Two days before NKD – a nudist festival for 18 to 35-year-olds in Dorset – I was warned by organisers British Naturism that clothed journalists hadn’t gone down too well in previous years.
“If you want to come and write about the festival,” they said, “you’ll have to do it naked.”
I wanted to find out what’s attracting young Brits to something we in the UK overwhelmingly associate with German pensioners, so I agreed, despite the fact I still involuntarily shudder whenever I remember the time – two years ago – that I accidentally flashed a hotel receptionist my boobs.
I shouldn’t worry, a friend had said; taking my clothes off in front of a load of strangers would be like “ripping off a plaster”. She was right: it was painful, and it was quick – so quick that I barely had the chance to google whether you’re supposed to put suncream on your vagina before I was unleashed into a field booming with 170 sets of bare genitalia.
To be honest the author sounds a bit like a idiot.