|The naked truth|
By Wayne Drehs
Page 2 columnist
OK, you asked for it. Go a little deeper into the mind of the UK's most notorious streaker as he gives you the inside scoop on his clothing optional lifestyle in his own words:
The first time
The next morning, my mates grabbed me out of my hotel room, threw me in the elevator and dragged me to the stadium, reminding me of the promise I made the night before. I was still so (drunk), I barely knew what was going on.
I listened. And as the pints took effect, the atmosphere became electric. Adrenaline replaced fear. I realized the time was now. I looked around for security, and seeing none, ripped off my clothes and jumped on the field, only planning to wave to my mates and run back to my seat. But the site of the ball was too tempting. I wanted it. So I grabbed it and took off like a bat out of hell. As I ran, I couldn't believe what I was doing, not to mention what I was hearing. The further I got, the louder the stadium became. When I got between the goal posts, I put the ball down and turned around, extending my arms to the sky. The stadium erupted. Even the players, the referees and the cops thought it was hilarious.
I've never felt anything like it. You can have the best sex ever, you can have the best time ever with your mates or with a girlfriend, but nothing will ever touch that feeling. After all, you don't get cheered by 60,000 when you're having sex and drinking beers.
I completely forgot I was nude. When I returned to my seat, I was surrounded by photographers, so I started doing daft poses for them. Girls were kissing me. Guys were slapping me five. I was so caught up in the attention I forgot to get dressed. Until I saw a policeman. He gave me the nod that he was going to let me get away. But I wasn't leaving. This was too much fun. I soaked it all in and ignored the policeman. Finally, he came over and escorted me to the exit amidst a chorus of boos. As we left the stadium, everyone started chanting, "Leave him alone. Leave him alone."
But I wasn't done. As soon as I left one gate, I walked around the stadium and entered another. Before the game ended, I tore my clothes off and streaked again, becoming the first streaker to streak the same major sports event twice in one day. I was hooked. Couldn't wait to try it again. And I owe a big thanks to Carlsberg.
The Grand National
It did, but just for that year. A year later, I spent the night before the Grand National in a safe house only my closest mates knew about. I wanted to make a lasting impression. My mates painted the word, "RAWHIDE" across my back. And I planned on wearing a big Mexican moustache, a kiddy cowboy hat and a toy gunbelt with fake guns. Think John Wayne as a streaker.
When the horses came out for the pre-race parade, I quickly took my clothes off, put on my little cowboy outfit and scaled the fence. I dashed through the course, pretending I was a horse and completing all the tasks. It was hilarious. I pranced around to the merriment of everyone watching when a bunch of people started running at me with blankets. I kept running, imitating that I was on a horse. Seconds later, three or four policemen had me cornered from the front with the half dozen blanket-carrying folks charging from behind. Always looking for a laugh, I stopped and pretended to "shoot" the blanket-toters.
They didn't flinch. They got closer and closer until they ran right past me. I was utterly confused until I realized these folks were trainers and the blankets were for the horses, not me. Oops.
The policemen, though, were headed for me. So I "shot" them, too, thinking the crowd was enjoying this so much maybe the police would play along. Nope. Some 15 policemen were after me, and I knew it was time for an escape. I escaped their clutches, jumped the fence and headed back into the crowd. But I couldn't find my clothes and thus couldn't hide. Soon, another group of police grabbed me. They put me into a police van and locked me down at the station until the meeting ended. Fine: L250. But well worth it.
Wimbledon Men's final
I called some of my mates on my cell phone and told them I wasn't going to be able to get on. There were guards everywhere. Most imposing was a guard that stood behind a barrier that separated the back section of the lower level from the front. I had no chance. It started to rain, play was stopped, and I was unhappy.
But then the rain stopped. And as they pulled the protective sheet off the court, opportunity revealed itself -- the guard in front of me moved about 10 yards to the left. Right then and there, I saw my chance. I put the phone down, jumped over the barrier, flew down a flight stairs and leaped over the heads of the press photographers to make the court.
Once there, I ripped off my Velcro suit, took my shoes off, threw them in the air and ran. Surprisingly, no one was coming after me. So I did an Irish jig, which the crowd found quite amusing. I danced on the court, did a naked summersault over the net, landed on my feet and made a bunch of other silly poses. Everybody laughed.
At that point, clutching huge red blankets, security chased after me from every angle I could turn. That's when the buzz started. The crowd loves to see me getting chased -- they always want to see how long it's going to take. So I led the cops along a merry little dance. I made faces at them, vaulted over the net yet again and did everything I could to mock the security. The next thing I knew, this massive girl from the Navy tackled me from behind.
Yes, a girl.