I proffer a useful theory about T.S. Eliot’s famous warning that “April is the cruellest month.”

He had just taken on an allotment in Little Gidding, inevitably described by his poetic friends as The Waste Land, and soon realised the plot would thicken with tough jobs like breeding lilacs out of the dead soil.

He might have made a perfect celebrity gardener on the current media merry-go-round. Digging Terse Verse or The Fork Quartets sound like ratings winners. Infinitely more acceptable than I’m A Celery-Picker, Get Me Out of Here! or Lettuce Alone, the Honeymooners’ Diet.

However, he tended to be wary of trendy critics after one revealed his name almost spelt 'toilets' backwards. Out of such palindromic niceties can initial publicity be fashioned and then fertilised for any amount of outrageous purposes.

As someone who has suffered the stings and arrows of belittling name-calling just for being born a Skipper nowhere near the sea, I sympathise with all others destined to soak up cheap shots from punny headline writers or so-called friends with safe havens like Smith, Jones, Taylor, Wilson or Stannickle-Trott.

I was downgraded to 'Cabin Boy' by a chemistry master who made sure I got nowhere near a Bunsen burner.

I was christened 'Skippy' by school chums with a weird liking for that silly television bush kangaroo able to describe how seven souls were clinging to life in an old mineshaft just 20 miles north of Alice Springs. I became 'Skip' to a host of sad people unable to resist the urge to stick 'Rubbish' in front.

My younger brother got the 'Mini-Skip' treatment when he arrived at grammar school. I left  to await the golden chance of a football reporter’s lifetime to tie up two Norwich City players headline after victory at Charlton on an Easter Saturday - 'Hot Cross Bone Day'.

That was about as much atonement I needed before returning to my sensitive role as consoler of those afflicted by clever clog labels. I did make one small exception, however, when a national newspaper headline exclaimed: “Queen in brawl at Palace.” It referred to Crystal Palace footballer Gerry Queen being sent off for fighting. Thank goodness Joe Royle wasn’t involved.

Of course, the right name for the job can be a blessing as much as a curse when it comes to regular advertising. I’ll never understand why Joe Root didn’t take up hairdressing or how Alistair Cook failed to appreciate the joys of lemon drizzle and lumpy dough ahead of lofted drives and late dabs.

A few spoilsports claim there are so many cooks spilling the broth across our television channels it’s hard to find a programme without oven, apron, over-heated acting  and a big spoon for stirring.

On the political front, House of Commons speaker Sir Lindsay Hoyle is set to invite hungry honourable members to purchase in-house food when he calls “Order!.”

Among delicacies likely to be teasing tastebuds are Black Rod Blancmange, Cross-party Croissants, Backbench Buns, Chamber Muesli, Early Day Motion Surprise, Late Night Sitting Soup, Marginal Sweets. Majority Gruel, Austerity Cutlets and Brexit Brûlée.

With Westminster Waffles to follow.

Thomas Stearns Eliot does not have the field to himself when it comes to memorable sentiments about the fourth month of our year. The opening line of Robert Browning’s 1845  winner Home Thoughts from Abroad is far more famous than the poem itself.

He was on holiday in Italy when a sudden burst of homesickness prompted a cry of “Oh to be in England now that April’s there”.

Ah, those refreshing showers and occasional shivers  to spice up proper springtime mornings full of fresh ambitions.

The road to Easter may be paved with exaggerated hopes for a bumper tourism season. I can  hear the chant building as dawn breaks over busy-again crab boats .. “Oh to be in Cromer now the rest of Norfolk’s there!” is a big favourite on packed charabancs hunting for somewhere to park.

I jest, of course, after taking my annual vows to welcome a newly painted holiday bandwagon  careering over the horizon  to greet all visitors with a gracious smile and accept the vital importance of their support for our local economy.

We’ve sort of had the place to ourselves since last October when we tucked in our sheets of self-sufficiency, hauled up the blanket of home rule and dived under the counterpane of familiarity.

Now comes an invigorating wake-up call as a big wave of trippers prepares to remind coastal fundamentalists what fashionable watering-places were really invented for by Victorian visionaries.

Trouble is that for those of limited patience it will take about 20 minutes of blocked pavements, renegade litter, moaning mothers, fed-up fathers, cheerless children, ignored grandparents, standstill traffic, unsociable dogs, ear-splitting ringtones and occasional hailstones to blow all good intentions into the Old German Ocean.

With thousands more answering a plea to take breaks closer to home while recession stalks the land, more cynical  locals could well suggest competition will intensify along our beleaguered coastline regarding this year’s “cruellest month” award.

Perhaps another line from The Waste Land offers a small tinge of hope: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?"