It was Oscar night last night, and while it has reminded us of a couple of undeniable truths, namely that (a) actors are a bunch of self-satisfied twats who use their 30 seconds to address the watching planet with a volley of drivel so smug it practically oozes out over the microphone. Tilda Swinton (whoever she may be) used her half-minute to tell us how her award statue had an arse like her agent. That's great, now sit the fuck down and pass the award, silently and solemnly, to someone more deserving, like the poor sod who had to clean up Elton and Prince's pre-awards house party. I was also reminded that (b) I don't watch many Oscar-winning films; I can add Juno, There Will Be Blood and No Country For Old Men to the list of statue-hogging epics that I've never sat through - this makes the grand total approximately 3,709. In fact, the only new piece of information that came to light was the following:
Daniel Day-Lewis is English.
Didn't know that, wasn't sure where he was from, and to be honest I never gave it much thought. It's sad to discover that England has in it's possession an actor as good as him, and the bug-eyed walking log that is Ross Kemp has managed to get work. Day-Lewis won his second best actor gong last night, joining the illustrious list of double winners (Marlon Brando, Jack Nicholson, and um... Fredric March). Interestingly, Peter O'Toole has been nominated eight times for best actor, and has never won. Now there's a man who knows how to pretend to look happy - much like Tilda Swinton's agent, who must as we speak be expressing strained joviality as the secret of his perfectly symmetrical, tiny golden posterior is unveiled to the entire world.
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