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.
I stayed late at work on a Friday so I could make a SUBMISSION ON THE MARRIAGE EQUALITY AMENDMENT BILL 2010. The Australian Senate are holding an enquiry and since this year I become eligible to claim my citizenship, I thought they should know how the second-rate certificate I will be getting kind of spoils the whole event. Short and sweet, but I just had to get it out:
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.
The end of the summer has come around once again, and traditionally the season closes with Gay Christmas, more commonly known as the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. It’s hard to believe this is my fourth Mardi Gras – my first one feels like it was just weeks ago.
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.
The other day, Ash and I were discussing what would make the perfect boyfriend over a bottle of wine (at 3pm. That’s how we roll). He seemed to know what he was looking for and rolled off a well-considered list of requirements:
- 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.
The other day I was talking to my personal trainer about being single, and he asked if there was anyone I was interested in. If I hadn’t been working out I might have said “there’s plenty of nice guys out there but I’m perfectly happy as I am for now,” but I couldn’t concentrate on two things at once, and I just blurted out:
“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.
