'Nobody runs for the hills': is Britain ready for everyday nudity?

[Danee]

Charlie Gilmour: ‘Being naked is profoundly liberating.’ Photograph: Sarah Lee for the Guardian


It’s like a dream. I’m at the pub with a pint of stout and a packet of nuts, wearing no clothes. Families tuck into their Sunday roasts, darts players carry on unperturbed. No one gives me so much as a second glance. I could get used to this.
How things have changed. In 1974, when Sally Cooper stripped naked and attempted to run across Richmond Bridge in west London, she caused a national sensation. Caught momentarily in the jaws of a police dog and eternally by the lens of a tabloid photographer, she was one of Britain’s first streakers. At the time, public nudity was virtually unheard of. Naturists, or “sunbathers” as they often euphemistically called themselves, kept to the shadows.
Today, naked people are everywhere. No longer happy to be hidden in naturist clubs and on nudist beaches, the bare body has jiggled its way into areas previously reserved for the clothed, round the dinner table and on primetime TV. London had a pop-up naked restaurant, the Bunyadi, with a waiting list 46,000 strong, Last year saw the launch of Naked Attraction, Channel 4’s full-frontal dating show. We have naked yoga, a naked nightclub and, of course, naked Justin Bieber. Does this mean Britain has come to terms with collective undress?


I’m no naturist, but there have been moments over the years when it has felt appropriate to publicly disrobe. A mass skinny-dip after a friend’s seaside wedding was liberating, a slosh into the Serpentine on a sweltering summer evening was thrilling, and there was one time, perhaps slightly unwise, at a party where the drinks were flowing freely and the heating was on far too high and… nudity may have occurred.
Being naked is profoundly liberating. It’s not just the physical feeling of the air, sun or sea over your entire body: there’s a psychological release, too. When you shed your clothes, many social pressures also somehow fall away. A 2015 survey by British Naturism, the national society for social nudity, found that practising naturists had higher self-esteem and body confidence.
Yet, from personal experience, I’ve found reactions can be unappreciative, ranging from mothers screaming and covering their children’s eyes to hostile attention from security personnel. So which Britain are we: a nation of nudes or prudes? I decided to find out.
***
Brighton seems a safe place to begin. It was here, in 1979, that the first major naturist beach was created. Even in this historically tolerant town, it was met with vociferous opposition. “What distresses me is that people naively believe what is good for the Continent is good for Britain,” grumbled one local Tory councillor. Perhaps because of that, the nudist beach is a long way from any popular tourist spots, quarantined behind shingle barricades and warning signs. On an unseasonably sunny winter’s day, only a few fanatics are out on the rocks: older men with all-over tans. They seem relaxed, welcoming, even. Perhaps a little too welcoming: “All right, John Lennon?” one shouts, twiddling his nut-brown knob in my direction.
For many, being naked in public is the stuff of nightmares. When we strip, it’s not just a warm, protective layer we remove. Clothes make us who we are: our status and personality are all tied up with thread. Tony, a 30-year veteran of the scene, wanders over to offer his two bits. “The main problem we are up against is that, out there, people see the human body as inherently sexual,” he says. “The first time lots of young people see naked people is in pornography. That does warp people’s minds a bit, although things are much easier now.”



It isn’t naturist spaces such as this beach that Tony thanks for the growing acceptance of nudity; rather, it’s more adventurous projects such as the annual World Naked Bike Ride that are bringing people into the fold. “That’s really changed things,” he says. “You can just cycle through Whitehall, past No 10, the seat of power, completely naked. Everyone who does it just feels so free.”
Brighton has had since 2006, and last summer the seafront was awash with bare bodies: hundreds of topless Free the Nipple protesters paraded from the pier in June, and in September naked litter-pickers took to the shingle to draw attention to sea pollution and make the point that nudity isn’t necessarily dirty.
But are Brighton’s streets nude-friendly? I lace up my shoes, bid farewell to my new friends and head towards town.
Being naked in public is not illegal in England, Wales or Northern Ireland, provided you show consideration for others, though there are two acts you run the risk of coming up against: the 1986 Public Order Act and the 2003 Sexual Offences Act. Avoid causing “harassment, alarm, or distress”, and don’t be a pervert, and you should be fine. The laws are different in Scotland, which is partly why Stephen Gough, the “naked rambler”, has done so much jail time. For England and Wales, the Crown Prosecution Service’s guidelines are reassuring: “A naturist whose intention is limited to going about his or her lawful business naked will not be guilty” of an offence.
Nobody runs for the hills when I come crunching over the shingle: some point, others giggle, most carry on with their lives. The only offence is imagined. “There are children over there,” snarls a large man in a leather jacket. I cower behind a groyne while the Guardian’s photographer scampers over to test the waters. “Would it offend you if there was a naked man over there?” she asks. “Not at all,” says a mother of two young children. “It’s a sad state of affairs that anyone would think my children would be upset by a naked body.”

Walking along the seafront, it’s the same story. People laugh and grin, and snap pictures with their phones. A few want to stop and chat. “Nice outfit, mate!” is the closest to opprobrium it gets.
As we approach the pier, there are suddenly children everywhere: on leads, in prams, swarming around ice-cream vans. It seems wise not to push my luck, so I quickly reclothe.
Down the road, a group of men are enjoying a game of basketball. “Hello,” I say. “Do you mind if I join in?”
“Yes, of course,” replies one in slightly broken English. “You can join the black team.”
“Great!” I say. “But I won’t be wearing any clothes. Is that OK?” He goes to confer with his teammates. They grin and wave me over. What a wonderfully open and free society this is, I think, as I strip and leap on to the court as naked as the day I was born. Both teams run screaming with their hands over their eyes. “No! No! No!” they shout. “Please! We didn’t understand the question!” The basketball lies abandoned at my feet. The players, all big, strong men, are cowering in the corner.
One brave man edges over, his eyes anywhere but on me. We shoot a few hopeless hoops (it turns out I don’t actually know how to play this game) and I worry I’m spoiling their afternoon. When I toss the ball back, they let it bounce off into the distance and resume playing with a fresh one.
Such is the terrible power of nudity: it can reduce grown men to gibbering wrecks. Elsewhere, people seem less precious. At a bus stop in town, I might as well be a statue for all anyone cares. People come and go; a young man perches next to me and, as is customary, we studiously ignore each other. A bus rolls up and I get on.
The driver takes a moment to regain his composure. “Ummm, have you got a ticket, mate?” he asks doubtfully. I pat my imaginary pockets and step backwards off the bus. Being naked on public transport is totally fine; fare dodging is not.
As far as I’m concerned, our work here is done. The photographer has other ideas, though. “Just one more shot,” she says. Like a sucker, I submit. Inevitably, a patrol car appears in the distance, and then another. Click, click, click, goes her shutter. “I’m sorry,” I say to a person nearby. “This probably isn’t how you imagined your Tuesday afternoon turning out, but I’m going to have to hide behind you now.” I stand in close, shut my eyes and hope.
“You’ve been stood out here in the middle of the street, stark bollock naked with your bits on show for the whole world to see, and a passing driver has been very offended,” one of the four officers says.

Technically, the law should be on the side of naturists. But there are ominous rumblings from the assembled police about outraging public decency. We talk for a while and their attitude softens. After checking I’m not a wanted sex offender, they depart, suggesting we carry on somewhere out of town. “And next time, please give us a call and warn us, so when calls come in we’ll know what it’s about.”
Much of the work involved in getting the police, and the public, to recognise the right to be naked has been done by British Naturism. In 2013, after discovering the police were routinely misinterpreting the law, it successfully lobbied the director of public prosecutions to issue guidelines on lawful public nudity, which the police promised to incorporate into training manuals. It’s an important step towards body freedom, but there are more to go.
“The law is not our problem,” British Naturism spokesman Andrew Welch tells me. “The law is very much in favour of naturism. Completely, in fact. It’s the culture that’s the problem. You just have to keep chipping away.”
Gradually, barriers are being broken down. “There aren’t the hang-ups there used to be about being nude with others,” Welch says. “There’s a liberating feeling when you’re naked in the fresh air, or skinny-dipping, or jumping in a hot tub. People are realising that’s lovely and exhilarating.”
We take the police’s advice and head out of town. Running naked across the South Downs with my dog, Khan, a handsome German shepherd, in tow, is thrilling, but at the same time unsettling. Perhaps it’s the hound, or the gunmetal sky, but the whole enterprise has a slight tang of Blut und Boden. In Germany, according to Philip Carr-Gomm’s A Brief History of Nakedness, nudism reached the peak of its popularity during the turbulent decades of the early 20th century and, after purging clubs of “dissident elements”, the Nazis launched the Battle Ring for National Free Physical Culture, a state-sponsored naturist organisation.
Might today’s unpredictable and upsetting politics drive people back to a state of nature? “What’s happening in the political world is so utterly bizarre, it’s hard to say what’s going on,” Carr-Gomm tells me over the phone. “But at its heart, the actual experience of being naked can bring feelings of freedom, and there’s a sense of innocence and vulnerability mixed up with a sense of power. It’s incredibly rich.”
Carr-Gomm’s explanation for the rise of naturism is more prosaic: it’s all down to films such as The Full Monty and Calendar Girls, he says. “There was a sea change period towards the turn of the century with those films. The male strippers in were heroes. was a similar thing, but with older women taking their clothes off. It became something absolutely wonderful and virtuous. Nakedness became, in the right context, a heroic activity.”
t was around this time that the World Naked Bike Ride began. Part protest, part parade, the phenomenon soon spread across the globe. Its first year, 2004, saw events take place in 28 major cities; in 2016, it hit 70. The UK alone hosted 20 rides, large and small, from Edinburgh to Exeter. For many, it has had a transformative effect.
I talk to “Natansky”, 37, who was “plodding along in life, not really doing what I wanted, just an average working mum with two kids”. Then, in 2012, she went on her first naked bike ride. “It was a surreal experience, almost like a dream. That feeling, that high, the adrenaline, it’s how it must be to take drugs. It didn’t feel like my normal life. It was empowering.”
Her husband, she says, didn’t like her newfound confidence. They split up. Natansky, who uses a pseudonym to protect her children from bullying, became a regular participant and key organiser of the London event. “It’s growing, especially among younger people and women. We’re challenging the sexualisation of the body, reclaiming our bodies, saying we can do what we want with them.”
Back in London, winter has set in. All I want to do with my body is hide it away beneath a duvet. Instead, I am doing a solo naked bike ride of my own. Locals react with a mixture of excitement and mild concern as I come pootling over the crest of a railway bridge.
It’s too cold for anything other than a ceremonial lap before we are forced to retire to the Irish pub down the way. At Pat’s, there are very strict rules. They’re up on the wall for all to see: “No vile bile. No sectarian hate songs. No work boots. No credit.” “Tasteful nudity” is, after a short discussion, deemed acceptable. What, after all, would a pint of Guinness be without a side of nuts?
For a cold, rainy and, in many ways, intolerant island, Britain has proven remarkably open‑minded when it comes to the unclothed. From pier to pub, I’ve travelled naked and come away unscathed. There’s still a distance to go, and the issue is heavily gendered: breastfeeding in public remains controversial, and Facebook is not keen on the female nipple. But with every topless protest, naked ramble and bare-bottomed bike ride, resistance must surely fade. To shrug off the fear and shame that threatens to cloak us all, nakedness must be wholesomely embraced. Then we will be living in a brave nude world indeed.


https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/jan/27/britain-undress-charlie-gilmour-naked