The celebrity fool thrives, not only in Britain but across the Western world. Characters such as Jade Goody and Paris Hilton attract mass attention and the money that comes with it. Big Brother and similar reality television shows make their producers millions by broadcasting stupidity to eager audiences. And magazines that report the lifestyles of the rich and dumb sell as never before.

Society is dumbing down, we are told. But this is an unlikely explanation for the premium now placed on foolishness. Since when did an increasing supply of something – be it oil, orange juice or stupidity – cause its price to go up? The opposite hypothesis seems more plausible. It is because we are so much cleverer and better educated than previous generations that foolishness commands such a high price.

Forty per cent of the population now attend university, and the average IQ is 20 points higher than it was in 1950. Every village once had a good supply of idiots, and any decent-sized family gathering could furnish a slow Uncle Ted or two. Nowadays you hardly ever meet a true nitwit. When did you last socialise with someone who did not know that East Anglia is in England or who spoke without fear of contraception?

The steady disappearance of fools from our midst is generally welcome, but it entails a loss. Stupidity is funny. Authentic, spontaneous idiocy is hilarious in the same way that breaking wind at a formal dinner is: surprising, inappropriate and a blessed relief from the prevailing stuffiness. Those who complain of dumbing down seem to think that smarter populations should have a lower demand for stupidity. But why should they when stupidity is so delightful?

Fools are expensive because they are a desirable but increasingly scarce commodity. Not globally, of course. There is still an abundance of fools in those parts of the world where education is a minority interest. But that does not suppress the price of local fools. For, just as flatulence is not funny in a hospital’s gastric ward, we do not enjoy stupidity when it comes from the systematically benighted. Equally, the absurd superstitions of an illiterate Tibetan are not amusing until you discover that they are shared by your Mercedes-driving neighbour.

Our celebration of a foolish elite reveals us to be not stupid pigs but increasingly clever and too nice to mock the truly disadvantaged. The real shame of it all is that stupidity is not nearly as much fun on TV as it is in real life. If the population keeps braining up at the current rate, I fear my grandchildren may never know the side-splitting joy of conversation with a complete nincompoop.

Jamie Whyte is the author of Bad Thoughts: A Guide to Clear Thinking

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