Keith's favourite mirth makers Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise - Credit: Archant

A chirpy sense of humour could turn out a mixed blessing while Norfolk continues to put its faith in all-year-round tourism, academy status, mobile phoney technology, ,more priceless road projects, charmless housing estates, seductive devolution drivel and a firm belief we can see off the worst depression since the good people of Scroby woke up to find their allotments covered in turbines, Melton Constable ran out of steam and Winfarthing was decimalised.

Come to think of it, closures of Dereham maltings, Fakenham gasworks, Swaffham fireworks factory Thetford Palace cinema,, Yarmouth power station, Gressenhall workhouse, Longham Ostrich pub and the back road from Beeston to Litcham for essential repairs after the war also cast more dark clouds over an already murky scene.

But we could laugh things off in those days. We really were all in it together – especially if the honeycart took a wrong turning before life moved beyond the pail.

It is far more fashionable now to gripe and groan in public, blaming them in charge or unstoppable global forces for making the slightest alteration in a daily routine that in some cases could do with a well-aimed kick up the charisma bypass.

Only the other day I heard a former student of The Allan Smethurst College for Aspiring Indigenous Remnants at Upper Sheringham put this mounting agenda in sharp focus when he said too many folk thinking out loud are merely rearranging their prejudices.

There’s a growing number of informal clubs for such miscreants springing up in shops. Woe betide the courageous soul aiming to lift a bit of fun and perspective off the top shelf to spare with those bellyaching down below. Any attempt to introduce light relief is greeted with the sort of stare designed to curdle fresh milk at around 100 paces.

Perhaps it’s harder to land points for off-the-cuff humour when temperatures soar and casual chat heads for shade beyond the aisles. I watched in admiration as a brave chap pulled up in the fruit and veg area to announce: “Thank goodness it isn’t snowing. Can you imagine trying to clear drifts on our roads in this heat!.” I nodded and winked. Other customers on the prowl just tutted and continued with their pulsating chores.

In a small town like Cromer, with an inherent acceptance that qualifying for a grumpy badge should not be confined to holidaymakers on wild and woolly summer days plucked from high November, it is possible to seek out the cream of all-year-round society for reminders of what makes sea breezes and salty exchanges worth having..

During my honorary Crabland stint, characters like former Cromer lifeboat coxswains “Shrimp” and Richard Davies, along with ex=mechanic Donny Abbs and retired postman Terry Keeler. sauntered where others rushed and found a cheery yarn or observation to spice the moment of meeting.

Cromer cheerleaders of the old school, pavement and promenade preachers with a single text: “ Where would we be without a sense of humour? Sheringham!.” And I know there are similar beacons of bonhomie in that grand resort along the coast expounding the same sentiments about Cromer. It all helps to keep the Crab Wars pot simmering.

I recall trying to explain this brand of local rivalry to a young lady researcher for a national television company keen to do a feature on the suddenly- famous Crab and Lobster Festival. It seemed rather unkind to go on when she inquired how she might book members of the United Nations peace-keeping force stationed on neutral soil I West Runton.

Winding up the national media can be a dangerous exercise- as I discovered more than once while work for the BBC in a county where some top brass did know what may be out there somewhere. Even so, it is important to assert Norfolk’s unique approach to matters other places either ignore or fail to comprehend. Our capacity to laugh at ourselves surely affords us the right to take the gentle rise out of everyone else.

One of my favourite quotes concerning humour must not be taken as a cheeky reference to all who fall short of fully appreciating my idea of verbal fun during full-time years of ploughing creative furrows with newspapers, wireless and colleagues on local entertainment rounds in village halls, churches and other community meeting places. It ought to serve as an indictment of any business or profession where banter and laughter are treated automatically as devilish intruders, particularly when gloom and grab rule the rotas.

Comedian Peter Cook may have been serious when he said: “There’s terrific merit in having no sense of humour, no sense of irony practically no sense of anything at all. If you’re born with these so-called defects, you have a very good chance of getting to the top.”

Let me suggest a smile adds to everyone’s face value. Some folk simply are not happy unless they are wallowing in an ocean of misery and yelling: “Come on in, the water’s fine!” They don’t need a recession, heatwave, wet bank holiday or a touch of flu to spread germs of discontent.

Doom merchants will continue to rail against the bright and breezy brigade – even in good old Norfolk – but victory has to go to those who genuinely believe humour is the shock absorber of life. It helps us take the blows.