As my loyal readers (Stan and Ethel Gristle of Gasworks Terrace) know, this time of year the media, as a respite from covering politics and the exploits of ‘celebs’ from ‘Love Island’, obsesses about the ‘Awards season’.
Even though the ‘Big Ones’ are given out in the rarefied, expensively coiffed and designer-dressed surroundings of Los Angeles, we’re supposed to be enthralled . . . desperate to know not only who won one, but what one wore when one won one.
That makes perfect sense when read ve-ry slow-ly.
I’m sure Stan and Ethel will tell me if they disagree, but I’d hazard a guess most of us just aren’t that interested in the ‘Awards Season’ and have more important things to concern us between January and March. After all, we British have a lot to put up with!
Apart from our damp gloomy weather that starts in October and won’t release its grip until April, we’ve got commuter trains that often don’t turn up and when they do they’re so crowded we can’t get on ’em.
We get scary post-Christmas bank statements and even scarier escaped circus camels rudely roaming around our back gardens chewing our geraniums . . . or is that only me?
And do we complain? You bet we do!
Awards ceremonies are like London buses. They’re bright red, full of tourists and tend to get stuck in Oxford Street traffic.
No, that’s not right. If you miss one, there’s always another one behind.
After the Golden Globes came the SAG awards – which despite how they sound, aren’t given to the worst examples of failed plastic surgery performed by Hollywood surgeons. SAG stands for the Screen Actors Guild.
The Oscars are closely followed over here by the BAFTAs and that most prestigious of all ceremonies . . . The TV Quick Awards.
I’ve never gone to see a film just because it won an award. I go to see films, as most people tend to, if the story sounds interesting, if there’s someone in it I like or when there’s nothing much on the telly.
Stan! Ethel! Fancy seeing a film tonight? The Mivvis are on me!