Keep your shirt on Britain. Please.

Oh isn't it amusing. When London has a heatwave. Aren't they funny they way they over react to the temperature and start sweltering. Isn't it cute.

For a nation of stinkers, any increase in perspiration is as unwelcome as a ginger haired step child. Worse than that, the mercury only has to hint at going up and these freaks start taking their shirts off. If I never see another mole on someone's skin again, I will consider it a life salvaged.

God. Hyde park on a slightly sunny day. It's like walking in on an uncle undressing. Acre after acre of untanned, untoned and really unterrific skin, glistening like a wet foreskin.

The women are bad enough fully clothed, but when it starts coming off... I saw one woman who had a halter top so tight she must've been vaselined into it, and the bottom of the shirt made a feature of her ample gut, which scrunched her lard together like the wrinkly underside of an old man's balls.

And the men. Holy shit. London is the only place in the world where a man with breasts will take off his shirt and talk to women. They actually dangle. The man-tits. I'm told it's the level of female hormones they pump into the chicken over here that give all the men that "Giblets in a bag" look. And if you think these things look bad drooping standing still, you should see what they do during a game of soccer. Whatever the score, we all lose when British men run with their shirts off.

And the papers go mad. London swelters under heat wave. At 78 degrees! (26 degrees celsius) You've got to be kidding. The only heat wave going on in London was the sun waving goodbye for another eleven months.

There should be no reason on earth that a man with globules of chest fat large enough to feed infants should be allowed to expose himself to tourists like myself. It's a form of rape and you know it.