Such frivolity! Such bare-cheeked, multicoloured pastiche! Whistles, glowsticks, bodypaint – all were in abundance as the happy crowd rolled down Fleet Street. Flipping two fingers toward traditional British reserve, these everyday heroes, these ambassadors of the flesh effortlessly exuded an attitude so carefree that even my conservative accomplice, with whom I had been sharing a man-date, laughed with glee.

Their noble cause? To protest against oil dependency. One particularly naked man handed me a flier explaining what this gallant act of exhibitionism was all about. “The World Naked Bike Ride”, it elucidated, “draws attention to the absurdity of oil dependency and celebrates the potential of cycling and the human body”. Obviously. “Riding naked emphasises the vulnerability of cyclists on the road, at the same time as celebrating humanity in the face of mechanisation”.

Vulnerability, however, was not something that these postmodern Luddites displayed as they rolled gloriously through the streets of the capital. Bicycles, tricycles, even unicycles were ridden by these devastatingly exposed libertines – some completely naked, some in their pants, some painted head-to-toe in bodypaint and anti-mechanic slogans, but all grinning from ear to ear. Hail these celebrators of the human form, these most honest and pure of protesters! Just make sure you cover your children’s eyes.

Granted, there were marginally more men than women. I saw my fair share of shrivelled willies today – something which, given the happiness of the occasion, I am proud to lay claim. My eyes were drawn inexorably southwards, slowly and tentatively at first, until I found myself staring, transfixed by something at once so horrible and yet fascinating, like coming home from work early to discover your wife having sex with a clown on the kitchen table.

Women, however, turned out in great numbers to ensure that the testosterone-fuelled tendency of men to shed their clothes at any possibility went well-answered by the fairer sex. And they certainly weren’t all the usual suspects (vegan, CND members, Independent readers, late 40s) – ladies of all ages bared all and chatted away with fellow cyclists as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And there were some slamming hotties too (there, you knew it was coming and I said it).

Sour-faced policemen and women coasted along beside their churlish charges, not bothering (or daring) to arrest anyone but looking decidedly embarrassed about the whole affair. Cheer up plod; I expect half of them were envious of the protesters’ nudist whimsy. I know I was – I felt downright ashamed of having the nerve to stand idly by, fully-dressed and apathetically accepting society’s penchant for these vile vestments. In retrospect I should have flung aside my contemptible garments and embraced the neo-nihilism of the occasion. Without a bike, however, I expect that I would have had to settle for jogging at the side, inevitably falling back as my speedier brethren powered away, until it got to the stage where I would have been merely a naked man running alone through the streets of London. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but a criminal record and a litany of psychologically-scarred children, crying into their ice-creams, is not so wonderful.

Perennial nudity is something to which we should all aspire. Undoubtedly the world would be a better place – would the Cuban missile crisis really have been so dire if Kennedy and Khrushchev had just decided to chill out naked by the pool? I think not. So, naked bike riders of London, I want to thank you for two reasons; firstly, for braving sunburn and awkwardly-positioned blisters to encourage us to cease our unwavering commitment to corporal modesty. And secondly, for granting me the opportunity to see more nipples in a ten minute period than I am ever likely to see again.