Here's Your Pig's Bladder

Chubby humourist Bll Bryson’s on an anti-litter campaign here in the U.K. at the moment. Seemingly irritated by an American daring to point out to them that they’re a bunch of slobs, a few people on the news opinion forums I frequent have been quite disparaging about Bill.

Some have even called into question whether or not he’s funny. Well, he is. I mean, I’ve never wept with mirth or had to lie down because my sides were aching after reading Bill’s stuff, but he’s an accurate observer and on the basis of an “evening with” he did at a local theatre a few months back, he’s also a genuinely nice bloke. He also manages to be funny without ever being truly unkind, which is harder than it looks.

I also have a soft spot for him because someone once suggested that I could be “the next Bill Bryson.” That’s flattering, but to tell you truth I’d rather be the first Bill Bryson, because then not only would I already be immensely wealthy but I’d also have a pretty good head of hair for a man in his fifties. (Although he should wash it more often, if his last breakfast T.V. appearance was anything to go by.)

On the downside, of course, the first Bill lives in Norfolk, a county which consistently fills me with dread, both because of the eye-watering flatness of the landscape and because for many of the inhabitants the job of village idiot is seen as the pinnacle of an aspirational and challenging career path. “Welcome on board, Jethro. Here's your pig’s bladder.”

A few hundred years ago people from Norfolk enthusiastically colonised many of the parts of North America which now feature in Stephen King novels and teen slasher movies. Many East Anglian traditions, such as folk dancing, incest, murder and cannibalism, often all with the same person and in quick succession, are still carried out by their descendents to this very day.

Bill claims to be happy in Norfolk, but I bet he keeps a gun under the pillow.