There is no loud clinking of metal on metal, because the swords are made of rubber.

Hence no horrible gurgling for breath because half your head has been sent flying. No arms suddenly sliced off.

But, in the heat of battle, even a mock battle, the homicidal spirit is definitely willing and loudly expressed, no matter the weapons are weak.

Every Friday night, 200 or so men and women gather on the southern end of Princes Park, in sight of the dog walkers and baby strollers and the otherwise self-absorbed picknicking lovers, to stage a mediaeval-style battle that looks serious, even intense, but has an injury rate one seventh that of netball.

There are mostly sprained ankles from running over rough ground and keeping your eyes on the terrain, or people being bumped hard and falling over. There's the odd concussion from one warrior clunking his head against another. Sometimes people trip over their capes, and that's bound to hurt.