I always thought Ikea stood for simple, honest furniture: no-frills fixtures and fittings all sensibly packaged to slide neatly into your sensible Volvo. But the clean lines hide a dirty secret. It seems all those funny Swedish names for Ikea products have hidden meanings.

Or so say Sweden's old rivals, the Danes, who have accused the firm of "cultural imperialism" for treating Denmark like a doormat, literally: Ikea has developed a habit of naming its floor-coverings after Danish place names. Hence the Strib rug and Sindal mat. The slights don't end there. The Oresund is the strait separating Sweden from Denmark - or an Ikea bog seat at £6.99. Meanwhile, posher products, such as sleek sofas and beds, are named after Swedish, Norwegian and Finnish cities.

The skulduggery among the soft furnishings was uncovered following an analysis of the Ikea catalogue by Klaus Kjöller, of Copenhagen University, and Tröls Mylenberg, of the University of Southern Denmark. One wonders that there weren't more weighty issues requiring the attention of these brains. Perhaps they were looking for new bookshelves for their learned tomes (unsurprisingly, Ikea's Flarke bookcase is named after a village in clever Sweden).

But is it all just a storm in a teacup, or a subtle way to dish the dirt? The countries do have previous; the Seven Years' War, for starters. They have bickered for centuries and numerous wars, peace treaties and diplomatic manoeuvres have created present-day borders.

Norway once belonged to the Danes - until the Swedes took it away and granted it independence more than 100 years ago. The Scania region - where Ikea is based - was once Danish.

The latest Scandic stramash got me wondering how Ikea might set about Scotland if it wanted to take a good-natured, Swedish swipe. There might be the Lårdi, a large pan ideal for fry-ups. They could launch the Dreïch range, disposable garden furniture which only lasts for three days in June; or the Sïkee, a duvet to keep you warm day and night when the weather is particularly depressing. There could also be curtains - called, say, Nøckedøøt - in acknowledgment of achievement in sporting events (except snooker, darts and indoor bowls).

I don't like to diss Ikea. In fact, I'm rather a fan, although it's a worrying sign when you find a flat-pack more interesting than a six-pack. And - sorry to be unseasonal - but Christmas wouldn't be the same without a trip to Braehead for some splendidly bonkers wrapping paper. Before you know it, you also have enough napkins to last until 2010, a flat-pack CD rack that you will end up assembling on Christmas Eve and a jar of herring ... which will still be in the cupboard in 2010 with the napkins. Admit it, we all have a jar of Ikea herring tucked away. When the Time Team start excavating in 2510, they'll find nothing but little jars of perfectly preserved pickled herring. The archaeologists will picnic on them while they muse over how Sweden must have ruled the world.

In the meantime, Ikea is keen to play down the spat. Spokeswoman Charlotte Lindgren claimed any offence was unintentional. "It's nonsense to say that we did this on purpose. It was a pure coincidence. Besides, these critics appear to greatly underestimate the importance of floor coverings," she said. "A carpet gives a space that something extra. It is the jewel of the room."

Presumably, that makes the Oresund the throne.