It is a known fact – or at least it was when I was growing up – that if you don’t get new clothes for Easter the birds will poo on you.

I am not quite sure where this piece of folklore dovetails into the story of Jesus rising from the dead, but it must do somewhere. Perhaps he had a nice new loincloth when he emerged from that cave? Maybe the Easter bunny brought it for him along with some Cadbury’s Creme Eggs?

I admit to having, as you will have guessed from above, a rather hazy knowledge of this most important of Christian festivals.

But I do know that the birds poo on you if you don’t have new clothes for Easter.

The season of eggs and goodwill came early for us. Some weeks ago, I found myself taking empty bottles out of the back door to the recycling bin.

As I stand there, with an armful of empty bottles (previously used for the carriage of milk, water and other wholesome liquids, of course) a huge white plop arrives without fanfare on my arm.

I look up to see a thrush sitting on the television aerial, waving its tush at me in a most unbecoming manner.

When I tell people at work about this, they tell me that it is lucky to have a bird poo on you. This does not seem the case to me, because I have bird poo all over my arm and my wife is looking at me with one of those looks. She continues to direct this look at me some days later when the white stain remains on my arm, despite the fact that I keep scrubbing away at it. It’s like the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands.

I mutter “out, damned spot” and keep rubbing until it eventually fades. Along with most of the colouring in the fabric.

Perhaps the birds had forewarning that I was highly unlikely to be buying myself any new clothes for Easter. Maybe the thrush in question had a prior appointment on Easter Sunday so decided to do its Easter duty early so it could enjoy itself. Maybe it was planning to take a few days off, go to London, watch the royal wedding. No danger of pooing on anyone there. There’ll be more new clothes on display than at a double shift at a Malaysian sweat shop.

I remember the new Easter clothes of my youth. They were never clothes you really wanted to wear. They were always clothes “for best”. Uncomfortable, unstylish, ridden with polyester.

Chance would be a fine thing now. Although, having already paid me a visit, I don’t think the birds will be bothering to do their business on me this weekend.

As you can often hear my nearest and dearest opine, I already look like… well. You know.