When I find myself in one such sweaty situation, my body falling into disrepute from prolonged dehydration, there are certain things I can count on. One of them is overhearing someone act like the sight of a skimpy bikini is the equivalent of the summoning of Satan.

Another is men walking around topless. On this, I have much to say. I mean seriously, I’m about to collapse into a babbling heap in St Stephen’s Green, and as my life flashes before my eyes, I have to be subjected to a vision of beer bellies on the grass? 

As if I didn’t already feel unwell. Sure, Irish men are optimistic dressers at the best of times. It’s not out of the question to see them casually walking around in shorts, even in the depths of January. It’s a bit like they haven’t progressed past that stage of secondary school where you’re embarrassed for your friends to know that you actually own a coat. 

Most of them wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a hat, scarf, and gloves at the same time. And that’s all fairly manageable; I’m fine with some shivering shins walking around my local SuperValu in winter.

But then the sun makes itself known, and men up and down this island act like they’ve been transplanted to Hawaii. First, you’ll notice all the joggers are stripping off their T-shirts. Then it’s men sitting topless in parks. 

Before long, you’re trying to shuffle past a topless guy in the supermarket, avoiding direct eye contact with his belly button. Things get out of hand quickly. But let’s face it: big Irish heads with rosy cheeks aren’t exactly special this time of year.

We’re all sweating. It’s not glamorous. But until you’ve walked around with hair on your head that is so thick it could be used to knit an Aran jumper, or reefed your bloated body into an underwired bra, I’ll have very little sympathy to offer. I already feel like I’m making concessions when I have to see your unpedicured, hairy toes sliding around in a pair of Birkenstocks for El Niño.

Look, I’m not blaming any individuals here, but maybe we all need a reminder that this is not mainland Europe. Sure, in the south of France it’s almost customary to be walking around in the nude. But my name is not Jeanne, and I did not have a croissant for breakfast today. 

And if you’re taking a quick shortcut through Trinity’s Front Square on your way to Grafton Street, it is most certainly not customary to go without a T-shirt. It is, however, scaring the students and seagulls alike. 

Think of the impact you’re having on the mental health of the city. It’s bad for businesses. Did you ever stop to wonder if the ghastly sight of your naked torso could be the cause of inflation? Didn’t think so.

Now, before anyone loses their mind and accuses me of infringing upon someone’s bodily freedoms (because historically, women have always done the infringing, yeah), I will put your mind at ease by saying I’ve spent many a column in this very newspaper complaining about men for a whole host of reasons. As of yet, I am still waiting for a letter from the Taoiseach (or anyone, tbh) interested in implementing any of my policies.

And I know I’m sounding like that archetypal Irish person who just needs something to complain about. Maybe I am that person. Or maybe I’m sick of hearing too much tut-tutting about the ungodly size of bikinis these days. "Cheeks on view for the children? Lord have mercy!"

If the message about slut shaming being misogynistic has still not gone mainstream, I’m willing to level the playing field by asking men to leave something to the imagination. It’s called feminism. There shall be no double standards on my watch. You can thank me later.