I’m surely not alone in feeling a shard of sympathy for Gregg Wallace after he shared his Saturday routine in one of those Life in a Day columns carried by the London papers. I found it inspiring.

West of Scotland men of a certain age are always being told we need to open up more about our lives because it’s good for #livingyourbestlife. But having witnessed the opprobrium heaped on the MasterChef star, many of us will now think twice about it.

And so, in a spirit of solidarity with Mr Wallace, I now share my own typical day. Hopefully, it will encourage other men to talk about their lives.

My morning routine shapes the day. I rise at 6am and immediately hit my rowing machine. It’s close to my bed and I often forget it’s there. It’s a designer German model by Overath & Netzer and is programmed to give you an electric shock if you fall below the programmed speed. I think about using it for the requisite 20 minutes. I’m resolved to eat healthily and to prepare my own meals.

The Herald: Hanging with my bro, Anas SarwarHanging with my bro, Anas Sarwar (Image: free)

My grown-up children insisted on buying me a Masopust and Yashin fruit blender and a Nigella Lawson cookbook. The blender is brilliant. I use it on Mondays: that way you get your five a week in early doors.

With Nigella, you need a floor-map. I once searched for ingredients for her Strawberry Steusel because, as Nigella says, nothing screams Spring like a Strawberry Streusel!

Sadly, after three entire days of trying to source the ingredients the strawbs had begun to get a bit whiffy. I must ask her to keep it simple when I next time bump into her at the Baftas.

At 8am I watch old YouTube videos of Celtic goals against Rangers which serves as a full #livingyourbestlife workout. And then it’s peach and banana-flavoured cup-a-porridge to provide another of my fruit portions.

I fancy myself as a keen amateur psychologist, so I settle down to watch three episodes of Frasier and catch up on my reading. I’m currently working on a new #livingyourbestlife blog, which I’m calling: ‘A Little Folly Now and Then is Cherished by the Wisest Men.”

Condign and effervescent, non?

I’ll then go for the papers. Being quite a well-known journalist, I often get noticed. Why, just the other week one chap saw me and immediately turned to my column in the paper. He gave me a cheery wave and, ha-ha, pretended to wipe his arse with it. I’m endlessly inspired by the edgy working-class humour of my ain fowk.

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My daughters also worry needlessly about me. During lockdown, they insisted on getting me a dog to combat loneliness. All was going well until the day the pubs re-opened. I overdid did the frivolities and got rather howling at the local pub. Mistaking the Winalot for a tin of tuna, I scoffed the entire contents after adding white wine vinegar and olive oil to it. I’ve tasted worse, though.

Later on, my daughter collects me for a drive in the country. We seem to have forsaken our usual route and instead she walks me around the charming grounds of a local care home called House of the Setting Sun. “Isn’t it peaceful here, dad,” she keeps saying.

Late afternoon see me dropping into Rivera & Mazzola, the traditional Italian deli. They do a magnificent Seizure Salad: artisan chips, organic Tuscan sausages, re-fried, healthy-looking bread and a generous drizzle of Italian dressing. Che Figata, amigos.

Then it’s home for some research on the 1984/85 Miners’ Strike for Monday’s column. I’ve always felt an affinity with the miners, though I’ve never actually met any. As I’m typing away on my laptop in my small basement study lit only by a naked bulb I too could be a miner … if I was 100 feet underground and I was on my hands and knees all the time.

I go to bed at 8pm. If I didn't, I'd be tempted to binge watch some Neo-Scandi Noir from Walter Presents on Channel Four (I’ve been learning conversational Scandinavian) while eating buttered digestive biscuits.

However, I keep checking my smartphone to see how Celtic are getting on that night. The blue light from the device coupled with how murderpolis Celtic are causes me waves of anxiety. And so I have to get up again and spend the next few hours eating Sugar Puffs and waiting fretfully for Sportscene.

Subdued and troubled, I climb into bed at midnight. I get that dream again where I’m running along the platform at Central Station wearing a clown’s outfit. No matter how fast I run though, the train always disappears into the tunnel.

My friend Tam says it suggests thwarted ambition and unresolved guilt at failing to complete tasks. “Why the clown outfit,” I ask him. “Because sometimes you can be a bit of a clown,” he replies softly.