All men have hang-ups about their bodies, even Olympians. So why don’t we talk about it more?

Men don’t talk about the way we glance in the mirror and are pummelled by the physical flaws that seem so obvious, says Danny Wallace

Adam Peaty celebrates winning 100m breaststroke gold (Getty)

With the Olympics over, I’m relieved I’m no longer subjected to perfect male bodies twisting through the air or pounding away at pedals with thighs the size of Fife.

Yes, it’s supposed to be inspiring, this triumph of physical and mental perfection in tandem, but what message is it sending our youngsters? That simply by training extraordinarily hard, eating healthily, sacrificing all vices and striving single-mindedly to represent their country in the best way possible, they too can have the perfect body? What are we being told here? That if we just work hard, we can not only bring glory to these shores but look great in shorts and potentially extend our lives through fitness? It’s sick.

I believe that in all future broadcasts, the male Olympian form should be pixelated from neck to shin. Let me watch a head and a pair of feet spiral beautifully in the air from the diving board and let me just imagine the rest. Because only then could I picture someone like me doing it, because I’m someone who would actually quite like it if my body was pixelated.

(By the way, isn’t it weird that my wife only decided to get the kids into watching the Olympics when the diving was on? Diving should be done fully clothed, I decided in that moment. The Olympics weirdly tend to favour the athletes whose bodies are temples. Where are the events for those whose bodies are more like a bin outside a KFC?)

I’ve become very aware of the male form recently because I’ve been recording the podcast Manatomy with my friend, the men’s-magazine veteran Phil Hilton (the man who in his tenure as editor of Men’s Health introduced the six-pack to the UK, and who should therefore be arrested and tried).

And guess how many men have hang-ups about their bodies?

It’s all of them.

It’s you, the guy next to you, your husband, and – more worryingly – your son.

I’m of course joking about the evils of the Olympics – I’ve actually found it fascinating identifying hitherto mythical muscles – but I’m serious about the way men and boys feel, and I’m serious about taking it seriously. We don’t talk about the way we glance in the mirror and are pummelled by the flaws that seem so obvious: the nose, the paunch, the height, the bags, the baggage. We joke about it; we don’t talk about it.

It is an observation barely worth making that women have been subjected to insane body pressures for decades in ads, mags and on social media, but they seemed to realise pretty early on that the only way to release even the smallest steam valve was to talk. But this is the first time I’ve had similar conversations with men; funny, frank and fearless chats about our chests, our nipples... our definition, and how it defines us.

I think many men reach a certain age, weight or weariness and just try to blend in, as they descend into the full invisibility that calls for us all like a very depressing siren. Perhaps to bring awareness, there should be an over-40s version of Love Island where exhausted sunburnt dads keep their tops on and all quietly busy themselves by the BBQ in a big group, fighting over the spatula as they hope no one asks them if they want to go in the pool.

The Olympics is fantastic because it’s all about pinnacles and potential. I think every man remembers his pinnacle in retrospect – the great haircut he got in 2003, or the way T-shirts used to thank him for wearing them. And every man understands that as the years have marched on, he’s left much of his potential behind. He looks back and sees it lazily mingling with the rest of the stuff he forgot to bring with him: his ability to dive, develop quads, or fit into a hurdler’s vest.

But if we talk about the way we see ourselves, one day we’ll get to where women have been waiting for us for years. We’ll be able to talk openly about our bodies, our hang-ups, our triumphs and failures.

On reflection, I’m willing to let the Paris 2024 Olympics go ahead. I await the committee’s response to my idea about pectoral, pelvis and penis pixelation. I don’t mind if they say no. Because I know even our incredible Olympic heroes are probably worried that their ears are wonky. Or that their nipples are too small.

Or worse: that one day, someone’s going to ask them if they want to go in the pool when they end up on Over-40s Celebrity Athlete Love Island.