You did, didn’t you? You knew I wasn’t going to let this go without a good kicking.

The perceptive among you will be aware of my love for all things cinematic apart from Titanic and Entrapment. And the sodding Oscars.

The Oscars are all the bad things about Hollywood bundled up and turbocharged. Loads of self-indulgent celebs backslapping other self-indulgent celebs. The losers try really hard not to say, ‘That load of old shit won, and I didn’t? What the fuck went wrong?’ while smiling through gritted teeth, and the winners go all tearful while wanting to yell, ‘Loser! Loser!’

All this for awards that are awarded by the industry itself. The short lists are drawn up by luvvies, and the judges are also luvvies. Nobody other than the industry gets a look in. That’s navel gazing that’s close to incest.

Some mock excitement this year. There was a cockup. Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway announced the wrong film as winning the top gong. I haven’t the faintest idea how it happened. You’d think that whoever had the ONE JOB of handing the envelopes out could get it right, but apparently not. Even that simple task was beyond their capabilities.

Given my disdain for the Academy Awards, you may well be wondering why I suffered through them. I’ll put you out of your misery, and tell you that I didn’t. That unfortunately was not enough for me to avoid being assailed with the news that La La Land didn’t get the topdog award after all, but Moonlight did.

Even the Beeb got in on the act (ha ha). On the BBC Breakfast television news programme, there was a carpet-bombing approach. From 8:00 till 8:14, there was breathless coverage of ‘Our top story today,’ with live coverage of a reporter trying (unsuccessfully) to interview one of the stars at the Vanity Fair afterparty. This shindig bore a passing resemblance to a bear baiting pit, given all the jostling and yelling. Oh yeah, the star has an attendant whose sole purpose seemed to be to sweep her hair off her hallowed fizzog. I did say this was a night for self indulgence, but really, sweep your own hair off your face, you pampered ingrate.

The made-up furore continues even as I type. Meanwhile, the Toffs quietly unleashed plans to cut funding for state schools to the lowest level, in real terms, since the early 1980s. Fewer teachers, bigger classes, a new generation being screwed over by those in power. You might think that’s quite important. But no. A minor cockup involving a bunch of luvvies was the top story.

It’s enough to drive me to drink.