No, I will not "grow a pair"

Men need to admit their vulnerability.

If there's one phrase I'd love to get rid of, it's "grow a pair". You hear it a lot nowadays, not just said by men to other men they wish would grow up, but even from men to women, or women to other women. "Grow a pair", they say, or "strap on a pair", as if a couple of testicles will solve all problems, like a pair of dangly amulets.

As most men know, growing a pair of balls, or having them drop, doesn't really change much at all. You remain pretty much the person you used to be, albeit with a slightly deeper voice. But still, in our culture and language, "balls" and "ballsy" mean courage or courageous; we talk of "cojones" or "having big balls" to mean audacity or power.

It's irritating nonsense, for several reasons. Courage isn't inherently a masculine quality, of course, but there's more to it than that. People often use the phrase "grow a pair" or "strap on a pair" as a way of belittling someone who has shown weakness, or vulnerability - someone who didn't show the requisite assertiveness that apparently lives in the testes.

As well as that, it reinforces the very worst stereotypes of the "man's man": the rush to confrontation, rather than negotiation; a certain headstrong or even bloody-minded quality; the idea of maleness as something that is aggressive, rather than collaborative.

For those of us men who are more team players than the all-conquering alphas we're supposed to aspire to be, it's a tiresome thing. Not all of us are meant to shout and bellow and fight our way to success; some of us prefer other ways of doing things. It's not through a lack of balls, but through a lack of unfeeling uber-competitiveness.

Must we still, in this new century, be talking of men as people who should be nasty, assertive, pushy, unpleasant, in order to be proper men? We're not all Gordon Ramsay (who has a fondness bordering on obsession for talk of "big bollocks" when upbraiding some poor cookery sap on television).

But there's something else, too. The real quality that testicles have is staring us in the face. Human males, unlike many other mammals, have external testicles, dangling merrily away from their undercarriage like a couple of lychees in an old leather purse.

This evolutionary quirk exposes the adult male to extremes of pain and suffering at a stroke. A well aimed kick from an attacker, or punch from a young child (children happen to be at the perfect height to connect with full force), and even the toughest man will be reduced to a quivering foetal position of helplessness. There are no words for the pain, which I am pretty sure is definitely entirely worse than childbirth (THIS IS A JOKE).

How humans could ever have believed that a benign (and in many cultures apparently male) creator decided to place a couple of pain grenades hanging invitingly down as they do is a question for anthropologists. What it means, though, is that men's testicles, far from being a centre of our strength, are our most visible sign of weakness.

Every year, dozens of men die because they decided to "strap on a pair" rather than admit their own weakness. Whether it's shrugging off a niggling illness or feeling unable to talk about mental health problems (young men are at far greater risk from suicide than women, for example), the things we've been told about what it is to be a man can be our own worst enemy. It's not weakness to admit you can't cope; it's strength.

If we can't get rid of the odious phrase "strap on a pair" perhaps it's time it should take on a new meaning. Because it is courageous to strap on a pair - to hang your vulnerability so obviously, to invite a kick in the balls. It's an aspect of masculinity that often gets overlooked, the quality of honesty, vulnerability, and gaining strength through admitting your weaknesses rather than glossing over them with displays of machismo.

So if someone asks me to strap on a pair, I'll take their advice: be more aware of shortcomings; realise how vulnerable we all are; remember that a fall from hubris is just a well-aimed punch in the nuts away. That's real courage, I think.

"Adam's leaf" underpants, invented in 2004, are supposed to keep the testicles ventilated and increase sexual potency. Photograph: Getty Images

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Why relations between Theresa May and Philip Hammond became tense so quickly

The political imperative of controlling immigration is clashing with the economic imperative of maintaining growth. 

There is no relationship in government more important than that between the prime minister and the chancellor. When Theresa May entered No.10, she chose Philip Hammond, a dependable technocrat and long-standing ally who she had known since Oxford University. 

But relations between the pair have proved far tenser than anticipated. On Wednesday, Hammond suggested that students could be excluded from the net migration target. "We are having conversations within government about the most appropriate way to record and address net migration," he told the Treasury select committee. The Chancellor, in common with many others, has long regarded the inclusion of students as an obstacle to growth. 

The following day Hammond was publicly rebuked by No.10. "Our position on who is included in the figures has not changed, and we are categorically not reviewing whether or not students are included," a spokesman said (as I reported in advance, May believes that the public would see this move as "a fix"). 

This is not the only clash in May's first 100 days. Hammond was aggrieved by the Prime Minister's criticisms of loose monetary policy (which forced No.10 to state that it "respects the independence of the Bank of England") and is resisting tougher controls on foreign takeovers. The Chancellor has also struck a more sceptical tone on the UK's economic prospects. "It is clear to me that the British people did not vote on June 23 to become poorer," he declared in his conference speech, a signal that national prosperity must come before control of immigration. 

May and Hammond's relationship was never going to match the remarkable bond between David Cameron and George Osborne. But should relations worsen it risks becoming closer to that beween Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling. Like Hammond, Darling entered the Treasury as a calm technocrat and an ally of the PM. But the extraordinary circumstances of the financial crisis transformed him into a far more assertive figure.

In times of turmoil, there is an inevitable clash between political and economic priorities. As prime minister, Brown resisted talk of cuts for fear of the electoral consequences. But as chancellor, Darling was more concerned with the bottom line (backing a rise in VAT). By analogy, May is focused on the political imperative of controlling immigration, while Hammond is focused on the economic imperative of maintaining growth. If their relationship is to endure far tougher times they will soon need to find a middle way. 

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.