Its Oscars time again. Tomorrow night, in Hollywood, the finest talent Tinseltown can find will parade along to collectively pat themselves on the back for looking so fucking gorgeous, for wearing the most unaffordable clothes the ridiculous world of ‘haute couture’ has begged to give them for nothing and to congratulate themselves on how much jewellery, accessories and toot has been thrust into their stylists’ hands on the offchance that it might be seen in their golden presence. On ‘the night’. The irony being that these are some of the highest paid, ultra-wealthy people in the world. The only ones who could actually afford to pay $127,000 for a ‘frock’ and yet they get them free. In the hope that other people looking on, poor people, McDonalds staff, mechanics apprentices, bus drivers, art students, will look at this finery and immediately go and buy their own. Even if that Tiffany necklace costs more than the house in which they currently rent a room. The Oscars has become an obscene and vulgar showcase for the purveyors of overpriced and generally vile and pretentious clothing and accompanying shit. The whole evening is an advert for all that is excessive, tasteless and horrible. You might as well go the Croisette in Courchevel if that’s what you want. They do rich and tasteless so well they can even spell it in Russian.

Which is why I never go.
Its a statement. A stand. Someone’s gotta do it, to make the point. I was offered a modelling contract for Marks & Spencer ‘Pringle lookalike’ golfing sweaters and a free pair of Tesco Turn-Ups jeans with matching Anorak. I turned it down as being a prostitution of my values, an abrogation of my responsibility to the Common Man. Tatooed and semi-literate scumbag that he normally is.

Ok, and they’ve never invited me to go. My family don’t even invite me to watch the hi-lights programme with them on Monday night.

Though I don’t want hi-lights, I want the entire 17 hours. I want the pre-show telling us which dresses may possibly be worn, and by whom… probably. I want analysis, I want gossip, I want to know who won the special award for 3rd Grip, who won the best supporting role by a man with a crane, the most smug grimace by a producer knowing his $15 million loss in a movie just saved him $27 million in tax this year.

And I want to see Jennifer Lawrence. Standing, sitting, falling up the stairs, whatever. She does it all so well, so beautifully, so ‘naturally’ and with such star quality. They should just give her all the Oscars and don’t bother for the next decade.

So here’s my vote: (not that anyone asked me)

Best use of the whip: 12 Years a Redneck
Best cleavage: Jennifer Lawrence (American Hustle; not that its even relevant)
Best movie that does virtually nothing: Inside Llewyn Davies
Best weight loss: Matthew McConnaughey in Dallas Buyers Club
Biggest disappoitment: Blue Jasmine
Best 20-minute lesbian love scene: Blue is the Warmest Colour

I’m off to the bookies; I’m going to put an accumulator on: Best Film: Philomena and Spurs to win 4-0 against Cardiff. 325 to 1.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx