I am a fan of British Television. One of my favorite series is the crime drama Midsomer Murders. I got to wondering about all of the crime there.
Some places are known for their industry, others for their culture. Midsomer, on the other hand, is known primarily for its body count. If one were to tally up the murders in this picturesque English countryside, they’d find that the only thing more plentiful than thatched cottages are freshly dug graves.
It is a curious fact that despite Midsomer Murders chronicling a death toll higher than some minor military conflicts, people continue to live in the area with all the self-preservation of a man balancing on a windowsill in a lightning storm. The locals here possess either a remarkable sense of optimism or a suicidal level of indifference.
A Crime Rate That Should Have Killed the Property Market
The average English town can expect a handful of murders per decade, a sad but inevitable part of modern life. Midsomer, however, is an outlier. With 388 murders (and counting) in 136 episodes, this pastoral paradise is essentially a well-manicured graveyard where the only thing growing faster than the hedges are the obituary pages.
To put that in perspective, let’s compare it to London, a city of 9 million people, which averages about 100-130 murders per year. By contrast, Midsomer, which might generously hold 100,000 people (assuming there’s anyone left alive to count), racks up more murders per square mile than certain historical plagues.
And yet, property prices remain shockingly stable. New residents arrive regularly, drawn in by the promise of charming cottages, vibrant community events, and the certainty that they will die a swift and deeply ironic death within six months.
It must take a truly diabolical real estate agent to sell a home in Midsomer:
“Four-bedroom country house, lovely garden, centuries-old oak beams, and only two previous owners—one poisoned at a village bake sale, the other shot with an 18th-century dueling pistol while pruning the roses. Excellent schools nearby.”
The Unluckiest Population on Earth
If you have ever found yourself thinking, “I wish my life had more excitement,” allow me to introduce you to the citizens of Midsomer. These people cannot attend a church service, a book club, or a cheese-rolling festival without someone being strangled with a violin string before the raffle is drawn.
A simple walk in the village might find you discovering a beheaded historian in a wheelbarrow, a disgruntled beekeeper drowned in his own honey, or a choir director impaled on a tuning fork. The sheer creativity of the murders suggests that Midsomer is populated entirely by aspiring crime novelists, each determined to outdo the last.
If Midsomer were real, the government would have quarantined the entire county, evacuated the survivors, and declared it a wildlife reserve where the only acceptable killings were between foxes and rabbits.
And yet, these villagers persist. Perhaps it’s the bracing country air, the strong local ale, or the unwavering belief that surely, surely, it won’t happen to them.
The Man Who Must Be Exhausted
The only person working harder than the undertaker in Midsomer is Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. First, it was Tom Barnaby, and then—after he wisely faked his retirement or fled in terror—his cousin John took over, as if drawn in by some unholy blood oath to continue solving the most convoluted murders in English history.
Where most detectives might spend weeks or months on a single homicide, Barnaby is closing two to three cases per week, all while maintaining a loving marriage and an admirable work-life balance.
Scotland Yard would need an entire division to handle this volume of murder. Barnaby, meanwhile, manages it all with a single sergeant, a notebook, and a faintly bemused expression. It is a miracle he has not collapsed from sheer exhaustion—or become one of the victims himself.
Conclusion: A Lovely Place to Die
Despite all of this, people continue to move to Midsomer. They buy homes. They start families. They join the local birdwatching club, unaware that by Christmas, they will be found tied to a tree with a taxidermy owl lodged in their throat.
Perhaps Midsomer isn’t just a place—it’s a test. A grand, absurd experiment in human resilience. How long can people live in the most statistically deadly place on Earth before they acknowledge the obvious and flee?
Until that day comes, one thing remains certain: if you are ever invited to a weekend retreat in Midsomer, politely decline, and immediately notify the authorities.