ONE of the worst things about being a bachelor is enduring the never-ending smugness of loved-up friends.

It doesn’t matter how disastrous their track record or how many sexless years they have endured in the singles’ wilderness, the moment they snare a girlfriend they develop a garish self-confidence.

When a man gets involved in a relationship he wilfully represses his many rejections and ill-conceived advances and applies a glossy rose tint to any successes.

Thanks to these delusions, I have found myself in bars with attached friends boasting that, if they were single, they would think nothing of swaggering up to a group of hotties and working their magic.

Single men are forced to be more honest and admit this situation is deeply intimidating and their courage may extend no further than a furtive glance or two.

I know myself if I should happen to make eye contact with a member of such a group I would blush, look nervously at the floor, hope they went away and later inwardly curse my cowardice.

On occasions I have managed to meekly enter the herd and separate off the one I like with sheepdog-like skill but I would concede this has been more luck than judgement.

However, active boyfriends don’t have to make good on their claims so, like lying fishermen, their haul of hotties and tales of prowess can become greatly exaggerated at each retelling.

Some time ago, I was fretting over a foxy acquaintance I was hoping to date and discussing our thread of textual intercourse with a friend.

His advice when it came amazed me.

“Instead of playing games, why don’t you just text her and ask if she wants sex?” he said.

I looked at him in wonder and asked: “That’s what you would do, is it?”

“If I was single, definitely,” he answered without a trace of insincerity.

I decided not to point out it had taken him four years to ask out his current playmate, and then it was only through a drunken haze.

Over time, he had romanticised the pursuit and his seduction in his mind to the point he evidently now considered himself to be Southampton’s answer to the Fonz.

Us singletons have to face reality while attached men enjoy the luxury of thinking all women want to sleep with them but can’t.

I was walking down the road a while ago with one particularly conceited acquaintance when an attractive girl cast a vague look in our direction.

He tutted and bemoaned his romantic status.

“Did you see the way she was looking at me, that was so blatant,” he said with regret.

I was annoyed he had completely discounted the possibility her look of mild interest could have been directed at me. However, even more grating was the belief that, were it not for his girlfriend holding him back, this supposedly hungered look of desire would have been instantly converted into a night of passion.

Many attached men count every slither of interest as one more woman whose heart they could have broken. They forget were they single they would need to strike up a conversation, get on well and possibly go on a number of dates before any romantic treats were on offer. They imagine returning a smile would have the object of their affections rushing to shed both their clothes and their morals.

Our moment of glory comes only when one of these smug boyfriends falls out of the romance tree and finds himself in a new single status. He will quickly learn what we knew all along – life is just one crushing disappointment after another.