‘Nudism is the freest state you can be in’
My personal style signifiers are shorts. Any shorts. All year round. I like wearing shorts because: they make me feel like I’m never at work; they make me feel casual and like I’m not taking life too seriously; they feel like the opposite of people who have to dress up in a suit; they make you feel you’re always ready for action, to move fast, to get things done; it annoys and upsets people, especially on cold days. My legs are my only attractive bit so I like to expose them at all times in an effort to attract a partner.
The last thing I bought and loved was a painting of a drinking glass by the artist Jay Cover. I used to be in the same warehouse of studios as Jay, and annoyingly he and a fair few other arty mates of mine have left London and chosen to have a quieter life by the sea. Buying the painting was a nice excuse to go and see them when I picked it up.
The place that means a lot to me is the South West Coast Path, which covers the perimeter of Devon, Dorset and Cornwall. It’s 630 miles long and last year I walked it alone, all in one go. Definitely one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life; it’s hard to explain why. A feeling of total freedom with a little bit of purpose, connected to nature, alone but never lonely. There are a few nudist beaches on the path, too. In fact I did a fair amount of naked hiking last year in Portugal, the Canary Islands and also California, where I ended up living on a nudist resort for a couple of weeks.
The most important thing I learned while living as a nudist was that clothes are such a big part of how we immediately assess and judge someone. Without them, people are more reliant on what you say to work out who you are. It’s pretty much the freest state you can be in. In California, I ended up playing a naked game of water polo with some senior naturists. They took the game really seriously and one of them told me off for not knowing the rules. I remember thinking, “We’re naked, hitting a ball over a net, in some water. This is really, really silly; how can you be taking this so seriously?”
The best souvenir I’ve brought home is a landscape painting on a bit of scrap wood by an unknown Russian amateur painter. I bought it for £3 from a stranger in a car park at a local flea market called Barakholka Levsha, on the outskirts of Moscow. The thing I like about art is you don’t have to explain why you like something, you just like the look of it, and that’s enough. I don’t think any of the art in my flat has any meaning, it’s just stuff I like.
The best book I’ve read in the past year is Self-Defence for Women by Pat Butler, a 1982 guide to beating the shit out of a moustached man who’s wearing flares and boots with a significant heel. Attack methods are rated from one star (may not be strong enough to disable the opponent) to two stars (could kill). In the section on how to defend yourself with an umbrella, it reads, “To conclude the movement, slash the end of the umbrella across the face of your opponent. It might help identify him later.”
The podcast I’m listening to is Real Survival Stories by Noiser. Sixty-four episodes in and I’m obsessed: it’s the only podcast I mark the days of the week by as it comes out every Thursday and I genuinely look forward to it. It’s about people who fuck up in the wild and are forced to fight for their lives in order to survive. I always listen to it on headphones, usually while walking, and the ultimate scenario is when I listen to it whilst out hiking alone and vulnerable, closer to the idea of things going wrong and closer to me ending up in a future episode.
My style icon is no one really: I’m not interested in fashion or style. I like postmen because they wear shorts all year round.
The best gift I’ve given recently was some Sad Fuck chocolate to a depressed friend. I should mention that this is also my own chocolate (available in my shop in London). I also sent a particularly good WhatsApp message yesterday to a group I’m in. Five out of six members of the group replied with a laughing/crying emoji. I can only assume the sixth member was too busy to read it or had passed away.
And the best gift I’ve received was a pair of miniature pink cowboy boots on a keyring last year from my mate Mills, who bought them from a car-boot fair for 20p. I attached them to my rucksack and they travelled around the world with me and changed colour, faded by about 345 days of sunshine. The gift was already good to begin with, but it became extra sentimental by keeping me company on an adventure. Another favourite was from a man called Shane who came into my shop. He handed me a West German Hummel figurine of a boy hiking, which he’d embellished with a giant (and quite realistic) handpainted clay cock. The skill and craft involved was of an exceptional standard.
I have a collection of postcards with one person in them. I’ve been collecting them for more than two decades and have a small selection of them on display in my shop. It’s probably the most important exhibition in London (the world?) right now. I speak about collecting them on stage and on the internet a lot, so strangers send me ones they’ve found on a weekly basis to add to my collection, which is amazing. My favourite one is of a woman standing alone in a red skirt, in this incredible white landscape of travertine terraces in Pamukkale, Turkey. I love all of them though – people alone in vast landscapes. I see a lot of myself in them.
The best way to spend £20 is to give it to someone who needs it more than you.
I don’t have any grooming or wellbeing gurus. I don’t consider myself beautiful enough to waste time with grooming, so my gurus are ugly, funny people who have had to develop a personality to get noticed.
A way to make me laugh is to ask me who my grooming and wellbeing gurus are.
In my fridge you’ll always find nothing. I don’t cook or really spend time at home. Like the love from my mother, my fridge is cold and empty.
I’ve recently discovered that I don’t want to be a monk. I once decided to live with some nuns in silence for a week as an experiment and found the whole thing terribly boring and a waste of time.
The things I couldn’t do without are constant attention and admiration from strangers. It really spurs me to carry on making stuff.
An object I would never part with is my bike. It’s taken on many incarnations over the years (mainly when it gets nicked), but the meaning remains the same with each one. I didn’t really get into cycling until I was 30. Fifteen years ago, I started to suffer from pretty acute anxiety and panic attacks following a divorce. I discovered that going for a bike ride was helpful. I bought a secondhand town bike and it became my saviour: it was my friend, something I could get on and “ride off” the anxiety to an extent. Thankfully, my anxiety has gone now, but the bike is still a constant thing in my life, a faithful old friend. Now its main purpose is to get from A to B. If I can, I’ll do every journey by bike or foot. Everyone thinks cycling in London is dangerous (and it is), but for me the benefits outweigh the risk.
On my Instagram “For You” page you’ll find women with large breasts in tight tops. Also street fights, muggings, violence, natural disasters, plane turbulence and cute animals.
The one artist whose work I would collect if I could is no one. I’m not interested in high-value art.
My favourite location is Hartland Quay Hotel in north Devon. Basic rooms, basic food, all on its own on the most spectacular bit of coastline, metres from the cliff edge and the sea. I love remote, unpretentious hotels because influencers and wankers don’t go there. Only wholesome, down-to-earth outdoors types who probably hiked there and are more likely to be sweet and interesting people. Paradoxically, I am of course putting myself in this category, which now makes me a wanker.
Some of my best ideas have come from walking, cycling or being in the shower. I don’t know why. I guess it must have something to do with your brain focusing on a simple, learned, mundane task that it’s been programmed to do, which leaves another bit of it free to have flowing thoughts?
In another life, I would have been a documentary filmmaker. This is actually a very clever question that everyone might benefit from having a go at answering. Perhaps if you answer this honestly, it might highlight the career that you actually want, rather than the one you have. To contradict that, I am actually very happy with my career, if you can call it that.
My favourite website is Google. You can search for anything and it tells you the answers. Like someone who doesn’t know how to leave an abusive relationship, I’m still on Instagram and X. I have a love/hate relationship with social media. I sometimes feel life was better before it, but on the other hand it’s been hugely helpful for my career and if I want to carry on doing what I’m doing, unfortunately, I need it.
The last music I downloaded was Endlessness by Nala Sinephro. I don’t really listen to it like I might do to an incredible song, but it’s nice noise that is a bit more comforting than silence.
I haven’t added anything to my wardrobe recently. I sort of stopped buying clothes two years ago. I bought some socks in June. They are a nice shade of green and I like to wear them with shoes and also without shoes.
The work of art that changed everything for me was the 1997 TV programme Brass Eye. It just felt so different, a sort of Monty Python watershed moment for me: it made me realise what was possible in terms of satire and comedy. I saw the creator Chris Morris in a café a few years ago opposite my studio so I ran back, scrawled a quick love letter on my headed paper and handed it to him. During our 30-second interaction he was very nice.
The best bit of advice I ever received was from someone in my litter-picking group who showed me how to rest the portable bin on your hip, which makes it more comfortable over sustained periods of time, especially as it gets heavier with the weight of the litter.
#Nudism #freest #state
