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

AS the only daughter of a 50-year-old man left disabled by an unfortunate industrial accident and whose liver practically packed up on Christmas Eve, I feel I am fairly well placed when it comes to offering an opinion on Glenn Hoddle's latest faux pas.

But as part of a nation of people who have made a collective career out of opening the mouth before engaging the brain I must say I feel for him too in the odd, fleeting, moment of thought.

Now, don't get me wrong. I was offended by the suggestion my dad can barely walk because he's Jack the Ripper reincarnated or that my disabled grandma was previously a Pendle witch - but I've also seen lesser people make bigger and more outrageous statements and get away with it scot-free.

Take my grandma, for instance ... please. She could give Bernard Manning, let alone Glenn Hoddle, a run for his money when it comes to causing offence. I don't think she means to do it, it's just that she's from a generation where persecution was the national sport and nobody had ever heard of being politically correct.

Why, you could be run out of town for hanging your washing out the wrong way in her day and if you were - shock, horror - an unmarried mother, or part of a family not signed up to the God-bothering church brigade, well, you considered yourself an outcast and hung your head in shame.

And as far as she is concerned nothing's changed - something she made perfectly clear when she visited my auntie in hospital last week. God knows what my grandad was thinking when he dumped her unceremoniously at the bedside and then cleared off muttering something about an appointment with a chiropodist - freedom, probably - but the next thing you know grandma is giving it plenty of verbal welly at 100 watts per channel and cheerfully slagging off 'corporation' houses and anything else which was unacceptable in 1955.

She didn't even pause for breath never mind to wonder who was sat in the next bed as she denounced the ward and everyone in it.

It's just a good job my auntie was recovering from a thyroid operation at the time because, judging by the way she was eyeing the bottle of Lucozade, we could have had a serious head injury on our hands.

Then she turned on my brother or, to be exact, the fact that he is getting married in a hotel later this year and has not picked our two cousins as bridesmaids.

"They've never been bridesmaids," she said with a sigh in a bid to prick his conscience. She won't even be a guest if she carries on. But then whatever you think of my grandma she's not the England football coach or in any particular position of power and, apart from her two youngest grandchildren, is hardly likely to make a difference to any impressionable young souls.

So while she tends to speak her mind and get away with it, I can see why Glenn Hoddle had to pay the ultimate price for his momentary lapse.

On the other hand, I would rather have free speech and political incorrectness than be hoodwinked by closet bigots too afraid to speak their mind.

Because had Hoddle kept his secret to himself he would still be looking forward to leading the England football team out at Wembley next week.

As it stands, he is looking forward to February on the dole and, as far as I can see, all this only serves to say that it's OK to hold radical views - just so long as you don't tell anyone else.

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