Yes, friends, the thinnest fat man in the world has done it again. Don’t bother clicking through, but if you do, don’t bother reading any further than the first four paragraphs. He summarises his argument as follows:

“Couples are annoying. I know this because I am part of a couple and I am annoying… I hate couples. I hate myself.”

Conveniently, these lines also tell us why we should immediately disregard every one of the ensuing 1700 words. In case you missed them, here they are again (my bolds):

“Couples are annoying. I know this because I am part of a couple and I am annoying… I hate couples. I hate myself.”

What follows is a lengthy diatribe pouring scorn on the kind of stuff that couples naturally get into. Granted, some of it is annoying – the royal ‘we’, nuzzling noses at the dinner table and the like – but most of it is just a lament for his former singledom. Some of my favourites are “You make everyone else feel like a third wheel”, “You were more fun when you were single,” and “Let’s face it, sluts have more fun,” since, let’s face it, if you’re single you are obviously a whore.

Soria takes great pains to remind us that he has a boyfriend, for whom I only have the greatest sympathy, because the author of this article appears to have the emotional depth of a puddle of puke.

Joke or no joke, if my boyfriend had written that article, we would be having a serious conversation about when he would be addressing his self-esteem issues and treating me with some respect. “I am a part of a couple and… I hate myself” equates to “I hate us” and I don’t have time for that kind of crap. I have my own problems, thanks; I don’t need to be dealing with a whiny homo who can’t deal with his own emotions and sees me as a bind. You want more fun? Go make your own; I’m not your clown. If being in a couple sucks so much, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

I have a boyfriend, and I love him very much. I think we’re a good couple, and we do slushy things that we generally keep to ourselves. Sometimes we do them in front of single friends and they roll their eyes and tell us to get a room. But I am happy with him and they are happy for me. I don’t pity my single friends, because they’re awesome people and they certainly don’t need sympathy.

Single people hate couples like the British hate the French. It’s just the way it is. But you know what everyone hates? People in perfectly good relationships who veil their smugness in self-effacement, bleating on about how their fabulous life of dinner parties in the Hollywood Hills really sucks.

Fortunately, those who take being single for what it is, and those couples who either dislike Valentine’s Day or don’t feel the need to rave about it, keep themselves to themselves around this time of year. If only Orlando Soria would do the same.

Within a year of moving to Sydney I had broken up with my 4-year boyfriend and was living on my own. I had a new job, very few friends and no one to talk to about it. I was, in short, lonely and miserable. I seriously thought about moving back to the UK. It was only my stubborn nature and incapacity for being beaten that kept me here. Meeting new people is easy, but making new friends is harder: real friends are rare and should be treasured when you find them.

As Sarah described our becoming friends: “I hung out with a few people for a while and eventually I realised that no one was as awesome as Sveny.” And that’s pretty much all there was to it. Over the past four years I have hung out with all kinds of people for a while and though some have come and gone, the awesome ones have stuck around and filled my lonely old life with love and gossip and laughter and crazy good times.

For my 33rd birthday they all came out in fancy dress like fools to celebrate another year of me successfully being me. If I were to cut and run now, I would miss them all just like I miss my UK friends. Another friend summarised it beautifully in the throes of the Safari Disco Birthday Extravaganza: “Man, when you first got here you had a shit time. Now look at you: you’re cruising.”

She’s right. I have a fantastic life. I am so lucky.

1. You don’t even know me.

I’m don’t really need constant external validation; I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin. I may not be a stellar guy, but I must be pretty decent because I have nice friends who choose to spend time with me and introduce me to other people they know. They seldom tell me I’m nice because their continued friendship is proof enough that they don’t think I’m a cunt. When you, stranger at a party, tell me I’m a nice guy I accept the compliment because it’s a kind thing to say. When you tell me that my being single is shocking because I’m a nice guy, is it any wonder that I want to punch you in the throat? You have no idea why I’m single, (but thanks for bringing it up, by the way); you certainly weren’t invited to comment on it; and you have no reason to suppose I was going to be anything other than nice. Did I look like a bastard from across the room? Or do you assume everyone is an asshole until you talk to them? Even for me, that’s taking cynicism too far.

2. You are judging me based on your relationship status.

The only people who are shocked that anyone is single are people who aren’t. Single people aren’t surprised because, newsflash: this is how we live our lives. We struggle on day-to-day, making our breakfast, washing our clothes and warming our beds, because time does not stop for the lonely. The world turns and we have bills to pay. I know that you are happily attached and that’s great, but being single doesn’t actually suck, either. It’s just life: we get on with it. Maybe I don’t want what you have: perhaps I have decided that single life suits me for now (or forever) and I’m perfectly content. A relationship is not a cosmic reward for being a nice person: it’s a choice you make when you meet someone you like and decide to give it a go. You got lucky and I’m thrilled for you, but it doesn’t qualify you as an authority on romance any more than winning the lottery makes me an expert on gambling.

3. You’re making me a victim in my own life.

I can live with the insensitivity and the social myopia and the skewed mentality of the world of the happily coupled, but the thing that really drives me insane is the idea that I am somehow to blame for being single. By telling me how surprising my situation is, you’re implying that there’s something amiss: that I am somehow deficient or faulty, and that this isn’t how life should be. Sure, I would like to settle down with the right guy one day – and as Mark poetically puts it: “your taxi light is on” – but I reserve the right to be selective about who gets to ride. Whilst I may feel like I am ready for a relationship, I have, perversely, chosen to remain single. I’ve turned down offers for various reasons, and I’ve also been rejected by others. This is all part and parcel of finding what I am looking for. I chose to get into this and whilst I can’t control the game, I can elect to play or not.

When you tell me that my being nice and single is a surprise, you may think you are saying that I deserve to be happy. What you are actually saying is that there must be something wrong with me and you just don’t know what it is yet. You are implying, intentionally or not, that everyone who has ever turned me down has been astute enough to spot it, and that those I turned down had a lucky escape. You’re not boosting my confidence or making me feel good about myself: you’re undermining me by highlighting that I haven’t achieved what you have, and flaunting your happiness as measure against which I shall forever be found wanting.

Of course, all I can do is smile and say thank you with a commiserative tone, because dousing you in kerosene and setting you on fire would be socially unacceptable. Next time, think before you open your mouth and decide whether you really want to make me feel like shit with your inane comments. After all, I probably don’t deserve it: I’m a really nice guy.

How could I say no? I can’t tell the rest of the story without looking like a monumental shitbag, so I’ll take your judgment as read and just get on with it.

Naturally, there was no way I was going to get caught in a lie, so my only option was to commit fully and see it through. He works 15 minutes from my home but I work an hour away, so beating him to my door was going to be tight. I grabbed my stuff and yelled to my boss that I was leaving as a I ran for the lift. However, karma doesn’t like liars and although I made it to the train station on time, my train ticket didn’t. It was still in my wallet which, overlooked in the rush, was still in my office. I ran back, cursing the fates, and by then I was running too late. If I was going to make it I only had one option left.

There’s nothing like wild-eyed panic to motivate a cab-driver, so me bursting into the taxi yelling “How fast can you get me to Surry Hills?” was all the excuse he needed to drive like the maniac he clearly thought I was. To his credit, he turned a 40-minute drive into a 25-minute rollercoaster ride through rush-hour Sydney, and we screeched into my street just before 5:30. Naturally I made him drop me at the back door, just in case, and a few moments later I bounded from the cab $63 poorer, and ran into the building as fast as I could go.

Indoors, I put my plan into action with the dedication of an Oscar-hungry method actor. (Thanks, drama degree!) I threw on pyjamas and track pants. I got into bed and rolled around to give the sheets and my hair an authentic feel. I covered myself in Vicks. I rubbed my nose till it was red and threw the tissues in a pile by the bed. I even rinsed my mouth in cough syrup just in case he got close enough to smell my breath. When the buzzer went moments later, I adopted the demeanour of a self-pitying manflu victim and let him in. I was ready.

I’m no stranger to guilt but what followed was crippling, even by lapsed Catholic standards. “Chicken soup for the soul” was an enormous bunch of flowers – tulips and gardenias – with a card declaring that “if you’re stuck at home it’s good to have something nice to look at”. Of course it was too late for me, the Marlon Brando of influenza performers, to do anything about it. I croaked my way through a grateful acceptance, a list of fake symptoms and treatments, and agreed that bed-rest was certainly what the imaginary doctor had ordered. And in my living room for the following week I had a gorgeous, floral reminder that I am the worst person on Earth.

But at least I got to bed early.

I did not have high hopes for this show when I arrived at Sydney’s Seymour Centre for opening night. The title is fairly frank – it does exactly what is says on the tin – and doesn’t lend itself to any kind of engaging storyline or exposition. I genuinely expected a naked choral recital from a bunch of smirking fratboys – a naked Whiffenpoofs, if you like. I was not prepared for Fascinating Aida with wangs, and I loved it.

“Oh yes they’re sure to see. Oh yes you’re short to see. Gratuitous, gratuitous, gratuitous, gratuitous nudity.”

And with these words, the cast revealed all and kept it that way throughout the entire performance. This was in the overture. What follows is a fun romp through various penis gags set to music, with asides that look at porn, contemporary notions of body image, and various aspects of modern gay (or indeed straight) life. The Seymour Centre – a smallish theatre – guaranteed an excellent view from every seat, with the front row getting a literal eyeful in many of the numbers. Despite this, and with a few exceptions, the nudity is far less sexual than you might expect. The jokes are risqué, taboo and frequently outrageous, but in-your-face sexuality is lightly handled and rarely used. Just a few songs in and their nudity becomes a shared rather than voyeuristic experience.

The vocal performances were technically solid, though limited projection by many of the cast had some of us further back in the auditorium straining to hear over the tremendous piano accompaniment. That is forgiven though, along with the occasional opening night slip-up, thanks to the quality of the production and the sheer delight the cast took in performing.

Naked Boys Singing has hilarious lyrics, toe-tapping tunes and choreography that makes you cringe and cheer in equal measure. (“Jack’s Song” and “Perky Little Porn Star” made me laugh, blush, stare and recoil all at the same time.) You will laugh, you will wince, and you will leap to your feet at the end. Hilarious.

Naked Boys Singing is showing until 17 March at The Seymour Centre in Sydney.

Dear Committee Secretary,

This year I will become an Australian citizen, and I look forward to swearing my oath to a country I have come to regard above all others as my home. I will attend the same ceremony as everyone else, take the same oath and receive the same certificate, but I will not receive the same citizenship. I will not receive the same rights as those I stand alongside: I will not have the right to marry the person I choose.

As a British immigrant I have the right to enter into a civil partnership and, when the UK government approves it (as I believe they shall), a marriage with a person of the same sex. Right now, in the heart of Sydney, I can visit the British Consulate and exercise a right granted to me by another country – a right that Australians cannot enjoy on the other side of the Consulate wall.

The right to marry is an opportunity to express my love for someone else. When I become an Australian citizen, I will swear loyalty to a government that affords me fewer rights, less opportunity and less freedom of expression. I will do this gladly, because only by becoming a citizen can I vote to change these laws, and the governments that support them, to build a country that truly provides equality for all.

Yours faithfully,

Sveny

You can find out more about Marraige Equality in Australia at the Australian Marriage Equality website.

Despite being world famous, logistically mindboggling, fantastically expensive and produced on an unimaginably large scale, Sydney Mardi Gras only has a handful of staff, the rest of the work being done entirely by volunteers. The season itsef runs for three weeks with all kinds of events, and the Parade is always the highlight. This year, for the first time, I volunteered for Parade as a member of the media crew, and that’s how I came this close to Kylie:

You can watch the parade online, and I am in virtually every frame. My job was to stand in Taylor Square and stop unauthorised media from charging around the parade route taking photos and slowing down the procession. As a result, all the shots you see are me not doing my job, because all the shots where I did wade in to break up unauthorised interviews or yell at people to keep moving were probably unusable.

The Parade itself was fantastic, of course, but the highlight for me was the end when the volunteers were collected from the route and brought up the rear (as it were). Walking down the street and hearing everyone cheer for you is always great, but knowing that you gave up your afternoon to stand in the wind and the rain to do something truly worthwhile is an amazing feeling. Being gay isn’t a big deal for me, and I certainly don’t expect a parade for it, but helping run something that does so much good is. Raising money for charities that help people in a situation where being gay IS a big deal, or raising awareness of fights for justice like marriage equality or an end to workplace discrimination – is definitely something I feel proud to be involved with.

After the Parade, I hit the Mardi Gras party with my friends – also all volunteers – and had a brilliant time watching Kylie perform, drinking rum and coke from a can and dancing till the early hours of the morning, but the biggest high – and the reason the party was such fun – was because I had done something worth partying for. Roll on 2013: it’s going to be awesome.

• good-looking (subjective, but necessary)
• intelligent and articulate
• physically strong but not overly so
• widely read
• intellectually curious
• well travelled or willing to be
• etc etc

At work, people often mistake their key messages for strategic outcomes when they think about their communications objectives. When I ask what people want media coverage to do for them I get a list of all the fabulous things they want to say, but nary a hint of what they want to achieve. The ‘perfect boyfriend’ list is the same: things you want to be able to say, even if only to yourself, but not what you actually want to feel or be.

After a while I interrupted him. His list is the personal life equivalent of my professional bête noire. Everyone makes the same mistake, and I have done the same: we make a list not of what we want in someone else, but what we want to be with someone else. The perfect partner isn’t a list of attributes: you have to feel it, and there’s no list for that.

Poor Ash listened as my mouth struggled to order my thoughts on what I really wanted in the perfect boyfriend. It took me 30 seconds to realise that I really don’t know, and that’s exactly how it should be. My best relationships were the ones where I didn’t know I could feel something until I did, where I could indulge feelings I would normally hold back, and enjoy things I had never enjoyed before. Everyone loves to travel; how many people can make staying home and doing the chores something to look froward to? A million men could tick off the list above, but few have ever made things feel new and familiar, exciting and safe, all at once. What is the point in having anything on that list if none of it ever feels magical?

I have no idea what my perfect man will be like, and I have no idea what I will be like with him, but I know when it happens it will be amazing. If that makes me a hopeless romantic then so be it, because there’s nothing hopeless about romantics. We always have something to look forward to.

“You know, I think I’ve been trying so hard not to rebound onto anyone since my last break-up that I’ve forgotten how to let anyone be interested.”

Sitting in a leg-press with 100kgs in the air is not the time for this kind of realisation because I stopped what I was doing and kind of waited there while I thought about it, and then my legs start to hurt. While I finished off my reps, Steve performed a skit – complete with gestures, facial expressions and accents – of what a night out with me would be like.

Steve-as-Me: “Oh, you seem nice.”
Steve-as-Other-guy: “Oh, you do, too. Maybe I like you.”
Steve-as-me: “Oh, wait. You might like me? You’re obviously crazy. I’m just going to back. away. slowly.”

Then he told me to chill out; that guys who text me aren’t trying to stalk me, and when they suggest dinner they aren’t trying to get married; maybe they’re just trying to get to know me and I should calm the fuck down, be flattered and enjoy it.

A few days before I had discussed a similar topic with Mark; namely why I seem to attract more than my fair share of stalkers, lunatics and potential murderers.

Me: “Let’s face it. We both know I’m a madman magnet.”
Mark: “You’re not a madman magnet: you’re a madman enabler.”

There’s truth in both of these. Few guys are actually crazy, but those few need someone to let them be crazy. Bearing all this advice in mind, here is my plan for February:

Calm the fuck down, be flattered and enjoy it. And try to avoid the crazy ones.

By the end of last year I was a complete wreck, and I really didn’t know or like who I had become. It wasn’t until I had a few frank conversations with family, friends, loved ones and colleagues that I realised I was trying so hard to be who I thought I should be that I had forgotten how to be who I am. This year I will stop making such an effort and just do what comes naturally: be a nice guy.

I’m going to be nicer to myself in 2012, and if you’re going to do this with me there’s one thing you have to learn. It’s probably a lot harder than it sounds, but if I can do it, so can you:

MAKE BETTER CHOICES.

I’ve turned into the kind of person who sticks with a predictable catastrophe because it’s less risky than taking a chance on something. Unsuitable men, impossible situations, and overworking myself by refusing offers for help: they’re all destined to failure and when they do it’s easier because I knew it was coming. It’s time to get back the person who gave up everything for a life on the other side of the world, and who isn’t afraid of the mysteries of things working out just fine.

Making better choices means thinking more about what I actually feel and less about what I think I ought to feel. It means knowing and doing what feels good without feeling like a failure for not enjoying the things that make me feel like crap. It means not beating myself up over failed relationships or chasing after unavailable men, or thinking I’m a failure for still being single. None of those things matter, and they just make me feel cheap and miserable. I’m worth so much more.

Clearly every day can’t be a blinding daze of happiness and self-awareness. I’m not one for Deepak Chopra and the happy-clapper revolution, as I’m sure you have guessed. But recognising that I’m feeling crap because I’m making a bad choice might curb some of my more self-destructive tendencies; with any luck in January 2013 I won’t be tunnelling myself out of depression again, but looking back over a year where I actually made myself happy.

Making better choices isn’t making safer choices or turning down opportunities, and it certainly isn’t reckless hedonism either: it’s saying yes with confidence, and saying no without malice or regret. It might take more than a year to learn, but I have to start some time. I choose today.

Let’s go.