In the Gutter, Looking at the Stars

It's nearly here already: The year's biggest catwalk show of celebrity meat. And, as per usual I will just watch long enough to witness what frocks folks are wearing and check out the audacity of z-listers that have somehow managed to wangle the film calendar's hottest ticket (yes, we all know the casting couch still exists!)

After the initial flurry of fashion activity, if you do manage to be bothered to watch any of the "content" of the Oscars, the speeches are often worthwhile; if for purely comedic value. "Oh wow, gee thanks, I'd like to thank my Manager, my husband, my parents, my kids, my stylist, my hairdresser, the person that does my eyebrows, the nice young girl that removes my stubborn bikini line, my sister-in-law's tennis coach, all the local bin men in Beverly Hills that do such a great job every day of the year, Bob Geldolf, my cat and, God".

Lets be honest, there are only two types of speeches that us Brits want to see. There's the humble, self-depricating ones that the Britpack produce that makes us think wow they seem like really nice normal and unaffected people (even though we don't see the state of them later on in the evening when they're drunk and getting into fights over goody-bags). OR, the eye-wateringly embarrassing ones from young starlets that probably make the Academy officials wish they'd never given them that damn Best Actress gong in the first place (Halle Berry I'm talkin to you. Yes, you really rocked that Elie Saab dress, and yes, you became the first black woman to get a Best Actress award ever, but people will only remember that speech!!!)

But seriously, we all know the primary aim of the The Academy Awards is to recognise and reward industry professionals for artistic contribution to film... blah, blah, blah...

B******s. We all know that the stupid film about blue people will win everything.

GO TEAM FIRTH!