Oscar Night.

This year’s Oscar ceremony was a subdued affair. The aggressive, war-like red carpet was replaced by a subdued, dovish plum-coloured carpet. Dresses were slightly less fancy than normal, and award winners made low-key speeches, a few of which touched on the war, but only in a vague, non-committal way (with the honourable exception of Michael Moore, who finally found the correct platform for his loudmouth polemicising, and bum-rushed the ceremony with a hectoring, Bush-baiting speech that had the audience squirming in their seats, unsure of how to react).

The finest moment of pure Oscar magic came when Gerbilarium favourite Adrien Brody was presented with his Best Actor award by Halle Berry. Gangly, floppy-haired Brody seemed genuinely stunned when his name was read out (as did favourite Daniel Day-Lewis, who was momentarily rigid with shock before recovering himself and doing the magnanimous clapping and smiling bit), and took to the stage with much head-shaking and ‘Oh Lord’ hand-gesturing. As Berry leaned forward to hand over the statue and exchange a congratulatory peck on the cheek, Brody seized her roughly and, tilting her backward, gave her an enormous Clark Gable-style Hollywood smacker on the lips. Berry seemed slightly dazed afterwards, but appeared to take what might reasonably be classed as an indecent assault in other circumstances, in good heart.

Thus, Brody completed the perfect Oscar story, for the likes of me at least. I’m sure I am not alone in going to bed the night after the Oscars imagining myself picking up an award. A beautiful actress (Cameron Diaz will do) will shimmy onto the stage to announce the nominees, her voice changing slightly and perhaps blushing a tiny bit as she reads out my name. The big screen will play clips from all of our films – mine will feature my character being intense and understated, for it will not be a showy, grandstanding performance, but a subtle, nuanced one that slowly draws the audience in, making them care deeply for me, before being shattered by the devastating denouement.

The TV cameras will switch back to the scene in the auditorium, showing each of the nominees in turn as we clap one another’s performances. We are then separated off into our individual split-screen boxes as we await the results. The other nominees are seasoned veterans – Anthony Hopkins is there, as is Robin Williams, who fixes the camera with one of his appalling, mirthless, child-worrying grins - but their attempts to look cool and unfussed are utterly transparent. I – the unknown outsider – win the hearts of the world there and then with my expression of child-like wonderment. I am clearly just happy to be there, unlike the cold, backstabbing cynics who surround me.

We switch back to Cameron, who shoots a nervous smile at the camera as she begins to open the envelope. “And the Oscar goes to…” - she pulls out the card, and cannot quite suppress a tiny whoop of joy – “Jon Hill, for The Slicing of Dr Chad / Who Will Love My Gerbils?”

As the camera cuts to me, I seem to slump forward in my seat, as if overcome by the moment. From every side, cufflinked hands reach out to slap me on the back. I reach over to hug my mother who, charmingly, is my date for the night. The camera focuses on her proud, tear-stained face.

Composing myself, I slowly approach the stage, nervously tugging at my sleeves, my expression both joyful and bewildered, marking me out as a true artist who finds all this acclaim both flattering and baffling. I make my way up the stairs, pausing once to look around, and Cameron comes to meet me halfway, embracing me and smothering my face in kisses, to set tongues wagging in Hollywood and beyond. I then approach the microphone to make my speech. Unlike the other winners, whose speeches are bloated and insincere, I utter only a few humble words of thanks to my mother, my father and my amazing director and inspirational co-star, before being led backstage to…. well I’m not sure, as my fantasy is based purely on television coverage, so ends there.

Sometimes, in the days after an Oscar ceremony, still intoxicated by the glamour and spectacle, I will consider taking up acting, realising that my fantasy won’t come true without at least some effort on my part. So, I will make sure I am alone, and read aloud from whatever book I am reading at the time. I will even attempt the appropriate facial expressions, occasionally memorising sequences and standing up to deliver them, as acting is something you do with your whole body, not just your face, you see.

It is also something that I do very, very badly. I realise that I will never be an actor, not even a shitty one who plays Martin Lawrence’s mis-matched English sidekick in a dire action-comedy. The fantasy is put into storage, and I revert to my default position on awards ceremonies – that they are self-indulgent, pathetic, industry love-ins.

No other awards ceremony is stirring enough to shift me from this safe, smug position. The Brits? Angelina Jolie winning one might have diminished the Oscars slightly, but I don’t want any award that has been dished out to the likes of Annie Lennox and The Corrs on even a semi-regular basis. The NME Brats? This year’s ceremony was hosted by Phil Jupitus, a figure who is as remote from the notion of glamour as he is from the notion of humour. BBC Sports Personality of the Year? I understand that this is being awarded to Sir Steve Redgrave until announced otherwise, so it is a pointless fantasy.

So the Oscars it is, and will always be. Naturally, in the days leading up to the next ceremony, if asked about it, I’ll claim that it is a cesspit of greed / a morally bankrupt circus for micro-talented, glad-handing egomaniacs. And the next day, I’ll turn straight to the showbiz pages of the Mirror to review the results and gawp at the images of the stars in their (now fully-fancy) dresses and suits. I may even seek out a photo of the most dashingly tuxedoed male winner clutching his award, stick my thumb over his face, and rehearse my speech, just in case I should ever need it. “Well…. wow! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this. I mean this is great, but for me, it is all about the acting…”