The US is abuzz right now with Oscar fever. That little gold statue (which I suspect is really just dark chocolate covered in gold tinfoil), is easily the holy grail of the acting profession. And its impact on the general public is mind-blowing.
Local papers and TV commercials are advertising Oscar parties, where you and your friends can go along to a pub and sit and watch the entire Oscar ceremony. For a small fee, you can feel fabulous while being fed canapes and champagne by the flute-full.
Nah, I doubt that's an event for me. I treat the Oscars the same way I deal with the Aussie equivalents (and I'm talking the Logies and the Brownlow here). I say that with a straight face and all.
I love award ceremonies for the red carpet fashions, and that's it. I enjoy watching the young starlets wearing the ugliest but most fabulous fashions known to human kind. I marvel at an actress who is wearing diamonds that are heavier than she is. And I love seeing how uncomfortable some guys (husbands, boyfriends, paid escorts - whatever) feel with the whole pomp and ceremony of the function. You can see them fidget and they squeeze a smile as their uber-successful partner works the carpet and waves at the losers on the other side of the barricades.
You know what I'd do in that situation? I'd pay an obscene sum of money to the organisers to ensure that my limo arrived just after TomKat's. At least after THEIR red-carpet public display of affection (which is an absolute certainty, even - or especially - in her rotund condition), I would be banking on the paparazzi being so busy refilling their cameras or recoiling in shock, that chances were good that they'd miss me slinking in. Now how's that for a golden suggestion?!
Oh you all know I'm full of crap. If the Academy for Motion Pictures, Arts, and Sciences (or whatever corrupt organisation runs this show) rang me with spare tickets to the gala, you know I'd go there in a flash. I'd call Collette Dinnigan for the frock, and Harry Winston for the sparkle, and Christian Laboutin for the shoes. And I'd fly my sister over here to do my makeup.
But since that's never going to happen, I'll settle for joining the rest of the plebs in this country (and indeed, around the world) to tune in on the night - from the comfort of my sofa. And then after the madness is over, I'll buy the "People" magazine and relive the high and low lights all over again.
Yes, I know, I am such a victim. But it's a once-a-year guilty pleasure. And you know you do it too!
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