You may not have heard of Spencer Tunick but I'll bet you have probably seen some of the stuff he does. He is an art photographer who takes photographs of hundreds of naked people in public places in strange poses. I've always admired his work for its quirkiness and his knack of placing incongruous things in incongruous places. Now, however, I regret to report that I'm not so sure.

The reason for my newfound ambivalence is that he has come to Ireland to do his work. The papers last week were full of images of naked Irish people. Early in the week he was at it in Cork and then he went to Dublin where he photographed people standing in Dublin Bay – what the Observer newspaper referred to as Dublin's Bare City.

I know we should be celebrating the fact that a renowned artist wants to do his stuff in Ireland but the problem you see is that the Irish don't do naked. I mean obviously we have to do naked at some point but it is generally behind closed doors with people who have seen us so often they have either the good grace or the boredom to no longer howl with laughter.

This aversion to nakedness was brought home to me forcibly a few years ago while attending a conference in Zanzibar. (Yes I know it's a dirty job but someone has to do it!) My colleagues decided we would go to the beach and came to collect me. Much to my astonishment they were outraged that I was still wearing my socks and Doc Martin shoes and had not even rolled up the jeans in preparation for a paddle. After an hour of U.N. style negotiation they got me down to the bare feet and the first two buttons open on the shirt but that was as far as this naked business was going to go.

Some bodies were not meant to get naked and the Irish variety is one of those. First there is the whiteness. This is not just pale but more of a WHITENESS when any item of clothing is removed for the first time. Foreigners have been known to faint from sunstroke the first time Sammy from Belfast takes the vest off in Mallorca. And there have been reports in many holiday resort newspapers of reversed eclipses of the sun when charter flights from Aldergrove derobe for the first time.

Then there is the hair. Not the stuff on the head although that is generally bad enough but possibly not noticed if one has one's kit off. What I am referring to here is the stuff that inexplicably starts to grow on your back, shoulders, neck, backside and feet at the very age when you can afford to go on a decent holiday. And the thing is the men are just as bad so at least there is a bit of sexual equality in the naked stakes.

Look at most other countries in a naked light and they stand tall, elegant and proud of their pelt. Take a look at he poor souls in Dublin Bay and they look as though they are all carrying a three hundred pound rucksack, their shoulders reaching down to their knees and the backbone poking to the Heavens. I'm not suggesting that at primary school we should all take to walking around with dictionaries on our heads to improve posture but the ability to walk upright without dragging our knuckles is paramount if we are to start taking clothes off in public.

One thing I would suggest, however, is that at some point in the future Mr Tunick thinks about bringing his art form to the vehicle licensing offices. I went last week to tax my car and had a Kirk Douglas Falling Down moment when, having filled in all the documents twice (they gave me the wrong form the first time), shown my passport and all necessary documents I was informed a tax disc could not be furnished since I had not brought a utility bill with my name and address on it. This for me is impossible since none of these bills are in my name. Nothing I could do could make anyone in this office, including a manager who was not wearing his name badge, take this impasse seriously.

Perhaps if I was stark raving naked then someone in the office might notice and offer some assistance although I suspect that all the other unfortunates trying to get some public service might also be resorting to extreme measure before long. And anyway it would undoubtedly ruin Mr Tunick's image since I an certain that the only way these trained ignorers would shift from their slumber and notice me would be if I had a giant, address adorned utility bill stuck to my dangly bits.