Why I ran down Whitehall in my pants

As long as you are doing it for charity, you can get away with anything in Britain

I have to confess, I felt some trepidation. I am new to streaking. In fact, I’m new to running further than to the nearest cab.

Plus it was dark and wet. And Whitehall is one of the most secure streets in Britain. Yes, the appropriate authorities had been informed. But what if there were some crossed wires? I could be arrested, I said to myself. Or shot. It was at that moment I began to regret all those negative articles I’d written about Theresa May.

"The Gods obviously love a streaker"

But I needn’t have worried. Because this is Britain. And Britain is the best country in the world to engage in a ludicrous act of public self-humiliation. So long as it’s in a good cause. “Excuse me sir, why are you robbing this bank with that sawn-off Purdey?” “I’m doing it for charity officer”. “Oh, for charity you say? Very good Sir. Here’s £5. Best of luck to you.”
My semi-naked sprint was for two excellent charities – Elizabeth’s Legacy of Hope and the Terrence Higgins Trust. Though in truth, I was hiding behind them. They were providing cover for the real reason for my dash through the darkness – my fateful tweet back in 2012 in which I confidently proclaimed: “If Ukip break 6% at the next election, I’ll streak naked down Whitehall.”

Everyone remembers where they were when they saw that fateful exit poll on election evening. I’ll tell you where I was. Mentally sprinting in the buff down one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. Think of the horror Ed Miliband and Nick Clegg were feeling at that moment, then multiply it a couple of hundred times.
I had considered quietly backing out. Over time people would just forget everything I’d said before the election. Like they did with Vince Cable.
But I hadn’t figured on two people. One was Ukip MEP Patrick O’Flynn. He began stalking me. “When’s the naked streak Dan? Once a week, every week. The same tweet. It was like be tailed by the mysterious Indian tracker in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “O’Flynn. They say he can track a man over stone.”
The second was my wife. “Ladbrokes have offered to sponsor me to do it for charity. But I’ll look ridiculous. I’m just going to tweet I’m not doing it”, I told her. “They’ll sponsor you to do it for charity? Then of course you’ve got to do it”, she replied. Very British, my wife.

So the die was cast. But there were still a number of obstacles to come. The first was my alarm, which failed to go off this morning. Which meant that 45 minutes before the scheduled start time I was still in bed. Then there was the man standing next to me on the train. “OK, can you sort out the camera, I just need to find somewhere to dump my trousers”, I shouted down my mobile. He was about to pull the emergency cord when I said, “it’s OK, it’s for charity”. He smiled in relief, and offered me a tenner.
Then there was the weather. I thought it was mocking me when I arrived at the top of Whitehall to find it looking like Yorkshire. Never mind sorting out the flood defences in the North of England, David Cameron needs to have a look at the top of his own street. But then the clouds cleared and rains ceased. The Gods obviously love a streaker.
And then I was off. I started at a brisk pace, but then quickly began to flag. By the time I drew level with the Cenotaph I was starting to worry I would have a heart attack. I had a vision of myself just keeling over and lying spread-eagled adjacent to our nation’s most sacred monument, in a poignant tableau. I then had a second vision of me lying face down in a giant puddle, whilst someone set up a Periscope feed, and I went viral. That second vision seemed to give me a second wind.

"Britain is the best country in the world to engage in a ludicrous act of public self-humiliation. So long as it’s in a good cause"

As I neared the finish line I received a couple of cheers of encouragement. I also received a couple of cheers of “look at the state of that!”, from half a dozen workmen. I was about to deliver a stinging riposte about the evils of every day sexism, but the moment passed. Where’s Emily Thornberry when you need her?
And then – just like that – my race was run. I crossed the finishing line and fell into the welcoming arms of my wife. “I’ve done it baby”, I said, in the same tone used by the men who had just returned from Omaha Beach. “Yes you have”, she replied, in the tone of a woman who had just seen her 46 year old husband run semi-naked down Whitehall pursued by half a dozen cameramen.
Once I was dressed, I checked the donations page (click here to donate yourself). We’d raised over £1,000. With an additional £1,000 being donated by the good people at Ladbrokes.
But one donation was missing. I took to my Twitter feed and messaged Nigel Farage. “You know what it's like to have your nuts the subject of public scrutiny. How about a donation?”, I asked. I have yet to receive a response.
Come on man. What’s keeping you? It’s for charity.