It’s hot, but I won’t be getting my man-boobs out for the lads or anyone else

This continental weather may have its upsides, but less welcome consequences are all too obvious: wildfires, fitful sleeping, hosepipe bans and men getting their norks out.

Driving through the charming market town of Saffron Walden on Thursday afternoon I spied one such example. To left and right were interesting independent shops, ahead of me was the beautiful spire of St Mary’s church reaching into the cobalt sky; and then, popping out of a side street, a lad wearing grey shorts and a T-shirt round his neck, chest out for the world to gaze at – whether or not the world wished to.

This young man did, I should note, have a moderately impressive physique. And he had clearly been displaying his torso regularly, judging by his even, all-over tan. I’m just not at all convinced that this kind of behaviour is either necessary or desirable.

For some blokes, it’s a demonstration of machismo, a hint of aggression dressed up as sunbathing. In these cases, a bare chest – possibly a group of bare chests – may be accompanied by cans of lager and a snarl: best avoided.

For others, it’s pure narcissism, whether acknowledged or otherwise. Whereas macho man might take his top off irrespective of the weather, the narcissist is much more likely to wait until the sun shines, when he knows he will look at his best, with his toned top half oiled up and ready to show off. You’ll find them in parks, usually wearing designer sunglasses and short shorts. Unlike macho man, they might deign to pop on a shirt when they’re walking round town – it may well be linen and will only be half done up.

Then there is another group of men, who for reasons best known to themselves, seemingly feel compelled to bear their nipples as soon as they get a bit hot. I have a friend who is invariably topless around his house and garden as soon as the temperature gets above 22C. Home alone? Topless. There with his wife and family? Topless. Friends round for a barbecue? Topless. It’s basically bristols ahoy from May to September.

At an evening event to mark the end of infant school for my son’s class last month, some of the dads started up a game of football against the kids. The adults were taking it as seriously as the children (more seriously, in fact), and were getting sweaty in the sultry air. One dad was playing in his suit trousers and a work shirt, but as the game progressed, shirt button after shirt button came undone until he might as well have dispensed with the garment entirely: the compulsion of the over-heated man-boy.

And this kind of man will go on taking his top off for as long as he is physically able to. Go to any county championship cricket match in high summer and among the sparse crowd you will find at least three elderly men, as wrinkled as walnuts, sunning themselves and their droopy nips because it’s just what they’ve always done. It would be almost cute, if it wasn’t just a bit gross.

You might think I’m being overly censorious, that I’m a prude who needs to lighten up, perhaps even give my own hairy chest a more regular airing. There are basically two places where that might happen: at the swimming pool, where to be fair it is de rigueur; and on a beach, but only if I’m going to venture into the sea, which is by no means a given.

In part, I keep myself covered up for the rather serious reason that I don’t want to increase my chances of getting skin cancer – and I’d rather keep a T-shirt on than slather myself in sun cream. And certainly, I don’t have the kind of ripped six-pack that would have anyone admiring my shirtless form. But even putting those considerations aside, taking off clothes without a very good reason is simply unseemly. We may live in an age of ever-growing indelicacy, but that’s something to be fought, not to fall in step with.

So yes, it may be getting hot outside, but I am not going to be taking any of my clothes off; and I certainly won’t be getting my man-boobs out for the lads or anyone else.