NOW that summer is here I really must make a plea to the good people of Wycombe: COVER UP.

I know men of a certain age regard their beer bellies as favourite relatives but is there a reason to show said belly glistening in the afternoon sun?

There must be a law, possibly a European law, against exhibiting bellies above a certain diameter in public. Frankly any expedition to The Rye or any other patch of green is fraught with the danger of encountering one.

Perhaps they've seen Britney showing a glimpse of her midriff and thought it might work for them. Sadly about ten stone and twenty years separates them from this possibility.

The sudden appearance of open-top cars (have people been up all night sawing the roof off?) is another sure sign that summer is here. I suppose they are considered more attractive to the opposite sex, preferably with the latest chart hit blaring out to all and sundry.

I still cling to the hope that a mud-covered Rover Metro and Billy Bragg may one day come into fashion, but I admit there are few signs so far.

I hate summer anyway. As a red-haired bloke I start to burn up as soon as the temperature climbs above zero.

In summer there is surely a level of clothing beyond which decency says you should not go. Fat blokes please take note.