For me, a title as sweepingly definitive as “Man of the Year” warrants ridicule. I say this, not because of jealousy or tall poppy syndrome, I just think the bombast of the honour is a tad excessive. I mean, MAN of the Year? It sounds like an award for the Ultimate Fighter with the most wins by death, or a porn industry award for most women bedded in an orgy. You could almost quantify “MAN of the Year” with body bags and STD’s.
It also begs the question how does you life change when you win Man of the Year? Do past winners include “Man of the Year” in their CV? Do your male friends develop inferiority complexes? Are you exempt from paying for public transport? Do you receive an honorific from the Queen?
If I were to win such an accolade, I would weave it into conversation at any opportunity: “Did you know I was Man of the Year back in ’98? No? True story. I’ve got the statue to prove it, I keep it in my trophy room back at the mansion. Do you wanna see it later?”. Friends would roll their eyes while strangers would feign interest. Oblivious, I’d be too self absorbed to notice or care. It would be great.
Thankfully I am NOT a nominee in GQ Australia’s “Men of the Year” awards which have honoured the brightest stars in film, fashion, music and business. From the back-in-black androgyny of designers Ben Pollitt (Friedrich Gray) and Gareth Moody (Chronicles of Never), to new-wave revivalists Cut Copy and The Presets, the nominees are refreshingly credible. Check out the rest of the nominees here…
