In the resulting doc, The F**king Fulfords, we gain an insight into the sad plight of the British uppercrust. Fulford is so short of cash, he buys a metal detector to scour the grounds for gold coins dropped by ancestors.
He expounds upon modern life: “I’ve nothing against queers, I just wouldn’t want one in my family” (a bit like having a non-child bearing mule, he muses). The Second World War was a great time since several thousand French were killed (“a great result”). On visiting a pizza restaurant with German customers, Fulford’s son is pleased to see one of them is disabled.
All this is great fun, of course, and absolutely what we come to expect from our highly entertaining and largely inbred upper class. But a cynic might suggest that Francis – “fucking this” and “negro” that and “bloody women” just about everywhere – is not nearly so racist, sexist, and homophobic as he makes out in the film.
Perhaps – just perhaps – he is reduced to doing all this upper crust performing monkey act simply in order to confirm our stereotypical prejudices. On the other hand, perhaps he IS all this and more.
Whatever he and his ghastly family are, they are now celebrities. And he can promote a tour of his property to wealthy American tourists “as seen on TV”.