Personally, I blame reality TV.

I blame it for many things, actually, but right now I’m blaming it for giving us blokes a bad reputation.

You see, they reckon we’re all getting soft?

They reckon we don’t play footy with our mates as often as we used to.

Or spend as much time under the bonnet of a car as our fathers and grandfathers did.

And not enough of us own a backyard shed ... apparently.

Obviously, I blame reality TV.

I mean, look at what’s happened since they started inundating us with reality TV.

Remember when a bloke could go to a function and get away with not having to dance?

It wasn’t so long ago we could stand in the corner with our beer in our hand and laugh at the other blokes who got up to try and impress the girls.

And most of the time, the girls laughed at them too.

Then along came those reality TV dancing shows and all of a sudden it was "Ooooh, did you see Tom Williams doing the foxtrot?" and "Ooooh, did you see Tom Wiliams doing the tango?" and "Oh my god! Did you see Tom Williams with his shirt off?"

"Come on and have a dance. Tom does."

I don’t bloody care what Tom Williams does.

If Tom Williams jumped off the Storey Bridge (or was pushed by a thousand angry non-dancing blokes) would you want me to jump too?

Oh, you would?

Really?

But you get my point.

If it wasn’t for reality TV no one would be expecting us blokes to get up and dance ... or sing ... or cook ... or take our clothes off in front of the cameras.

And, of course, there’s those weight loss shows which mean everyone expects us to be trim too.

So, thanks to reality TV, we’re all expected to be singing, dancing, fit blokes who’ll dash home at the end of the day to knock up a gourmet five-course dinner and then perform an erotic strip routine in front of a hidden camera.

Sounds like a normal night at our place, actually.

Don’t get me wrong - I am a caring, sharing sort of guy.

A new age guy, if you will.

I knew reality TV had changed our world a bit but you could have knocked me down with a feather boa the other day when some survey or other said we blokes weren’t blokey enough any more.

Just when I thought things were going so fabulously, they had to go and rain on my mardi gras parade.

See what I mean?

Ever since those gay blokes had that show where they went around helping straight men get their act together I have been comfortable saying "fabulous".

Sure, I don’t say it down the pub on a Friday night but I’ll let it slip if it’s just me and the girls.

But I digress.

According to this survey by some deodorant company or breakfast cereal maker or something, "the iconic hard Aussie blokes are a dying breed".

I was shocked.

Shocked, I tell you.

Apparently only five per cent of us regularly play a game of football with our friends, almost 50 per cent admit it has been months since they tinkered with their car and shed ownership has dropped 27 per cent over the course of a generation.

On the other hand, cleansing with face wash is now practised by 44 per cent of men, about one per cent use moisturiser and almost a third admit they own an item of pink clothing.

See what I mean about reality TV? Everything was going nicely until it came along.

Men were men. Women were women. We all knew our place.

Then along came reality TV and stuffed the whole thing up.

Thank god we’ve still got Gordon Ramsay.

At least while I’m doing my @#$%* dancing and my @#$%* singing and getting my @#$%* gear off in front of the @#$%* hidden cameras I know there is a place for a @#$%* real bloke in reality TV.

Anyone for a quick game of footy and a couple of beers down the back shed?

I’ve got about an hour before I have to cook dinner.