Every December, elections are held here for the post of village idiot. This is by no means the sinecure one might imagine. There are over a thousand years of history to live up to; the Fool’s Stool –the throne of imbecility, now standing at the bar in The Flying Cow and still known by that poetic moniker– was noted by the assessors who gathered the information stored in Domesday Book, though the seat used now is not that used then. The idiot must abide by a rigid system of regulations and before taking office must swear the Oaf’s Oath, which dates from the thirteenth century and is to this day taken in the Middle English of that time.

It is a full-time job, that of village idiot. The task is not easy. It requires dedication. It is not for the young and inexperienced, but for the old, who have seen life. One usually has to stand several times to have a chance of being elected. There is no room for tyros here. Conversely, people who have used up all their idiocy on the campaign trail are also unlikely to win; those who suggest they can deliver a year’s worth of sustained bouts of stupidity are much more likely to succeed. In short, we want someone to whom idiocy comes naturally.

Clearly, no idiot in the offensive and obsolete sense of someone with profound mental difficulties could be expected to perform the duties of the office. In the Middle Ages we had such village idiots, and they were treated as if they were sideshow freaks. They were not formally elected, but appointed by the mutual agreement of their peers. In those days dietary deficiencies among the poor led, inter alia, to appalling cerebral conditions. (That said, the wealthy too were, and are, perfectly capable of displaying signs of madness, addled brains, idiocy, call it what you will. We are still reeling from the news of the horrible fate of the late thirteenth Earl of Gatshire, who tragically died not long ago after mistaking his electric power drill for his hairdryer.)