Why don't men know how to spa? Well, we feel awkward, adiposal and clumsy.

Why is it that the average spa's music system playlist is firmly stuck in the bad early-1990s, during that preposterous “new age” period after the acid-house boom but before the upscale scented candle boom? Why do we always get massaged to the bleating, aural kapok of Enya and Enigma and those ubiquitous, Peruvian sodding panpipes? Why don't they see that it's a man lying face down on the upholstered slab and give us some Elgar, Beethoven, Chopin or Ryuichi Sakamoto? Why not a selection of Bowie's instrumentals from his Low/Heroes period? Why not William Orbit or Kraftwerk? Why not the sound of newborn babies gurgling, the soporific white noise of an unattended hotel telly, or Scarlett Johansson softly reciting passages from Proust?

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