I REALLY don't know which I hate more... snobbery or inverse snobbery.

Whether you live in a turreted castle or a two-up, two-down council house, you are a snob about something.

That's a fact.

It could be clothes, with all those designer labels; it could be cars, with that all-important badge; it may be schools, patio furniture, the latest B&Q chiminea, or just where you do the weekly food shop.

Art and wine are the two snobberies that really get up my dilated, Kenneth Williams nostrils.

You may be in a gallery or a simple 'Frames are Us' thinking: "Oooh, that's a nice picture," when some pretentious prat with a voice like a foghorn comes up behind you and starts to spout forth: "The existentialism of this study in life subjugates the angst of the zeitgeist..." What? And I just thought it was a pretty picture.

It's the same with wine. Once the cork's pulled and I know it's not vinegar, I'm fairly happy. I prefer a light fruity Italian red but there are boring bon viveurs who would make me question my choice.

"It's a cheeky bouquet, obviously of grapes from the south side of the valley and the soil was a bit acidy." Up yours, pal, I like it. Can you hear the good Dame Edna Everage and her Michael-taking "nice liddle bevvy, hints of miner's armpit strained through a sheepshearer's vest"?

After that comes the university: "Oooh, I got a first from Oxford... in media studies." Oxford is fine, but who wants media studies when everybody's doing it and there are no jobs at the end of it? And what are media studies anyway?

But then you have your reverse snobs, who are equally snooty in their self defence and their guilty attack on the snobs.

"I went to the University of Life," says the self-made man who can't sleep at night because he hasn't got an education, has a million pounds in the bank but still feels worthless.

Who needs a £50,000 Porsche, it's ruining the environment and it's normally driven by an old git anyway, says the young, penniless driver of a 20-year-old, beat-up Ford Escort.

So let's get on to clothes, surely the biggest snobbery divide of modern times. You may be a Chav wearing Burberry, new white designer trainers glowing in the light of Scarborough's amusement arcade seafront, and you may be looking down on the suit-and-tie-wearing office workers snatching a sandwich on a bench at lunchtime.

You may be in the pub, and casually show off the Lacoste, Ben Sherman or Yves St Laurent designer label on your shirt hoping someone will ask how much it cost. Or you may have been to George at Asda hoping someone won't ask.

And what about where you buy your tea-bags? You might get 50 for a fiver scented Earl Grey at Waitrose, or you may buy your 3,000 economy bags for a £1 at Netto. But you're always careful to put your Netto purchases in at least a Marks & Sparks carrier bag so you're not pelted in derision when you get off the bus.

Then there's where you live. We'd all like a POSH24 2EZ postcode, but some of us have to put up with SCUM14 6FU.

So I live on the 6th floor of a block of council flats reached by a lift which is always out of order and always smells of wee. I would like to live in a country cottage with roses round the door and a bridge over the village stream. Hard luck, friend. This is real life.

So what is snobbery? It's "I'm bigger, better, brainier, richer than you. I hope."

On the reverse side, it's a matter of: "I hate you - but I want to be you and have everything you've got."

So carry on giving your kids lavish pocket money to prove you're as good as the rest; get that big, in-your-face Ford to confirm your manhood; buy a four-bedroom house when you will only occupy one room.

Leave me out of it. I'm glad I can look down on all these snobs.

Updated: 09:08 Tuesday, February 15, 2005