I went to Bogatell beach the other day for the first time this summer and for the twenty seventh consecutive year I failed to pay heed to the fact that I am not, despite living on the shores of the Mediterranean, a Bronze Adonis. I staggered home three hours later burnt to a shrivel.

I am a huge fan of Bogatell beach. The sand, the sun, the sea. A classic combination by anyone's standards. I'm a fan above all because it washes up metres from the foot (or head) of Rambla Del Poble Nou, which itself washes up metres from my palatial 40m2 piso.

I suppose I couldn't really describe myself as a natural tanner. More of a natural freckler. I have heaps of them. Millions. Rarely do Bronze Adonis's have freckles. Rather they tend to be winterish one day, the colour of antique mahogany the next. Barcelona's four or so miles of beaches are filled with these types. Had the chap who wrote 'The Girl from Ipanema' been sitting in a chiringuito near Bogatell when he was trying to come up with his catchy ditty, he would have had a devil of a time trying to choose one tall, tanned, dark and lovely from the sea of possibilities.

As a freckly man of Irish decent this can prove quite discouraging come beach time. The wealth of tanned Catalans tends to drug the mind and cause one to forget that they burn rather quicker than toast on the wrong heat setting. One moment I'm a refined Victorian off blue, the next, seven shades of salmon.

Had I been born a couple of hundred years ago things would have been quite different. For starters I don't suppose there would have been much of a beach-going scene in Barcelona. The bikini? Non-existent. House music would have been nothing more than a pianoforte in the front room. I would have strutted around, sunbrella in hand, pale as a ghost, tut-tutting at those poor fools with tans and their field-working ways. My smugness the only lotion required. But alas times have changed. Brown is the new gold. "What a lovely tan you have" tends to be the stock post holiday comment. Not for me. "Really, you've been away?" tends to greet me upon my return. "A bit unlucky with the weather?" they continue.

You would think that after twenty seven years I would have grown accustomed to being the colour of freshly groomed snow. Not one bit. I want a tan and I want one bad. Superficial you say? Huh. Ages the skin? Botox! Try telling a short guy that he is lucky because he can shop in the kids section. He'd mortgage his grandparents for just one day as a six footer.

A burn is a progressive thing. On the beach it rarely appears. "How's my tan looking ... am I bronzing up?" I generally ask, optimistically. "No change," comes the reply. But a burn is a sneaky organism. It creeps up on you like a creepy thing in the night carrying a ladder. The reality generally sets in first thing the following morning in the shower. As the first beads of lukewarm water spray the affected areas a ferocious howl can be heard far and wide. This is usually followed, upon inspection, by insightful comments such as "gosh you're really red" and/or "you really should be more careful, you know you don't tan".

After two or three days the pain has usually subsided sufficiently to allow the wearing of shirts resting upon a base of Aloe Vera. Occasionally, usually about five days following the initial basting, the burnt skin, in the late stages of dying, turns a weak brownish hue. For one day only I am like a young Julio Iglesias. I drop an extra button on the shirt, add a little more gel to the hair and roll my eyes when I see some pale extranjero skulking in the shadows. Cruelly, the new me is torn from my body just as I'm hitting my prime. For as regularly as a regular thing, the following morning the skin comes off, splitting and pealing in the most severely effected areas, usually everywhere. Without wanting to offend those with skin predisposed to falling off, should such people still exist in our modern society, falling off skin is never a good look, and rarely attracts the attention of songwriters.

Perhaps one day I'll learn. Though it is incredible how quickly the memory of an acute third degree all over body burn is replaced by the desire to be the colour of toffee. Anybody who has ever experienced a true whopper of a hangover has the following morning devoutly denounced drinking as a fool's game and vowed never to touch the vile stuff again. But come Friday afternoon, a dash of sunshine, and a couple of teaspoons of Friday feeling, and the week's pious proclamations are forgotten quicker than a bronze medallist. And so with me and my burn. For no sooner has my skin peeled and healed than I find myself once again headed for the beach, decked out in white linen, stubbornly blind to the mountain of evidence which confirms week upon week that I am not, nor shall I ever be, short of a serious re-branding exercise, a Bronze Adonis.