trust building once, listening to a conversation about incest which had been sparked off by an article in The Sun - that rag which pretends to be a newspaper. One of the oldest builders was perplexed by the very notion.
"I just don't fancy my daughter", was how he put it.
"Neither do I!" said one of the younger ones.
Donald Trump recently said that every man in America fancies his daughter, and if he wasn't her father, he wouldn't mind dating her himself. To think that this man is getting closer by the day to being President.
I once had to meet a friend in the small, North Devon village where he was brought up. We had arranged to meet in the pub, there being only one, and he was a bit late. When I walked in, everyone turned to look at the stranger and they all had a similar look about them. This was because they were all related to some extent - even the landlord to his customers. These were the days when a telephone box was the only contact to the outside world.
One of the younger ones had arranged to meet some of the others in London a few years before, and they were discussing how to get him there without mishap, as he had never been further than about 5 miles outside of the village. Eventually, he came up with the solution himself:
"I know, I'll meet you in the High Street."
There is a little village North of a crook in the River Severn which is served by one road only - both in and out. Given a few thousand years, this place will be an island in the middle of an oxbow lake. There used to be a ferry which was pulled by a rope across the wide stretch of water which took you straight to the heart of another area renowned for its isolated and inbred community - The Forest of Dean - and when the ferry was taken out of service, the gene-pools of both localities were drastically reduced.
I worked for a well to do and elderly couple in its church, restoring an 18th century memorial for a long dead ancestor. The wife was brought up in this village, and was related to all sorts of people who she should not have been. She had a crisp, upper-class accent, but the verger of the church had a very broad local one. They were cousins.
In these days of social media, you have to lock your unregistered daughter in a cellar from an early age if you want to get up to that sort of monkey business.