I once had a friend who had a smattering of the Danny Dyers about him. Lovely chap, salt of the earth type, but unlike Dyer shied away from exposing himself on social media. Regretfully, I rescinded the friendship as it was tiresome trying to ascertain of what he spoke, in the days before Modern Foreign Languages was a subject and translators were ten a penny.

You can’t beat a Cockney, which is a shame. Of course, I jest. One of my grandfathers was a true cock-er-nee, having been born within the sound of the Bow Bells, which is the golden ticket for bona fide membership. He is joined by other luminaries, most born pre 1960s, including Bob Hoskins, The Kemp brothers and Michael Caine, although not a lot of people know that. I’m not counting Jamie Oliver, who was born in Clavering, Essex, a full 42 miles from the East End. One can but admire the Oliver family auditory expertise. To hear the bells peal from such a distance is one heck of a pukka skill to have.

Kids inadvertently devise their own rhyming slang. It doesn’t cut the mustard in the modern age as the words don’t rhyme, and are generally more of a mouthful than the original turn of phrase. Curious as to my peers' favourite Cockney terms, I put it out to the Facebook fraternity. Nine out of ten were crude or rude. Among the printable ones were: "I’m going down the nuclear sub with my lemon" from a native Norfolkian. After a series of messages, he explained nuclear sub is ‘pub’ and lemon squeezer pertains to ‘geezer’. At this juncture I confess I nearly threw the netbook out of the window. Being a persistent sort, I then stumbled upon an acquaintance who was off for a ‘David’ as he smelled. I wager David Gower would be turning in his grave if he were indeed brown bread.

It was at this point through the sheer frustration of it all that I got my Alan Whickers in a twist as I attempted to be the editorial Barnaby Rudge and Jury. Some are obscure, Gary Ablett (ex-footballer) is ‘tablet’, Geoff Hurst is ‘raging thirst’ and Hattie Jacques is ‘got the shakes’.

I’m all for resurrecting the style of the East End, the language and the culture. I have had many a happy hour gurning and singing along to Gercha and Rabbit by Chas and Dave. True cockney icons both, and fine musicians to boot. The shame will be when one is 'Right said Fred’ and the remaining member has to continue as ‘Chas and’ or ‘And Dave’, it would be like pie without the liquor.

I do find myself mimicking the whole genre when singing. I do a cockney walk which involves standing slightly bow legged with elbows out of the side. Like one of the sideways wobbler irritants who seem to frequent the walkways of Oxford Street, as wide as they are tall and difficult to circumnavigate.

Word count over for another week, it’s time for me to do a pineapple chunk. I’d better grab me Quaker oat and rhythm and blues as I need to go home and lie on my weeping willow after clambering into the skin and thread. It’s been a right tickle this week. Lovely Jubbly, etcetera etcetera...