Back in the Delingpole fold

Gosh, I can’t tell you how lucky you were not to have been brought up in the Delingpole family. There were nine of us in all — not counting the cats, iguanas, fleas, lice and one-eyed pugs — and the scene every day in the rambling Old Rectory where we lived was like the second half of Lord of the Flies only without the restraint, civility and gentle charm.

It was a dog-eat-dog world where no quarter was given and none expected. It was like Florence in the era of the Medici (only without the culture and art part: unless you count the huge mural of Judge Death my brother Dick did in his bedroom) — an era of constantly shifting alliances, betrayal, backstabbing, torture, humiliation and perpetual war. It made me the hardened street-fighter I am today….

….As I was reminded only last weekend when we held a rare full-family reunion to celebrate my baby brother Charlie’s 30th birthday. Charlie is the genius of the family, a brilliant entrepreneur, whose internet start-up Market Invoice is going to make him one of the richest and most successful players of his generation. I admire him enormously and always take his business and financial advice seriously. But no matter how well he does, not even if he becomes the next Warren Buffett, the dynamic of our relationship will never change: I’ll always expect him to look up to me as the senior child in the pecking order; and in return — even though he already outranks me in wealth, power and height — I’ll always feel protective towards him as my sweet, mewling, puking little bro whose nappies I used to change.

All big families are the same as this, I’m sure. Get them back together and, no matter how much maturity and responsibility they have achieved since their childhood years, they will revert almost instantly to type.