I can’t help but feel there is a conspiracy (perhaps “scam” is a better word) by an avaricious cosmetics industry to turn British men into a kind of ghastly drag act.

Not content with creaming cash off women, they’re now trying to tame the male of the species with their witch’s cauldron of must-have pots and potions.

Men, it seems, are being replaced by a preening procession of mincing, manbag-wearing oddities who couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.

It is beyond wrong when a bloke looks every bit as manicured as his wife or girlfriend.

Even a tough, rugged Aussie like Shane Warne ended up looking like a waxwork after his makeover.

But what can you expect in this era of emasculation? Increasingly men have been made to feel ashamed of the very red-blooded traits which define them and which were once a source of pride – physical strength, courage and aggressive risk-taking.

Sport provides one of the few acceptable outlets through which men are still able to express themselves.

Call me a weirdo but I’d rather be down the pub than lounging on a sun bed or having my chest waxed.

I reserve the right to wear terrible clothes of my own choosing, to get in drunken macho scrapes with total strangers, to vomit copiously into the nearest bin at the mere mention of the phrase “romantic comedy” and to make ill-informed and ill-advised comments about women’s driving.

I reserve the right to have hair in unusual and sometimes inconvenient places and, when in a rush, to shower solely with deodorant.

Men are not dolls to be dressed up to appease the whims of others.

And, as for all that stuff about being in touch with your feminine side, just leave me alone please and, Mr Barman, hurry up with that pint.

I may be wrong but I reckon women would be bored stupid if men became these clean-cut, neutered creatures.

Men are designed to be dangerous and I’m guessing most women want a man, flawed as he is, and not some epilated eunuch.