IKEA? It's because U-KEA et oui-KEA

So what do very British Brits do when they are terminally homesick? Answer: They go to IKEA in Toulouse. Momentarily forsaking France where the sun is free, the wine is cheap and the girls are cute, they seek solace in blue and yellow Sven Bhuddism. Ah! Those comforting and familiar names; Ektorp and Gründtal, Fjord, Abba and Slartibartfast: Names that are forever England, or at least a dead ringer for IKEA off the M6 at Wednesbury (Brum for the uninitiated).

This is, of course, quite normal for the English. They routinely gorge themselves on tea (Indian or Chinese), curry (Indian again) and Heinz baked beans (American) to make themselves feel completely at home. So no change there.

I should make it clear that I'm no slouch when it comes to IKEA. I know for a fact that the Gründtal range includes a very elegant stainless steel hinged towel-rail, which is a real winner so long as your sprogs don't lean on it too hard and knacker the spot-welds.

I also have a Poäng armchair, which is as near as dammit a design classic in moulded and folded plywood. My mate Phil and I once got close to starting a Poäng Owners' Club because they really are brill, though the Mark One carburettors are getting difficult to source these days.

Do you suppose this could be a product-placement blog entry? Then I could have 17 free kitchens and blow them up at the end of the article like all those police cars that get supplied gratis and for nothing by Ford and GM for wrecking in Hollywood blockbusters.

The French, of course, have a tendency to look down their long, Gallic noses at IKEA stuff. This is because they spent their childhoods contaminated by real wood furniture dating back to Louis XIV's auntie. The way of chipboard is not of their world, it is alien to them; they were not programmed from birth to live and seek profound truths in an infinite universe of stabilised sawdust.

Certainly IKEA at Toulouse doesn't have quite the capacity to cause gridlock on the main drag to Foix et Tarbes that its all-powerful sister-store manages at Junction 9 of the M6. Mind you, have you ever been to Wednesbury on a manky, wet afternoon in late October? If I had to live there, I'd go to IKEA, chain myself to a Poäng and demand extradition to Stockholm. As it happens, the first girl I ever fell in love with used to live in Stockholm so it could be quite nostalgic. There again, she was 18 and will now be 52, so could I live with the reality check?

I'm always intrigued as to how IKEA came about. I'm convinced that two very serious blond guys, wearing Moomintroll-sized specs and both called Sven, realised that Sweden was about to be obliterated by pine trees and enough sawdust to mop up a giant hamster invasion from Mars:

"It's no good Sven, we will have to invent IKEA."

"You are so right Sven. What else can we make out of pine trees?"

Apparently they dreamed up flat-pack because Sweden is long and thin and a logistical nightmare if you want to transport anything anywhere on a regular basis. Then their customers dreamed up putting the stuff together themselves because they could get the boxes into the car, through the door, up the stairs and didn't have to wait to see if the Svengalis at IKEA could understand their own instructions. I have to say that the idea of making your customers pay to do half the work themselves is just a bit smart.

I've always thought you could write a great soap or a cartoon strip with all the characters named out of the IKEA catalogue. Imagine it:

"Ooh, Rïytta!"

"Shüjt up, Mävvis!"

Roll credits as kätt goes back to sleep on rjoof . . . though actually I imagined something more like South Park; it's all a bit more hard-edged and closer to classic cool Nordic design. And even if the plot would require permanent darkness six months of the year it couldn't possibly be more boring and miserable than Albjërt Squäre.