The great thing about a T-shirt is that it is a blank canvas. From political sloganeering (Katharine Hamnett’s “58 per cent don’t want Pershing”) and pop propaganda (“Frankie says . . .”), to heavy metal Led Zep fandom and “I heart NY” souvenirs, you can splash pretty much anything on the front of your chest and in so doing perk up everything else you’re wearing. With shorts and sandals you are a dude on holiday; with chinos and trainers, on your way to a weekend barbie; with a rumpled linen suit and loafers (no socks), a movie business exec en route to a meeting. In each case, your personal billboard makes the difference.

I first became aware that T-shirts could be wardrobe works of art when I discovered in 1983 that Paul Smith had a set carrying classic colour images of Olympic divers, cyclists and wrestlers. Since then Smith has made a name for himself as a man who does great printed Ts, and I have enjoyed a long relationship with the style. Latterly it’s been surfing and motorcycling iconography to reflect my notion that The Mutton is really a man of action, and not someone whose diet of Radio 4 in bed and almond croissants for breakfast is taking its toll.

Rather like the artist Gillian Wearing’s work, in which people held up written signs declaring their inner thoughts, a printed T-shirt can be a mirror of the soul. Thus a vintage-style sports car says playboy, a football club badge says fan, an image of Che Guevara says revolutionary and a badly reproduced photo of your friend’s face says you are on a stag.

My favourite T-shirt of recent months was Stella McCartney's for Comic Relief, featuring Morecambe and Wise sporting red noses. I’m sure I was the target market for that one — who under the age of 40 remembers Eric and Ernie? And without doubt I am also in the sights of Burton, which has come out with a couple of T-shirts bearing images of Walmington-on-Sea’s finest in time for Father’s Day. These Dad’s Army T-shirts are so bonkers (think about it — a summer festival staple featuring images of middle-aged men in WWII uniforms) that they are bound to be a huge success. I’m certainly going to get one for myself, and for my best friend, who has taught his three-year-old daughter to say “Don't panic Mr Mainwaring” at moments of stress (his, not hers, you understand).

Burton is doing these T-shirts (the example pictured above is £16, see burton.co.uk) to support the British Forces Foundation with a view to contributing cash to help lift the morale of fathers who are serving abroad, particularly in Afghanistan. But surely the “Don't Panic” message has real resonance with our spirit-of-the-Blitz credit-crunched times: witness the recent sales of the 1939 motivational “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster.

All this talk of the Second World War comedy classic reminds me of what was unquestionably the funniest moment on TV in recent times. Forgive me if you saw it, but if you did not, picture this: Christmas Celebrity Mastermind with Ian Lavender, AKA Private Frank Pike, now a grey-haired man in his Sixties, sitting in John Humphrys’ chair. Says Humphrys: “And your name is . . .?” and from the shadows his fellow contestant the Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman shouts, “Don't tell him, Pike!” If you get the joke, I’ll see you down at Burton.

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