I mustn’t mention any hallowed names. To do so would unleash a clear risk of being tarred with the same grubby brush as Norfolk’s growing battalion of excitable celebrity spotters.

In any case, it can be far more fun to drop teasing little hints, a few extra juicy rumours and so deliberately confuse and mislead about what might be happening on and around the glittering Burnham Market & Co catwalk

That chef, this actress and the other talent judge who think Walsingham Matilda is a real rap artist and Dick Barton Turf a likely host for a new series of Strictly Come Gardening …they’re the easy ones to pick out of a crowd and stick in the scrapbook of transient notoriety.

Recognising a chimney sweep from Brancaster Staithe, a blacksmith from Thornham and retired mole-catcher from the outskirts of Old Hunstanton demands so much more attention to detail on part of those who find other people interesting.

As a general rule, these home-grown characters will preface most comments with “Cor, blarst me!” and pretend they don’t have electricity in their tied cottages and as a consequence have no idea what comprises popular culture these days. They hum the theme tune from Music While You Work as a farewell gesture.

Another useful pointer for those trying to sort out wholesome wheat from chancy chaff is the good old Oxo tine held together by a giant elastic band. This refreshments receptacle invariably contains Spam sandwiches, Norfolk shortcakes and coypu-flavoured crisps, a veritable spread on the hoof for natives who appreciate hard graft and good grub when they see it.

Ironically, many refugees from various corners of tinsel town experience sudden pangs of envy when they encounter colourful indigenous remnants just like capital journalist Clement Scott in the 1880s as he watched farm labourers gather in the corn harvest.

Never mind prickly sweat, long hours and meagre wages, “Laughter and song are heard all over the land, louder than the wind that bends the ripening corn or the sea that moans at the foot of the crumbling cliffs.” Poppyland or Chelsea-on-Sea, flowery images can blossom to justify the invaders and mollify the invaded.

I recall a salutary tale passed on by Norfolk champion Dick Bagnall – Oakeley in the 1960s, a bit before the tourism stream turned into a waterfall. Even then, though, Dick realised it was all too easy for traditional ways of life to be patronised or ridiculed.

A group of London friends informed the geography master, naturalist, all-round sportsman and dialect expert they were on their way to darkest Norfolk for a few days and would dearly love to tune into some genuine local characters in their natural environment.

Dick emphasised he was not a cheap sideshow organiser or “peasant shoot” enthusiast but could point the way to a country pub where a gang of good old boys regularly held court.

In constant demand on the after-dinner speaking circuit, Dick went off to sing for his supper and arranged to meet his metropolitan mates later that evening in the chosen pub. He was greeted with mystified looks and exasperating cries of: “We couldn’t understand a flippin’ word!”

Dick admitted our dialect could offers big challenge to the untrained ear but could not accept it was that unfathomable. He would go to the bar to order a half of bitter and linger long enough to discover what they were mardling about. He loitered, listened and laughed. “I’m not surprised you couldn’t make head or tail of ‘ em” confided Dick. “Them country yokels happen to be Polish!.”

When I asked Dick if he’d planted those visitors in that village hostelry to teach smart chums a lesson, he merely switched on an enigmatic smile reserved for puckish schoolteachers and hinted the world was getting smaller every day.

I have no doubt he could have called on any number of chimney sweeps, blacksmiths and retired mole-catchers for this occasion. I know he preferred the cultural cross-fertilisation process to be as natural and beneficial as possible.

Remember, he taught pupils from all over the globe in his 25-year career at Gresham’s School in Holt. Few left without a smattering of Norfolk dialect or at least an O-Level in undiluted glories of squit.

It may be time to revive the Bagnall-Oakely primer or at least celebrate its uplifting spirit of sharing and enlightening. To this end I recommend a slight reversal of rules. Let a new age of spiritual twinning between Nelson’s County and London begin with a parade of real tractors in Chelsea.

What a brave signal that would send to serial merchants of mockery like Jeremy Clarkson -and it ought to be followed up with evening lessons in Broad Norfolk for Hampstead’s chattering classes and opening of the Sinkers & Swimmers Dumplings Bar to help Westminster through any further recessions.

Well-heeled retired mole-catchers from the outskirts of Old Hunstanton able to rent a tied apartment in the capital could catch a breath of home at The Mayfair Mardling Club while Norwich City season ticket holders with any capital left might invest and exchange yarns in Canary Weft, biggest store in London selling yellow and green wool.

Humble beginnings, perhaps, but such vital campaigns take time to knit together.