Yesterday morning, ‘A
nton’ and I were putting up a Robens Prospector Tent for some bunch of glamping fucktards or other when a figure approached us through the mist that sometimes makes the Runton estate look uncomfortably like a scene from The Others. It was Graham, who handles the more complex animal culls around the estate with ferrets and dogs and so forth. Graham is every inch a son of the soil, able to tell the time by the position of the sun, whittle things from sticks, get tractors to run on cooking oil, and do that thing where you pull a small sheep out of another, larger sheep. Conversely, ‘Anton’ is a shag happy Deptford wide boy, once the terror of the Lewisham menopausal and now, like myself, little more than a grumbling Cockney in a field. Those familiar with ‘Anton’ and I’s years of trading at Greenwich Market will recall the feud between him and Keith, a fine art and photography vendor, whereby ‘Anton’ would regularly offer to nip round and give Keith’s wife Barbara ‘the full half pint’, among other horrors with which I will not trouble you. My favourite part of the feud was when ‘Anton’ attempted to convince the market management that Keith was incontinent by pouring water over the cushion Keith liked to sit on, advising them to ‘have a quiet word with him about it’, and that Keith was a proud man in deep denial and it might be a good idea to call him into the office to discuss it privately, insisting it’s nothing to be ashamed of at his age and fatness. Sadly for ‘Anton’, his ambition of replacing the words ‘A false balance is an abomination to the Lord, but a just weight is His delight’, which dominated the Nelson Road end of the market, with ‘Keith is a fucking fat fucking wanker’ will now never be realised, as that part of the premises has since been demolished and lost forever. Sometimes we can just dream a little too far. Anyway, as an adolescent, ‘Anton’ used to flog zoot suits outside the Lacy Lady* and, like myself, has time for someone who knows how to dress themselves properly. Incidentally, I don’t want any backchat about not judging a book by its cover at this point, because judging a book by the cover is efficient and speeds up the judging process a great deal.
‘Are you some sort of pikey or something?’ said ‘Anton’ to Graham, now beside us and resplendent in a heavily patched hunting jacket, giving the impression that he had been standing in rain for about thirty seven years.
‘Yes’, replied Graham, a Romany gypsy, ‘I live in a caravan over there [gesturing behind him]. You’ve been there loads of times. You’ve been buying tyres off my kids since you got here, and yer man here had a dog’. This pertains to the fact that I taught Graham’s children to read, and that he gave me a dog as part payment. Also, it says much about the nature of life at Runton Hall that the only permanent residents are a family of gypsy transients, but there we are. I hate the countryside.
Unabashed, ‘Anton’ disappeared back into the Robins Prospector to ensure it was ready for glampers wanting to talk about EU Referendum recounts in, while Graham and I talked about the Summer Palace Joe has built for Sevastopol the Peacock. Sevastopol is an impressive specimen of his breed, fond of wandering around the grounds with his tail out in the summer months, and is regarded as a beloved celebrity by Runton visitors. Not by Joe, however: peacocks are loud, and Sevastopol has a habit of celebrating this next to Joe’s wigwam in the early hours of the morning. The Summer Palace Joe has built is a wondrous thing, full of stuff that peacocks like, and 
most importantly well away from him and his numerous children. As we talked, we waved to the Flat Earthers, who were jogging past at that moment. Most people don’t think of hard core conspiracy theorists having an exercise regime, but then most people don’t think there’s a gigantic ice wall stopping the oceans from sloshing over the edge of the planet and into outer space either. Incidentally, the Flat Earthers are off next week, to be replaced by PID believers. In case you are unfamiliar, ‘PID’ stands for ‘Paul [McCartney] Is Dead’, and the theory is roughly as follows: McCartney died in a car crash in 1966 and was replaced by a look and sound alike by the Tavistock Institute, a front organisation working on behalf of shape shifting lizards from the rings of Saturn for the purposes of spreading drug use among the young, thereby making the human population easier to control. Obvious really.
I yield to none in my love of the Fab Four – indeed, if I was any more obsessed with them I would consider myself ripe for psychiatric treatment. I collect old concert tickets and fan mail and everything. Bearing that in mind, imagine what it’s like for me hearing the Paul Is Dead theory relayed at first hand, as casually as if it was directions to Morrissons. I’ve heard it before, of course, but still. When faced with information of this kind at Runton, which is often, I just say ‘Well, I hope you get to the bottom of it’, and ask if they’ll be wanting sandwiches or anything, because not upsetting conspiracy theorists is probably the most important part of my current working life. The PID people spend most of the day playing Beatles albums backwards and saying ‘There. Solid proof. Absolutely crystal clear’ at obscure bits of garbled noise they claim proves their theory, but keep themselves to themselves otherwise. Still, I would rather have the place full of conspiracy theorists than glampers, as glampers act like they own the world, whereas conspiracy theorists act like it’s been owned since Ancient Egyptian times by hybrid lizard/human bloodlines, who probably leave less litter.
As ever, prudence is key. It isn’t for me to question beliefs which, at Runton at least, are pursued in a tolerant, good humoured and respectful manner. For all I know, there may be a conspiracy theory stating that Sevastopol the peacock is not Sevastopol the peacock at all, and that the original Sevastopol was attacked and dismembered by an angry dog given to an ex market trader by a Romany gypsy, and that the current Sevastopol is a replacement bought in to avoid upsetting guests and jeopardising revenue, but I’m sure you’ll agree it would be unfair to expect me to comment upon it.
*a famous Ilford nightclub, once the cutting edge of the British soul scene. In case you are unfamiliar, the British soul scene involved dancing all night to songs about love and then beating a stranger unconscious on the way home.
Disclaimer
In the unlikely event that any Flat Earthers read this, I understand that it is lazy to call the Flat Earth Society a conspiracy theory. It isn’t. I think I’m right in saying that it merely seeks to question accepted scientific fact, and the ‘conspiracy’ aspect in fact pertains to Space Exploration Theory, which broadly speaking believes that space travel is a hoax put about by NASA to enable military domination of the inner cosmos. There.
background. Marvellous. Attraction-wise, there’s something for everyone. I always enjoy the obligatory English Civil War tent containing a history teacher struggling with a flintlock pistol, hard enough to fire in the actual English Civil War, where combatants where not constantly interrupted by bored children putting their hands up to ask why they were gay. Burger vans flying the Confederate cross among the flags of the home nations, drunk twelve year olds, fat majorettes, shire horses wearing deeley boppers – it’s tremendous stuff, and the carnivals of East Anglia, long recognised as gathering places of the rich and beautiful, are the epicentre of it all.
to drown you fucking twat’. Bucket-rattlers, moving among the crowds, collect money for fireworks displays, held on New Years Day instead of Guy Fawkes Night in these parts, as Norfolk supported the Gunpowder Plot and saw no cause to celebrate its failure. I like to say that on Boxing Day they execute a young offender on the promenade in front of a jeering crowd, and throw him, still conscious, into the sea where he is torn apart by gleeful townsfolk, hence Boxing Day Hangings. I have no idea why I say this, but it provides an insight into how I might have dealt with Guy Fawkes sympathisers, had I held judicial office amid such treason.
format is unchanging year after year, and no one minds, even the East Midlanders who invade Norfolk each summer and, on one occasion in Sheringham, Amelia and Jacob from Clapham, representing the Remain vote and thinking they were in Hell. At this event, the announcement of an Ipswich-based Highland Terrier ignited the ancient blood feud between the East Anglian counties, and amid a torrent of initially good natured booing, the MC was heard to say ‘I must say, I don’t fancy your chances’ to the dog’s owner, who was six, amid the kind of uproar more commonly associated with a witch burning. Happily, a Lancaster bomber flew overhead at this point, delighting all and sundry. If you should find yourself marshalling an outdoor event in the English provinces, keep one of these on hand for if things get rowdy. Everyone loves it, and if you can combine it with the 
ne of these summers we’ll have to get Joe to dress up as Blackbeard and jump out from behind the pier supports for a larf, making demands for dubloons or pieces of eight, or parrot food or wooden leg varnish or eye patch darkener. Or in a shark costume, so that midway through his spiel the theme from Jaws could sound as his ringtone, and he could say ‘Better get this, it’s the missus’, then have a conversation whereby he could inform his imaginary shark wife that ‘They’re out of surfers, love’ but that ‘they’ve got children from…’ [Addressing children] ‘Where are you from? Grimsby?’ ‘…Grimsby. Could put them in a casserole I suppose’ and all that which, if accompanied by enough pissing about, will be a larf, especially if we say it’s for Help for Heroes.
The Runton Diaries 