One Monday night a year I like to settle myself in front of the telly with a project, be it knitting, nail painting or letter writing, and sit back for an eye feast of beautiful gowns, borrowed jewels, brilliant teeth, and boring speeches. I revel in the frock-shocks, the autocue jokes, the wind-up music and the inevitable teary, gasping, tatty best actress/supporting actress speech.
While I always start my night out in a smug, ridiculing curiosity, I end up a sucker for the ‘Hall of Fame’ induction speeches and ‘Those we lost this year’ video montages. I take the ‘Best Original Song’ performances for tea breaks, toot breaks and a shower. My vow to go to bed at what-ever-time is always broken to stay to the very last so I can share the pure joy of the last 3 ‘big’ winners and commiserate with the unflinching gracious losers.
I go to bed thinking of all my new best friends over there, attending their Vanity Fair and Elton John parties, clutching their little statues and their shiny hubbies or wives, or lovers, vulnerable, judged, dishevelling as the hours go by.
Come Tuesday morning I wake up and they’ve all turned back into trashy magazine pictures, seamless movie characters, the ghosts of show biz.
Yes. I know I’m sick. But there ain't no cure.
3 comments:
You are indeed disturbed
I concur!
While your writing was lovely, the subject is pure dross. How could you sit through such unrelenting self adulation by freaks whose only claim to fame is that they like to pretend to be other people, oh and are usually pretty.
The only thing I can even bear about the oscars is the glossy mags that scramble to be first on the newstands with all the fabulous and freakish outfits in the following days.
I for one will be stearing clear of channel 9 tonight!!!
Sorry lady...I might leave you to enjoy your odd persuit alone.
So any highlights we should know about Sarah? I did have the misfortune to briefly glimpse Ben Stiller in a green catsuit before I realised what it was.
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