In the land of the giants

If you are a gentleman with precarious self-esteem, I suggest that you never live next door to a bodybuilder. Well, my flatmate and I were never sure whether our next-door neighbour was actually a bodybuilder, but he must have been a professional athlete in some sport where they needed massive blokes to crash into one another, because his body was ridiculous and he seemed to be making a lot of money for doing very little besides going to the gym.

My flatmate nicknamed him El Gigantico, but of course we never called him that to his face. If we'd called him anything, it would have been "sir", because he was huge, big enough to make Jonah Lomu quiver in his rugby boots. He looked like a guy who could kick sand in the faces of the guys who kick sand in the faces of people like me.

We couldn't stop talking about him, with a combination of awe and pronounced jealousy. It wasn’t just that he was so enormous that we had to turn sideways to pass him in the hall. It wasn’t just that he brought an ever-changing assortment of gorgeous ladies back to his palatial bachelor pad. It was the fact that every time I looked at him, it was like looking into one of those funhouse mirrors that distorts you into the exact opposite. When I looked at him, I saw my own lack of muscle definition reflected back. Every glimpse of his physical splendour felt like a reproach.

When I look at someone like Gigantico, or watch those behemoths going toe to toe in a State of Origin match, or even behold Ryan Gosling with his shirt off in Crazy Stupid Love, in that scene where Emma Stone protested that he looked Photoshopped, I wonder what it would be like to have muscles that were visible instead of hidden shamefully below the surface. To have pecs, biceps, a six-pack. For my stomach to feel firm and toned rather than soggily flabby. And, the holy grail, to be able to wear a tight t-shirt without feeling self-conscious.

We hear a great deal about the problematic ways in which women's bodies are idealised in the media. But while there's obviously a difference in degree - as far as I know, fashion mags don't tend to bother radically Photoshopping men's bodies, to cite just one example - we blokes aren't entirely immune to the same pressures. For us, success is defined as being slim, muscular, perhaps lightly tanned, with minimal hair on your body and a full head of hair on your head. In other words, as Brad Pitt. But many Australian men look more like Homer Simpson, with hefty guts, shiny pates and permanent five o'clock shadows. And as funny as he is, nobody aspires to be like him, or even can understand why a hottie like Marge stays with him.

And men's body image does affect our behaviour. If we think of ourselves as relatively unattractive, we find ourselves deferring to men who are in in better shape, the same way we would have stood aside for the alpha males in caveman times. There's no way I'd try to compete with Gigantico for a woman, for instance, and not just because he could pulverise me with both hands tied behind his back. I'd simply expect the lady to go for him, because that's the way the world is. And men are often accused – entirely correctly – of placing too much emphasis on appearance, it's not exactly a one-way street. I've seen internet dating profiles where women specified "Must be in shape", or "No bald guys". Harsh, of course, but I guess it saves both parties time.

That said, I don't think I'd want to become one of those men who sculpt vast rippling upper bodies for their own sake. But I'd be delighted to cultivate a carefree physique that suggested "oh yes, I lead quite the active lifestyle, and these here muscles just cropped up when I was hauling in the mainsheet in the last Sydney to Hobart, or was it when I was rock climbing in the Andes last spring?" In other words, I want muscles, but cooly nonchalant ones.

And this is partly because I've seen how our neighbour got to be so Gigantico, and it terrified me. We inspected his apartment when it was up for sale, and were shocked to discover his dozens of vast white plastic tubs with names like Protein Max and Muscle Up and Body Xtreme. I can only assume he siphoned bucketloads of powdery, proteiny gunk into his gullet each day in between his reps of pumping iron. I'm not prepared to make myself a biochemical experiment in order to make my arms resemble a hearty lamb roast. I'd just like to feel slightly more proud of my physique when I look in the mirror.

In American Beauty, Kevin Spacey's character set himself the goal of looking good naked. That's a lofty ideal, but at this point, I'll settle for looking good fully clothed. For the bulges beneath my shirt to suggest that I'm taking care of myself rather than the opposite. And if I can achieve that, perhaps one day my new neighbours will come up with their own cheeky quasi-Spanish nickname for my exquisite physique.

This piece originally appeared in Sunday Life.

Twelve tips for those home alone

So, you’re living alone, like more Australians than ever before. Perhaps you’ve had a breakup, or moved to a new town? Perhaps, like Richard Roxburgh’s character in Rake, you’ve systematically alienated everyone who ever cared about you and have ended up alone in a dingy bedsit? Or perhaps you’re just weird.

I’ve been living by myself for 18 months, because when you’re in your mid-30s, life without flatmates is easier and simpler for everything except playing SingStar. But it can be tough adjusting to a solo existence, which is why I’ve prepared this invaluable guide.

Do whatever you want, when you want. The greatest thing about living alone is that it excuses you from the conventional rules of human interaction. Finally, you can do the things you used to avoid so the people you lived with wouldn’t doubt your mental stability, like recreating the Battle of Osgiliath from The Lord of the Rings using hand-painted orcs. Or you might spend an entire weekend watching The Wire with only brief meal and bathroom breaks, like I did. Living alone means that nobody cares what you do day to day. Those who find this prospect depressing rather than liberating shouldn’t try it.

Be vigilant about not seeming weird. The caveat to your new-found domestic freedom is being careful not to reveal the bizarre things you do with all your free time. This is especially challenging because when you live alone, you inevitably start to forget social norms. Be prepared to lie about spending an entire weekend reorganising your CD library or your colleagues may begin to suspect you’re some kind of freaky serial killer. Of course, if you are a freaky serial killer, it’s all the more important to lie about your weekend.

Live in the inner city. I know some people live by themselves in the suburbs or even in the country, but, frankly, the prospect of that level of isolation scares me. In the city, there’s an abundance of pleasant solo activities such as shopping, browsing in galleries and watching movies. And there are people everywhere, which is reassuring. Some say the city can be unfriendly, but sometimes even yelling at the junkie who has passed out on your doorstep is welcome human contact.

Budget carefully. Living costs are always going to be higher when you can’t split bills. Electricity, gas and water cost me about $1200 a year. Then again, no one will notice if you do eccentric things to save money, like drinking hot water instead of tea.

Get cable. And a lot of books. And a PlayStation. And the internet. And anything else that kills time. When you start living alone, you’ll be amazed by how many hours there are in the day. Sometimes I forget to schedule any social activities for a weekend day – a trap for young players – and end up having to fill 16 straight leisure hours with random mucking around. It’s harder than it sounds. Note, though, that it simply isn’t worth trying to explain this difficulty to friends with newborn babies. They’ll still hate you for your apparently idyllic life of liberty.

Live near good, cheap takeaway food outlets. Some people who live by themselves manage to cook every meal, but I can’t be bothered when the end point is setting a table only to sit at it by myself. Plus, it’s very hard to cook dinner for one for less than the 10 bucks you’ll pay at your local food court or Asian takeaway. Besides, getting takeaway or eating out encourages you not only tp leave the house, but talk to somebody, albeit briefly.

Use Twitter. You know how it’s nice to watch interesting TV shows, sporting events or breaking news with other people? Well, now you can’t. But Twitter allows loners to come together to hurl 140-character abuse at Q&A participants, biased footy referees and Ben Elton. Sometimes it feels almost like watching with genuine friends.

Have people over. Entertaining is all the more lovely when you have your own place. Not only will all the credit for the meal be yours, but it creates a reason to tidy up your hovel so your visitors don’t think you’re “not coping”. Sure, you’ll have a few pangs when they leave, but at least you will have proved you can still function socially.

Walk around naked. You’ve never felt so free! Because who cares, right? Pro tip: consider whether, given the layout of your house, the answer to this question might be “the neighbours”, “random passers-by” or “the police across the street”.

Avoid being morbid. Questions such as “If I slip in the shower and crack open my skull, who will call an ambulance?” or “If I die in my sleep, how many days before the neighbours notice the smell?” are not your friends.

Don’t talk to yourself. Because talking to yourself is bad; it makes you seem crazy. Only that’s not really a problem when there’s no one else to hear you, is it, Dom? Oh, good point, Dom!

Stay positive. I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression about living alone – honestly, it can be wonderful. In fact, it’s so great that if I succeed with my constant pleas for somebody, anybody, to move in, I’ll probably miss it occasionally.

This article was published in Sunday Life on 10 July 2011.

Feeling broody

Since I am, of course, wonderfully in touch with my feelings (and since they asked!) I recently wrote an article for SundayLife about male cluckiness. In particular, my increasing suspicion that parenthood might be rather a pleasant addition to my life. In the end they had to cut it down a bit, so here is the full version, complete with additional research and, most importantly, jokes.

I’m living the dream. At 33, I have practically no responsibilities, and a fun job that supports my need for overseas holidays and shiny gadgets. Working as a writer, I can stay up late and generally have no reason to emerge from bed before mid-morning. It's a pretty nice life, except for the minor point that the dream I happen to be living bears a striking resemblance to the one I had as a twelve-year-old boy.

And yet, as pleasantly uncomplicated as my life is, I can't quite shake the sense that there should be something more. Something like a baby, perhaps. I haven't made much progress with finding a prospective mother or anything concrete like that, but I'm fairly confident that it's time for fatherhood. So, while my lifestyle is certainly enjoyable, I’m increasingly certain that I’d happily trade it for a kicking, screaming bundle of joy. Well, I don't know that I'd trade my iPad – but everything else, certainly.

Even the thought of having to get up at the crack of dawn and change a filthy nappy doesn’t put me off the whole thing, the way it used to. Not when I picture myself dandling my son indulgently on my knee, or fondly wiping the drool off my daughter’s face. I imagine myself dispensing helpful advice that they’ll ignore, or making somewhat erroneous claims about how the world works, or kicking a ball around in a backyard I’ve yet to acquire.

I remember how much my parents meant to me as a child. When I was a boy, I was so excited about seeing my dad when he arrived home from an extended work trip that I used to make Welcome Home signs, and hang them up around the house. But now, I rather like the idea of somebody making a cutely misspelt Welcome Home sign for me. Because as I've found, making them for yourself isn't quite the same.

I used to be comfortable with the idea that all this would happen in the distant future, because childrearing seemed to involve so much compromise. Our society views bachelorhood as a desirable, glamorous state, like Mr Big’s life in those blissful moments when he doesn’t have to put up with Carrie Bradshaw. I didn’t want to give up my capacity to drop everything and head to Vegas for a night on the tiles, like a character from Swingers. But now I’ve come to realise not only that I never did much partying, but that having a family would probably be a significant trade-up on my current social life.

But here's the thing – as Sathnam Sanghera wrote in The Times when articulating his own desire for fatherhood, “single, straight, 33-year-old men aren’t allowed to confess to broodiness.” The stereotype is that women are the clucky ones who entrap us free-spirited men into settling down, and that we spend the whole time staring wistfully out the window, wishing we were at the pub with our mates.

The thirty-something childless woman who is racing against her biological clock has become a cliché in popular culture thanks to movies like The Back-Up Plan, in which Jennifer Lopez gives up and undergoes artificial insemination, but meets the man of her dreams the same day. (Oh, the irony!) The male norm, by contrast, is Seth Rogen’s character in Knocked Up, who has to be dragged kicking and screaming into responsibility. A male character who shared the same worry would seem absurd, especially in Hollywood, where every second pram is being pushed by a septuagenarian.

Sanghera notes that single men expressing an interest in young children is something of a taboo in our society, because of our heightened consciousness of paedophilia. As a result, we single men have to tread extremely carefully around children, lest we be suspected of having problems that run rather deeper than bad luck in finding a partner.

While the image of the irresponsible man who's not ready for fatherhood is pervasive, a study by the women’s NGO Catalyst (quoted in USA Today) found that the men of Generation X are less willing to compromise having families for career goals than their forefathers. According the researcher Paulette Gerkovitch, 79% of men born between 1964 and 1975 rated having a family as very important, while only 25% rated workplace success as highly. USA Today also noted several famous examples of men in this demographic who decided to leave women who weren’t ready for childbearing, such as Brad Pitt and Benjamin Bratt. After leaving Jennifer Aniston and Julia Roberts, both men quickly became fathers.

This sense of broodiness is particularly difficult given the absolute avalanche of babies that have recently arrived in my life. Somewhat counterintuitively, my peer group has chosen to greet the financial uncertainty of last year’s global economic crisis by taking on the vast additional cost of parenting. Since August last year, there have been more than twenty arrivals in my broader group of friends, to the point where the new mothers having been gathering weekly in a park to enjoy hanging out during their maternity leave. The new parents of this tiny army include my old school friends, close colleagues and my brother – my younger brother.

The parents are in the majority now. Every time I open Facebook, I’m inundated by a flood of some friend’s baby pics, and where I used to think they resembled alien autopsy photos, now I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I find every single one adorable. And while of course I’m delighted to greet each new arrival individually, and will happily bowl up to the hospital clutching the requisite stuffed toy, taken together they’ve produced a level of peer pressure I haven’t experienced since the heyday of the Hypercolour t-shirt.

I did try to fight it, this baby urge. Shortly after turning 30, I acquired a group of friends in their mid-20s, but now they've all settled down. I even joined 751,873 other people in a Facebook group called "Everyone I know is getting married or pregnant, I'm just getting drunk". But I left almost immediately because – who’d have thought – it was all a bit shallow.

So now I’m on the verge of middle-age, at that scary point where if I don’t take a Contiki 18-35 tour soon, I’ll never be allowed to. And I’m already convinced that I can’t beat the parents, it’s just that I can’t quite see a way to join them yet. And it’s not like they let single fathers adopt.

It's not just my mates who’ve been undergoing a baby boom, though. Australian Bureau of Statistics figures from November last year show that in 2008, the country hit a 38-year high in its birth rate, with 296,000 registered. The stats for 2009 aren't available yet, but anecdotally, it's shot up even higher. I just hope the Government has gotten its modelling right, and the Australian economy won't be bankrupted by the baby bonus.

The ABS stats were somewhat reassuring – they gave the median age of the fathers at 33.1, with mothers at 30.7. So if I get a wriggle on (if that phrase isn't too graphic), I won’t even be that much of a statistical outrider. I'm more motivated than ever, since I discovered one study which found that childless men had lower life expectancies and higher rates of addiction.

As I’ve spent time with some of the newborns I now know, I’ve come to realise that we’re programmed to find babies fascinating, even though by any objective measure (such as those I used to apply before my cluckiness set in), they do little besides feeding, making loud noises and interrupting your sleep. To look at them rationally, they’re milk-powered vuvuzelas with an overactive bowel.

But now, when I hold a baby, and especially one who belongs to parents who mean a lot to me, I find myself taking an interest in the kid's happiness, even given my complete inability to influence it. I'm ashamed to say that I even caught myself lecturing one new father about not letting his child sleep when he was clearly exhausted – which was totally ridiculous of me, since my current level of baby expertise revolves around hoping I won't drop them.

While wrestling with a particularly acute case of parenthood pangs recently, I rather naively posted on Facebook that I wished there was some kind of timeshare scheme for being a dad, where you could spend quality time with babies without completely nuking your lifestyle. One single dad I know rather tartly observed that such schemes existed, in many cases by court order. And I was inundated with messages from parents saying that they'd be grateful of any way of getting rid of their offspring, for any period between a couple of hours and permanently. All of which quelled my enthusiasm somewhat.

But the pangs never entirely go away, particularly when I spend time with a baby. I'm sure it'll happen for me eventually, and I'm certainly fortunate that my fertility has a slower rate of decline than it does for women in their thirties. But until guys like me get our acts together, we'd appreciate it if society acknowledged that not all single blokes view the prospect of parenthood as an unwelcome incursion into their precious footy-watching time.

Geoffrey Robertson Q&A

SundayLife invited me to interview Geoffrey Robertson on the occasion of his latest Hypothetical for National Indigenous Television, with the brief of throwing the master some curly hypothetical questions of his own.

After your new Hypothetical screens, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd offers you a safe seat in Parliament and immediate appointment to the Aboriginal Affairs portfolio. Recognising the urgency of the task, you put aside any political objections and accept. What is your first major initiative?

It’s now or never-never, so my policy would be education, education, education – including educating everyone else about the respect due to the first Australians, who walked this land long before the birth of Christ or the fall of Troy. But respect means rights. Other advanced nations – and even New Zealand – allow their indigenous people to vote for their own parliamentary representatives. So let’s create two extra Senate seats for Aboriginal voters. They might elect Pat Dodson and Noel Pearson. Let’s face it – they’d be a lot more impressive holding the balance of power than Brian Harradine, Steve Fielding or the Democrats. Their presence in the Senate would give Aborigines, for so long shut out of our democratic processes, a real sense of inclusion in the nation.

You met your wife Kathy Lette when she was a last-minute replacement for Kylie Minogue in a Hypothetical. If Kylie had been available, could the two of you have been happy together?

I should be so lucky. But I wonder whether our musical tastes could coexist – to me, pop is something you drink from a can. I’m not sure she could sit through Wagner’s Ring Cycle or my summing-up speeches, which are usually longer. So, sadly, even though Kylie has become a family friend, I don’t think she would ever be “spinning around” for me. As the fax from the ABC stated when it told me of Kylie’s replacement, “You’ll just have to make do with Kathy Lette.”

You are an advocate of free speech, and defended the editors of Oz [a 1960s satirical magazine] against obscenity charges. I plan to falsely and obscenely alter your Wikipedia entry. May I?

So long as you describe me as a tall, dark and handsome billionaire, with special tantric skills and a Pulitzer Prize for poetry, who can wrestle crocodiles with one hand while whipping up a souffle with the other. If, however, you add any truth to my entry, I may sue – and under current Australian law, without a freedom of expression of guarantee, you will almost certainly lose.

An Aboriginal group is granted extensive rights to self-determination by the Northern Territory Government, and reintroduces ritual spearing. A young Aborigine who is sentenced to spearing argues that it constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. The Chief Minister asks your advice on whether to intervene.

I’m delighted to receive this brief. I would explain that under Australia’s new charter of rights, all laws must be interpreted “as far as possible” consistently with human rights. So “ritual spearing” would not refer to the passage through flesh of a sharply tipped length of wood, any more than “ritual boning” – a fate that threatened Ms Jessica Rowe – meant filleting her like a fish or carnally connecting her with the tribal elder of Channel 9. Where words in a statute are ambiguous, judges must now interpret them to accord with the charter. So ritual spearing would mean a cutting remark or a barbed comment or, in the case of a misbehaving young Aborigine, a searing and sarcastic judicial homily. A sharp tongue can do a lot of psychological scarring, but at least it doesn’t draw blood.

I’ve read interviews over the years where you claim to be planning a move back to Australia. An anonymous source claims this was merely a hypothetical designed to appease a parochial Australian audience. Do you agree?

I return to Australia regularly. The main reason I don’t move back for good is that I’m a workaholic, and no one has offered me a full-time job. My wife goes demented – or more demented than usual – in the English winter, when she threatens to strangle a royal corgi in the hope of being transported to Botany Bay. Can you suggest any useful judging work that’s on offer – umpiring test matches, inspecting the width of bikinis on Bondi Beach, or… is the governorship of Tasmania still available?

Australia heeds your call for a Bill of Rights. The free speech provisions lead to a sharp increase in racist hate speech, culminating in the re-election of Pauline Hanson after advocating a new White Australia policy. In a speech to Parliament, she pays tribute to you for making it possible. What’s your response?

Can I volunteer for a ritual spearing? Actually, one of the great things about free speech is
that when racists can say what they really think, the public realise how disgusting they are. It’s when the law makes them clean up their act that they appear more reasonable and electable. And free speech enables satirists to get their teeth into people like Pauline Hanson. When she ran for Parliament back in 1997, it was only the comedians who were censored – Pauline Pantsdown’s satirical song [Backdoor Man] is still subject to a court injunction. So free speech? Bring it on. See my book, Statute Of Liberty: How To Give Australians Back Their Rights, which should be in your local bookshop by now.

You forbid your teenage children from attending an all-night party, because you hypothesise they may come to harm. They prosecute you for infringing their rights to freedom of association and movement. How do you plead?

I’ll ask the court for a parental protection order. Perhaps I’ll put myself up for adoption. “Look, yer Honour, I admit to driving my children crazy, but I also drive them everywhere.” When you Chaser boys reach middle age, you’ll find teenagers are God’s punishment for having sex in the first place. By that time, of course, there will be Chaser girls – otherwise your show will be condemned for sex discrimination. If women are good enough for the High Court team, why aren’t they good enough for the Chaser team?

You’ve advocated the closure of Guantanamo Bay and President Barack Obama has obliged early in his first term. However, it seems nobody is willing take in the current inmates. Are there any spare rooms at your place?

No, but I hear there are some empty basements in the “Toaster” and at Blues Point Tower [controversial apartment buildings on Sydney’s harbour]. Do those guys still have their alleged bomb-making skills? Quite seriously, there is a moral point here. For five years, Australia stood four-square behind the Bush lawyers who created this legal black hole, where inhumane treatment and torture were free of the Geneva Conventions. So we do share some responsibility for it, unlike Britain, which condemned Guantanamo and insisted that British citizens should not be held there. So perhaps we do have a moral responsibility to take a few of these people against whom the United States can find no evidence – let’s see if Janet and John Howard have any space. And a source tells me there’s a spare room at chez Ruddock.

This interview originally appeared in SundayLife in February 2009