Us Brits. We’re a lost cause, really. Empathetic psychologists one minute and empirically opinionated the moment they’ve closed the door. We’re wired that way, you see. Robert Winston should do a documentary about it. Or Simon Cowell. Centuries of stoicism and stiff upper lip has squeezed us dry of any ability to stand up and say bollocks, unless wrapped in the anonymity of a football stadium. Or a pub.

Now there’s some who are already guffawing and claiming its utter tosh and we’re as tough in business and life as any egotistical maniac from East Coast MiddleFingerVille. But I’m sorry to say that you’re kidding yourself. (See, there’s a case in point. I had to apologise to say you’re wrong. What is our problem?).

If an Englishman says he has zip-zero quibbles in telling someone to shut up and get to the point at a first meeting, he’s proffering a genetic u-turn. Instead we nod when we have no idea of what someone’s talking about. Or we hope they’ll just run out of things to say and go away. It’s like cats. They lick you for the salt, not because they like you. Purring is nature’s way of giving it all a bit of credibility.

So where am I going with this. Hotels. That’s where. There’s a friend of mine who can’t stop waxing lyrical about them, given half a chance. Dumbstruck he is. All Oh My God, Where do I Start, A Maze Ing. You’d think he’d need a wheelchair and cardiac unit on arrival at reception. Daniel Day-Lewis couldn’t do better. A modern day soliloquist who has a future career as a walking Five Star hotel advocate should he choose to.

And I nod politely and say really and wonder if the children are asleep. That’s the danger of asking how something was or someone is. You get battened by an academic critique that comes from the sidelines when you least expect it.

But my friend’s reaction to the finer things in hotel life is unsurprising, if a little elevated on the gush-o-meter. Hotels rarely sell rooms any more. They sell emotion. From the humble, pragmatic and quietly confident deal of the day to the serene, elite sanctuaries at eye popping prices. Each and every one of them promises an experience that rivals no other, be it super cheap or super super.

Having plotted my way across Asia for a few years I’ve become pretty familiar with the highs and the lows of hotel accommodation. Grim joints with crusty carpets, lost underwear deep within the folds of the freshly made bed and just enough room to cause my Space Test Cat severe haemorrhaging and facial lacerations. And then there have been the rare but well received upgrades. Vast spaces with annexes that get discovered throughout the stay, iPod points everywhere, electric this and that and showers so big you’re looking for the valet to give your car a once over.

But among all the experiential marketing and promises of home comforts and affordability, there is one thing that hotels just can’t get right. And it’s really such a simple oversight that it’s extraordinary that no-one has jumped on it and made it a billion dollar differentiator. What is it? It’s this. Towels.

As nauseating as the old Lenor ads used to be with the Doris Day mum wrapping her perfect child in a thick, soft blanket of infused love and towelling, it did tap into something really rather important: the comfort and reassurance that comes with the alchemy of soft, senuous fabric and softer and more senuous scent. It’s a winning combination.

It’s common knowledge (if it isn’t, it should be) that smell is our strongest sense. Far more emotive than touch, sound, taste and sight. It evokes nostalgia and peace and goodwill to all men and all sorts of gooey emotions that most Y chromosomers would never admit to and most women would pay a fortune for. Just ask Coco.

And yet – and this is a big And yet – it doesn’t matter if you’re staying in the down-and-out dungeon or the Presidential Suite; each and every hotel towel has the same distinctive crispy, slightly crunchy, feel to it. And the smell. Someone, somewhere, has a monopoly on towel laundry and for my money it’s a vet. There’s no polite way of pinpointing the faint, yet oddly recognisable, aroma of these towels. It’s definitely acrid. Certainly salty. And there’s more than a hint of ammonia in there too. One could describe it as a natural smell. Or, perhaps, a student’s bedroom. Or maybe, if you were feeling a little less generous, the fertility clinic at the local bovine centre. What ever it is, it is fowl. No, foul.

Hotels spend a fortune on setting the right scene. An environment that appeals to the senses and warms the cockles. Sheets and soft down pillows got an overhaul by most mid-tier hotels a while back. The Westin has built a brand around it. Then came music which started as an environmental (with a small e) thing but soon became monetarised as people began to want to take their aural experiences home with them.

But the sense and power of smell in hotel accommodation has yet to get a glimpse of its Zenith. There are a handful of places that have a well meaning stab at it, with bath salts and shower scrubs labelled by the latest fashion and homewares aficionado. But I have yet to find anywhere that gives you the comfort to know that when you step out of your shower you’re not going to have to wrap yourself in something that feels like Ermintrude got there before you.

And that rather spoils the experential moment.