I don’t know about you, but I look forward to the Oscars every year, and I’m absolutely thrilled that I am about to sit and watch Billy Crystal acting as the host.

I don’t know about you, but I look forward to the Oscars every year, and I’m absolutely thrilled that I am about to sit and watch Billy Crystal acting as the host.

We used to have Oscar parties back in Australia, with the only unfortunate event being that it would occasionally coincide with a friend’s birthday, and he had no desire to be at home watching the telly to see who won best picture. This caused an occasional bout of wills, I must confess.

Here we have the crème de la crème of the motion picture industry art. Like it or not, we have the best of actors, directors, cinematographers – all the way down, nowadays, to bus boys and tea ladies (who I believe are in the technical categories and who accept their awards in the basement of a hotel in Burbank – but hey, an award is an award).

How well I remember the night David Niven hosted and gave us possibly the best line ever, ever, ever, at the Oscars. A streaker struck (streaked?) behind him on stage, and in his elegant terribly British voice remarked, “Oh dear, he’s showing off his shortcomings” ... and moved right along.

Looking over the list of Best Picture winners, I guess my favorite era would have been the ’80s and ’90s, as my movie going prowess has diminished over time, owing to the fact I couldn’t be bothered either paying the prices or putting up with badly behaved audiences as my autumnal years stretch inexorably toward winter.

I don’t pay good money to have somebody clamber over me untold times to get more to eat. I mean, Good Lord. Have lunch/dinner/a snack before you arrive, and you won’t need an artery-slamming amount of nutritional detritus to get you through a three-hour movie, or to drink the 3 1/2 gallons of soda, only to find that the sipper now has a bladder the size of Wyoming and needs must relieve same halfway through the most exciting part of the film.

I don’t pay good money to have somebody nearby use a cell phone – certainly not to listen, however hard I don’t want to, to a conversation about Freddie’s cough, or Debbie’s flowers or plans for tomorrow. And certainly not to bathe in the glow of the lit cell phone as the owner taps out texts or tweets by the thousands throughout the entertainment.

In fact, I would go so far to say that I would love movie theaters to use a jamming device so that cell phones became limp and lifeless in a handbag or pocket.

So I’ve kind of resigned myself to watching movies on the TV, with the ultimate result that I fall fast asleep during an awful lot of them.

Consequently each year I watch the Oscars with a diminished list of movies I have actually seen. I think this year I’m up to – let me think – um – one. But still I sit and root for what could possibly have been my favorite one if I had bothered to see it.

I must say with my lack of devotion to going to the movies, my list of favorite actors and actresses – yes, call me politically incorrect, but yes, there are two sexes in our species – diminishes as time goes by. Suffice it to say I will watch George Clooney pick the fluff out of his navel, and I think in the female category you can’t go too wrong with Helen Mirren or Sandra Bullock.

I must confess I do get a trifle antsy when it comes to the Cecile b. de Mille Lifetime Achievement Award, where I think in some cases they surgically implant a very stiff stick up an ancient film star and oftentimes expect us to go all gooey with the thought that this poor old thing never got an Oscar during his or her career and thus deserves one now to clutch as their intravenous drip feeds them their last intake of life. Who has probably tried their level best to grow old gracefully, only to have every wrinkle, bump, lump and infirmity broadcast to oh an awful lot of worldwide viewers. Let them go out with grace, and just tell them that you had the 8-pound Oscar delivered to the nursing home.

I love the red carpet nonsense – it’s all so fabulous, and amazing, and glamorous, and how-many-adjectives-can-I-throw-in type of event. I love sitting in my jammies decrying the swan feather frock, or the mutton-dressed-as-lamb ensemble some older woman should’ve known better about.

I applaud the odd male who thinks it’s terribly de rigueur to arrive in anything but a tux. Come on guys, a tux is a tux is a tux, and you all look divine in it. The night is not about you – just like a wedding really – it’s about her.

And whether they’re dressed in Vera de la Renta, or Christian St. Laurent, I don’t really care. I know I could never wear it – hell, could never afford it – but just make sure you look gorgeous.

Oh, and start a new trend – brush your hair!