I spent the whole of my twenties in a relationship, so I was not exactly paying attention to how my male contemporaries were turning out. Suddenly in my thirties, I'm looking around me and I'm baffled. All the men seem to be looking and behaving very, um, unlike men.

Lest I'm misunderstood, I'm not talking about gays. This is about straight men, most of whom now seem to have metrosexual aspirations - a term applied to men with a strong concern for their appearance and first coined to describe David Beckham, the icon of the said modern man.

I am definitely not talking about starting a 'Show us your muscles' campaign. No - many a guy's neck has already been lost (in the midst of muscles bulging from every pore) to gym slavery.

The thing is, I have observed lately that men are becoming too Walter the Softy-ish (remember The Beano anyone?). Practical example: Let's say there's a cockroach in the house and you're in the loo. What are the chances that it will be stamped out? Nil, unless you rush out dripping and wrapped in a towel to carry out a DIY - so that your man gets off the chair.

Whatever happened to men who don't wax their eyebrows to the perfect millimetre, and don't have an exfoliating routine longer than Claudia Schiffer's? Increasingly, men are becoming extremely high maintenance and more and more in love with the mirror.

Recently, a range of cosmetics aimed directly at male customers hit the beauty shops in the UK. Guys can now head straight for the 'Guyliner' kohl pencil and 'Manscara' - a clear gel for lashes and brows. And I'll bet my very own (minimalist) beauty case that these products will soon be reaching our shores and becoming a hit.

Just like the 'Manbag'. Everywhere you look now you see males strutting about with these male-handbags across their shoulders. I mean, it's fine if they ooze confidence and can carry it like, say, Johnny Depp, but unfortunately our island-men are so self conscious of it, so continually checking it, that it most often looks pathetic, especially when it's practically empty. Males, I think, should stick to backpacks or laptop bags (male readers, here's a tip: there's nothing sexier than a man with a suit and one of these).

Whatever happened to the husky-voiced males? The ones who at the end of the day have unbuttoned and loosened their ties? Who actually look you in the eye when they say hello and not say it while texting or with a hand over their (here it comes again) manbag?

Whatever happened to the guys who run their hands through their hair when they're trying to think? Maybe everyone's so gelled now that this isn't possible anymore, or maybe it's because they now simply tap their index finger on their right cheek when thinking.

What happened to the Guy Ritchie-like boys who crave male company and rough play? Who sweat it out in footie or rugby religiously? I tell you what happened - they are lost to weekends in front of Playstations or the World of Warcraft virtual reality game. It is therefore not surprising that several of today's men look as though even I, on a feeble day, could bench-press them. This is not a clamour for knights in shining armour; damsels in this day and age can pretty much save themselves from distress. But I think that, at least, the safe knowledge of mutual lending of the hand ought to be there. As it is, the knights are always too busy having a massage in the spa (or a facial or whatever).

I suppose the movie world is not offering much in the way of role models, because sadly, the tough guys seem to be gone from Hollywood too. It's out with Mel Gibson and George Clooney and in with the guys who never needed a razor: Jude Law, Orlando Bloom, Leo DiCaprio. And have you noticed all our leading men, all typical meterosexuals, seem to be doing quite a bit of crying lately? Pah. I'm not saying men shouldn't cry, but come on; there are times when hey, you need to get a grip. I am aware that this is turning out to be truly a lady's lament. But you see, whenever I turn on Animal Planet, I always chance upon a clip featuring a guy with stubble, unkempt hair, in scruffy shorts and tees, playing footie with (real) lions at an animal sanctuary, not giving a toss about his appearance. Somehow I know he'd stamp out the cockroach for me. But pray, tell me, does a man like this really exist?