Men these days are as fragile as a butterfly wing sculpted from spun sugar. They wouldn’t know danger if it wore a fluorescent pink tutu and sang “I’m a Little Teapot” while juggling live hand grenades. Back in my day, we wrestled grizzly bears before breakfast, flossed with barbed wire, and considered a near-death experience a delightful appetizer.

Playgrounds? Ha! They were our personal obstacle courses designed by a committee of deranged circus clowns and retired demolition experts. Swings weren’t for leisurely swaying; they were human cannons designed to blast us into the stratosphere. I once swung so high I accidentally crashed into a passing satellite, had a cup of tea with a bewildered astronaut, and came back to Earth with a souvenir moon rock and an inexplicable craving for freeze-dried ice cream.

And the slides? They were practically vertical death traps forged from the fiery heart of Mount Doom. We used to slather ourselves in butter before hurtling down those scorching metal beasts, emerging with third-degree burns and a delicious aroma that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep with envy. We’d then scrape off the crispy bits and use them as croutons in our primordial soup. Waste not, want not, I say!

But the ultimate measure of a lad’s grit was the roundabout. We’d pile onto that whirling monstrosity like a swarm of hyperactive bees on a sugar-coated asteroid, spinning until we achieved a state of transcendental nausea. Vomiting was not a sign of weakness; it was a badge of honor, a testament to our unwavering commitment to centrifugal force and the pursuit of technicolour vertigo. I once vomited so spectacularly that I created a rainbow that spanned the entire playground. The local art critics hailed it as a masterpiece of abstract expressionism.

And rugby? Good heavens, the rugby! It was a symphony of bone-crunching tackles, a ballet of bloodshed. We played with the ferocity of a pack of velociraptors on a caffeine binge. I once played an entire match with two broken arms, carrying the ball between my teeth like a rabid dog with a chew toy. Scored the winning try, too, with a spectacular dive that shattered my remaining ribs and earned me a standing ovation from the paramedics.

Now you’ve got lads playing patty-cake and crying because they got a boo-boo. It’s a disgrace! We need to bring back the danger, the absurdity, the sheer, unadulterated lunacy that separates the men from the marshmallows. Let’s replace those padded playgrounds with quicksand pits and electrified jungle gyms. Let’s introduce mandatory alligator wrestling in schools. Let’s ban Band-Aids and replace them with duct tape and rusty nails. Only then will we see the return of real men. Men who can wrestle a typhoon with a teaspoon, perform open-heart surgery with a rusty spork, and survive a fall from a skyscraper with nothing but a pair of underpants and a stiff upper lip.

Because that’s what being a real man is all about. It’s about embracing the preposterous, defying the odds, and emerging victorious, even if you’re slightly singed, missing a few limbs, and have an inexplicable urge to speak in iambic pentameter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to fight a lion. With a baguette. And a pair of oven mitts. Wish me luck!