As a recent interloper to this green and pleasant corner of England, it’s not for me to suggest that the north folk of Norfolk are less blessed in the old grey matter than those in other parts of this sceptre’d isle. Those in a better position to judge such things tell me that a long history of cousin-shagging has indeed narrowed the gene pool. So this isn’t just a malicious rural myth spread by the smug metropolitan elite. It seems there was little else to do during the cold and dark winter months before the advent of commercial TV and Super Mario, not even a brass band or a male-voice choir. Even today, whenever a local yokel says or does something, well, a bit village idiot, there’s a time-honoured, well-worn phrase that trips of the lips of the spectators to the fall. With arms folded they mutter with a casual shrug, “normal for Norfolk.” This might also explain the popularity of the UK Independence Party.