Dashing. Dapper. Male. Meet our new columnist Max Mason

Welcome to my new column; new column, that is, until one or two of you realise I don’t know my adjectives from my euphemisms or, worse still, my Oxford comma from my ordinary commas and write in.

But for the moment, allow me to enjoy my debut.

I’m here to write about life, love, singledom, dating and everything in-between. But clearly from a Homo Sapien, spear in one hand, wildebeest in other, designer stubble point of view.

And not from a ‘Blokey’ or ‘Pally’ or ‘Matey’ agenda. That’s all so Sky Sports.

No, I want to write from a chap’s take on life – confident, breezy and impish but – and, there’s a lump in my throat here, also vulnerable, sensitive and touchy-feely in a Jack Russell kind of way.

So hold on, fasten your vanity mirror and, hopefully, enjoy the ride . . . You know, I feel there are too many of my female friends in their early to mid-30s who aren’t happy with the right guy, or even have any idea of how to find him after 15 years of dating the wrong ones.

I feel their frustration on a daily basis, and have to regularly foot the bill for their bottomless glasses of prosecco as they relay tales of yet another relationship cut short “by them”.

There are a similar number of my guy friends who are equally ringless, smartly eligible but have seen the wrong twonks get their woman while they’ve been left seemingly hooked to internet dating sites.

At the ripe old age of 37, nearly 38, I find myself often wondering if it’s a problem at all.

Not being one to shy away from political incorrectness, I’d say we’re starting to accept that the formula of marriage is an outmoded concept which doesn’t fully suit the predatorial, eye-wandering male – and there’s no woman on earth who’s content to simply become the ‘mother of his children’. After all, you all deserve to be treated superbly and not just as a baby-provider.

I’m someone who thinks that spending time with a woman is much more enjoyable than having to talk about football.

In fact, similar to George Best but in a much less prolific way, I think that life is always brightened by spending time in female company.

However, I’ve never got married because I’ve never seen the advantage that it could bring to my life.

Admittedly, I’ve never found a woman who I feel confident could augment my existence.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if I did, then I’d change my position. But I’ve spent long enough unwed that I’m not about to change my mind and settle for mediocrity.

So, am I right to scoff at you ladies, (and men, but they’ll be reading the sport pages, won’t they?) who try so hard to find your one true, elusive love, or are you still right to be the scoffer so to speak?

What have you heard about love that I don’t know? And might I be able to shed any light, either for you or for me, as to whether it’s a route that we should be equally keen to follow in life?

I don’t have the ovaries screaming at me to ‘do something, anything, just do it now before it’s too late’ so I’m comfortable with my ventures and freedom without the weight of body clock guilt pressing down on me. This despite the fact that I’ve always believed I’d be a fun, fine dad.

But then I’m a man. I hate to say but even when your head is telling you that you’re a Gucci-sporting, glass-ceiling breaker, you also have a reproductive engine which coughs and splutters its disapproval.

My perspective, for what it’s worth (and maybe it’s too early to even light-heartedly lay my cards on the table but I’d appreciate the interaction) is that marriage is a defunct carbuncle; that all the stunning catches got snapped up at an early age by the warring bankers (you read correctly) and the lawyers and that a lot of you are now busy getting rightly bored of them, having squired their Peregrines, their Amelias and their Olivers.

That very soon, once they’ve agreed to the North Oxford divorce settlement, some affluent ladies will be flooding the market and us single chaps will have a time of it.

I was never in a hurry to be the subject of a cat and mouse game, even less so now the cuddly kitten has grown into a cougar.

But on the other hand, I’d rather that any day than the dynamic of a unsatisfactory marriage.

Staycation, the word first uttered a couple of years back with the economy gasping for what felt like its last breath was not – let’s be honest here – the most effective of concepts.

Which is a shame since I love nothing more than GB when it’s baking. After all, what’s better than sporting a healthy glow, eating bacon and eggs al fresco and taking time to appreciate the passing ‘scenery’ – if you know what I mean.

Sadly however, while the idea was sound in principle, it didn’t quite grip us with excitement, did it?

I mean, Britannia’s all well and good, but lying on our beaches during a typical summer, staring at the local wildlife in all its glorious duffelcoats, scarves and wellies, hardly raises the feelgood factor. Indeed, all it makes you think of is wishing you were abroad. But this year, the Staycation really seems to have come of age (and what a difference it has made). Each and every week something is happening.

Indeed, it seems there’s never been a better time to splash on the sun factor – and that’s astonishing in itself – in order to enjoy all that Jam and Jerusalem pride.

And it’s not all about events either (although the fabulous London Olympics last year deserves much of the credit for re-igniting our love of UK Ltd).

In fact, on a sunny day, nursing a jug of Pimm’s or maybe even a Babysham, isn’t this reward enough?

For me, it’s more about the feeling of grass between my toes, sitting in the sun with friends and contemplating how much I miss those airport queues. Simple.

So instead of heading abroad at the end of this glorious summer, I’ll be taking my parents – yes, I am a good son – on an old narrow boat along the Thames.

Surprisingly, I find myself more excited about this than by many foreign trips I’ve taken. And while I’m never going to pretend it’s a replacement for those sunnier, foreign climes, I’ve actually loved the opportunity the unexpected good weather has given me to explore a bit more of Ole Blighty.

None of us of course know how much longer this summer can last – look at this week for instance – but so long as it does, I’ll be wearing my Union Jack shorts.