The fact that during that century of racial purity, Yorkshire won the championship 29 times, way ahead of any other county, shows up a slight problem for tykosceptics: history is full of examples of Yorkshiremen achieving excellence.But no one is accusing them of incompetence - Fred Trueman was one of the best bowlers in history; Parkinson was the apotheosis of chat show hosts; Lord Hanson has made millions buying big companies, breaking them up and selling them; Marco Pierre White whisks up a matchless feuilletee of roast rabbit with jus of coriander. No one is saying they're stupid (although a Yorkshire friend of mine, when I told him I was writing this piece, did recount the experience of his drinking pal who once had the white rose of Yorkshire tattooed on his arm.
That's not his fault, of course, but it still sticks in the throat like a particularly dry Yorkshire pudding.
But he could have taken his pick, really: a refusal to acknowledge any other point of view; an innate belief in his own infallibility and the superiority of tykes as a breed.
And, possibly the worst characteristic because it incorporates all the others, the way he wears his Yorkshireness like a uniform, or a suit of armour. In a week when Harold "Dickie" Bird, the umpire even cricket-haters have heard of, began his final Test match, it was difficult to keep the feet dry amid the waves of sentiment.
For a century of cricket's County Championship, an absurd rule operated whereby no one born outside the county could play for them, as if they were somehow a nation-state.
Michael Parkinson, one of those tykes who got out as fast as he could but parades his roots like a badge of honour, moved his expectant wife back over the Pennines so his offspring would be eligible.