How I Almost Became a Nudist Presenter

A few years ago, I impulsively said yes to an advert asking if I’d like to host a radio show on a local station. I had no experience, a highly questionable taste in music, and a heroic amount of misplaced enthusiasm. Somehow, that was enough. I jumped in feet first, and to my surprise, I absolutely loved it.

Over time, the show became a glorious mix of chaos, community spirit, and unintentional comedy, if I do say so myself. We once did a live broadcast from a local music festival, only to discover the microphones weren’t working — so we spent half an hour passionately presenting to absolutely no one. On another occasion, the internet went down in the studio, but we didn’t realise for a full hour. Every brilliantly timed joke, every carefully chosen track, vanished into the void. And then there was the time a friend joined us in the studio for a quiz segment. When he didn’t win, he loudly declared, “This is bollocks,” live on air, without a moment’s hesitation.

It was messy, unpredictable, and completely brilliant. I wouldn’t change a second of it.

The station came to an end on December 30th. No big announcement. No farewell show. Just a casual text that read, “Do you mind not doing your show tomorrow? Station is gone.” That was it. We’d done our fair share of broadcasting to nobody over the years, but that felt like taking it a bit far.

I missed it. The weirdness, the community, the thrill of knowing someone might be listening, even if one of the few texts we had on the rare occasion we felt confident enough to ask our listeners to text in was my Dad asking if I had a key to get in.

I hadn’t had an email in weeks. Then, yesterday, one finally popped into my inbox. Subject: “Presenter.” And with summer holidays on the horizon — and the comforting knowledge that Alison Hammond probably doesn’t work school breaks on This Morning, I wouldn’t be missing much — I allowed myself a brief flicker of optimism.

“This is it,” I thought. “National TV. Finally. Fame, fortune, and a mildly awkward feature on Loose Women.”

I opened the email.

Subject: Presenter

Body: Morning Ben! Are you interested in presenting? Might you be interested in a very niche on-camera gig?

Niche. Mysterious. Intriguing. Could be anything. I replied immediately, obviously, with excitement and optimism.

The response came back even quicker:

“Thanks for getting back to me. I’ll cut straight to the chase…”

Good. I love a straight chaser.

“I’m part of a large but very private male nudist group…”

Oh no.

“During the pandemic, we filmed ourselves at home. Hundreds of hours. We’re compiling the footage into a special extended montage. We’re looking for a host — ideally, a naked one — to link the clips with voiceover and on-screen introductions.”

Nope. Absolutely not.

Now look — I’ve listened to enough podcasts about body confidence to know that self-acceptance is a wonderful thing. I’ve seen the documentaries. I’ve read the articles. I follow the Instagram accounts of sun-kissed people proudly baring all under inspirational quotes about self-love and liberation. I understand the message. Truly, I do. We should be proud of our bodies, embrace the skin we’re in, and shake off the shame that society’s heaped upon us for generations.

In theory, I’m all for it.

But there’s a very big difference between cheering someone on as they stride confidently across a naturist beach on Channel 4 at 10pm, and being asked to host what is, let’s be honest, a montage of lockdown nudity, complete with home-shot footage, questionable camera angles, and the expectation that I, too, will be in the buff. On camera. Speaking directly to lens. Linking clips. Possibly while standing next to a garden shed.

And I am not, and I truly cannot stress this enough, not the person for that job. It’s not that I’m anti-nudity. I’m just pro-dignity. And self-preservation. And clothing. Especially clothing.

There are many ways I thought my fledgling presenting career might kick off. A quirky guest spot on local telly. An accidental viral clip. A charming breakfast slot where I mispronounce something mildly rude and become a meme. But not this. Not the voice - and face (and everything else for that matter) of the UK’s most private home-filmed nudist retrospective.

Absolutely not.