Pity The Fun Police.

                                                                                                                      THE FUN POLICE

What does a mum fed up with being told ‘records’ get her son for his birthday? In my case it was an Ancestry DNA kit, the one where they check your DNA back 20 generations and find out where your folks came from 1000 years ago. That’s a lot of branches, exactly 20 generations will give you potentially 1,048,576 grandparents though with interbreeding over the years likely less. I had done a bit of genealogy in the past resulting in a Nott family tree going back to the late 1600’s and precisely 9.6 miles in movement, from George Nympton where Jane Williams trains to Witheridge where I currently reside near where Nigel Hawke trains so I knew that at least the male line of my family hadn’t ventured far.

However, when the results of my DNA came back, I was a little surprised to read that mine was 97% pure Devon and Somerset and 3% Southern Wales. My mum’s side was 100% Devon and Somerset. Blimey. There were some interesting DNA traits too, one of which was ‘risk taker’, ah ha, I was chuffed to read that redeeming feature. It evidently didn’t allude to my lot wondering what was over the next hill and moving there, but risk takers none the less. I did know that my mum’s dad who died young in 1958 before I had chance to meet him had been a greyhound punter and judging by the couple of hundred quid in his betting money drawer when he died, not a bad one. I also found out that my dad’s gran was a regular at local race meetings back in the day and am proud to say that her surname Blackford is still featured in many a racecard.

So, chuffed to have a bit of risk taker in my DNA and some living memory of people who I might have inherited the like of a punt from, so I’m all in with these DNA results. I’m guessing that the Fun Police aren’t lucky enough to have inherited such positive traits from their ancestors, you know the types. People that want to stifle fun that involves risk, financial or otherwise from our lives to save us from ourselves. I wonder why they think we need saving, I mean 1000 years ago, 1,048,576 Grand Parents manged to make it to at least the point of procreating in life without turning their toes up, that’s some feat when you remember that not only were they generally adverse to soap, there were Grey Wolves, Eurasian Lynx and Brown Bears still roaming around looking for people to eat.

Back to the present for a bit of perspective.

We punters aren’t even asking for credit any more, blimey I got myself into trouble when I was a young man, it was a lot easier to pick the phone up after half a dozen lunchtime pints, quote 3301 and ask for £100 double two carpet on-shots than it was pull it up when they got beat. I soon learned my lesson though, paid them off, no more credit. Fast forward 35 years are all pulling it up these days, pulling it bloody well up and The Fun Police still think we need saving from ourselves.

I wonder what they, The Fun Police do for their, erm, fun. It’s not gambling is it, though I’m sure they still work out the odds when crossing the road or sniffing the tofu that’s been in the fridge for a while. Imagine, not having the thrill of cheering one you’ve had a decent bet on home as it runs neck and neck to the line getting home by a nose, or the exhilarating agony of a double figure injury time equaliser going against you and the last leg of your football accumulator. Imagine, not getting that buzz of pure excitement that only a bet or running from a bear can provide, they don’t know what they’re missing do they.

It must be some sort of dull existence, surely, it’s in all of our blood, after all, with 1,048,576 grand parents we must be distantly related, welcome to the family, excitement, risk taking and fun. Pity the Fun Police, their dullness can’t be their fault, their pious self-righteousness maybe, I wonder what their DNA would reveal, that would be an interesting one for sure, they’d probably never take a punt on a test in the first place would they……

Simon Nott