Take two bottles into the shower? No? Me neither. That said, I currently feel hemmed in under male ‘grooming industry’ fire. They are waterboarding me through the medium of above the line advertising into shampooing my barren head prior to moisturising, trimming and exfoliating all areas upstairs, before unceremoniously taking me down.

The male beautification market is huge. It has always been the well coiffured elephant in the room in varying degrees of brevity. Its prior incarnation was that of the mute Great Uncle. Always present, staring intently, waiting for the moment to strike and break the silence. The difference now is that there is no shame in gloating about being a part of the ‘grooming revolution’.

As a teen, I was somewhat acne-prone. Sadly, too late, the penny dropped as to why. We mirror those we admire and my Grandfather used Brylcreem until the day he died. The slicked back look held me in good stead at the teenage discos around the mean streets of Sussex for a while until the copious lashings of cream embedded into my pillows and seeped into my pores at night-time leaving me looking like an 1980s teenage glue sniffer on a Big Mac diet.

Later on, I embraced the grunge look which served me well. Unkempt and bedraggled in unsuitable attire, the smell never seemed to scare off eligible crusties although, if truth be known, I was more Robbie Coltrane than Kurt Cobain.

Back then, there was stigma in male beatification. Guys took pride in not showering or preening, so much so that my mother was less than impressed after a five-day school trip to France to find my flannel bone dry upon re-entry to Blighty. Thankfully, this was in the days when stereotypes were acceptable, and my tales of the French not having running water seemed to hold stead.

Today, being beautiful and employing a ‘regime’ is a badge of honour with a force fed diet of luminaries banging the grooming snare and high hat. I could never have dreamed of seeing Graeme Souness or Vinnie Jones advertising cosmetic product. Now we have Adam Lallana, Joe Hart and Philip Coutinho extolling the virtues of a post-Premiership freshen up.

In days gone by the only spa I would entertain was the poor man’s Co-Op. Now, it is a £15bn industry where grooming is redefined as something men do to themselves, rather than to victims online.

Massages, hair removal and waxing are discussed excitedly amongst the chattering middle classes. The offerings extend to the ‘Mars’, Saturn’ and ‘Galaxy’, which I will not delve into here, suffice to say the next dish served cold will no doubt relate to Uranus.

The grooming pick and mix encompasses acne wash, moisturisers, unsightly hair trimmers, deep clean mineral ion face washes, lip balms, day creams, night creams, energising scrubs, anti-fatigue cooling eye treatments, concealers, hair gels and skin nutrients. The list is endless and I haven’t even started on the razor stable yet, which, although a close shave, doesn’t make the cut.

As I peek into my wash bag, I feel self-shamed with my slim pickings consisting of L’Oréal deodorant, Nivea cream and some nasty sandalwood concoction I acquired against my will over the Christmas period in 2013. Yet again I am the laggard. I have missed the revolutionary boat sailing on filtered, purified water and will have to come to terms with always being the groomsman and never the groom.