Wright On! A wry look at life, with Shelley Wright

WHEN Swedish home furnishings giant Ikea first ran their series of cheeky television adverts telling people to 'Stop being so English' phonelines immediately began ringing red hot with complaints from irate viewers who just couldn't see the joke.

They found the company's view of the nation offensive as their adverts portrayed young Brits stuffily playing croquet on their front lawn while others maintained the famous stiff upper lip in the face of a crummy restaurant meal.

And they even complained about the one where a fat, lardy bloke sits frying himself lobster-red on the beach.

Well, I don't know about you, but I don't reckon those people who complained can live in East Lancashire because burning yourself to a crisp in the sun is practically a national sport around here - and especially on a sunny Bank Holiday weekend.

And if you saw some of the outrageous sights I saw I'm sure you'll know exactly what I mean.

Take one particular sun worshipper I spotted who had obviously decided a bit of nice weather was all he needed to get his bike out of the garage for the first time in 50 years.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for a bit of exercise and getting out and about on a nice day is a commendable idea, but what disturbed me about this particular bloke was the way he had stripped off and was cycling along semi-naked in a bid not to miss a single ray of sun.

Imagine my horror as I drove along the Grane Road, enjoying the views, when a huge, white chunk of lard emerged over the horizon, shorts on, top off and belly out, while pouring with sweat and pedalling so furiously it was making his stomach ripple like a Mexican wave. It wasn't exactly what you might call a six pack either - more like 24 cans of Boddingtons Draughtflow and a chicken kebab if you know what I mean.

Surely there should be some kind of clause in the public decency laws to cover this kind of thing?

They could kick in alongside British summertime and include any number of seasonal offences like wearing socks with shorts or skirts and publicly bearing anything that wobbles when you walk.

And it's not just the fellas who are at fault here either - women are just as bad where a bit of sunshine is concerned.

We just don't know what to wear for the best do we? I mean, how do you maintain maximum exposure to the sun without revealing exactly how many Big Macs you've eaten in the last three weeks?

A Yashmak seems to be the obvious answer if you ask me.

Then there's the problem with falling asleep only to discover you've cultivated a permanent Liverpool strip with bright red skin and unsightly white stripes when you wake up. And the number of girls I saw out in the pubs over the weekend who had teamed the latest Morgan top with a bright red nose and white marks where their sunglasses had been only serves to prove my point.

At least if there was a law against stripping down to your vest in public we wouldn't become a nation of beetroot-coloured Belisha Beacons overnight.

But when you live in a country where summer can sometimes be, and very often is, a blink and you've missed it affair, I don't suppose you can blame people for lapping it up while they can.

Unless you work for Ikea that is.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.