Brenda made me stay up late and watch the Golden Globes with her. There are few things capable of holding my interest after midnight and a yowling strumpet wrapped in tin foil gushing all over people who make a living out of pretending to be someone else is not among them.
Her name was Juliana and she had a voice that, shouted into a turbine, could generate enough electricity to run a small town. She snatched at people as they walked past.
“Kevin Bacon! You’re so famous and yet you’re so normal … so sane!” she whinnied. “How do you do it?”
Kev looked at her as if she were barking mad, which she clearly was, and refrained from listing the good drugs that all genuine celebrities take to counter the effects of the bad drugs that make them behave so appallingly.
Juliana’s sidekick, a jackass-in-the-box called Ryan Seahorse, snared the A-listers as they scurried past beneath their gay little umbrellas.
I could see he didn’t want to bring up that earthquake, but some of them had gone to all the trouble of colour-coding their outfits around their ribbons and they weren’t going to miss the opportunity to look as if they cared.
“Haiti is, like, just such a tragedy, you know, and we must all, like, pull together to make sure these poor people … dahling! It’s been, like, forever! Mwah mwah!”
It wouldn’t be George Clooney if he didn’t schmooze his way into the action. A telethon? I mean, really. That is so last tsunami. This is our night to shine, sweetie. Okay fine, those Hayshins look like they could do with a mocha latte and a bubble bath, but to take absolutely all the headlines? Let’s get real, people. We’re talking Golden Globes, here.
The whore of Babylon squealed: “Who are you wearing?”
The Bambi-eyed starlet simpered. “I’m wearing my best friend, Candice. She went to Jesus last week and a team of hot surgeons and taxidermists made this dress from her skin. It’s what she wanted. Isn’t she absolutely gorgeous?”
Tall for a hobbit, Tobey Maguire had what appeared to be a girl at his side. I wondered aloud if he had picked her up from the ugly factory on his way to the awards.
“He would have done better to bring Seabiscuit as his date.”
Brenda’s reaction was swift and unnecessarily brutal. It’s days later and I am still picking shards of glass out of my scalp.
“There’s Mariah Carey,” shrieked Brenda. Through the waterfall of beer cascading down my face, all I could see was a pair of emergency flotation devices on legs.
The red carpet feeding frenzy over, it was time for the main race. First, though, host Ricky Gervais had to poke fun at his willy. That old British tradition taken care of, the starter’s gun fired and the gates were flung open.
First out was a big-boned woman going by the dubious name of Mo’Nique. She got her Golden Globe for best supporting actress in a no-budget blaxploitation flick.
Her teary eyes shot to the ceiling. “Thank you God for this amazing ride you have let me go on.” God must have been having one of his slow days when Mo’Nique’s file reached his desk.
“Hmm,” said God, scratching his ear with a pencil. “Mo’Nique. Doesn’t ring a bell. Married three times. Worked in the phone sex trade. Not looking good.”
Being in an uncharacteristically good mood, thanks to Mrs God bringing him manna on toast in bed all week, God decided not to smite Mo’Nique and instead allowed her to follow her dreams.
Besides, he was well pleased to get a mention at the Golden Globes. Not one of those ungrateful whiteys had so much as nodded in his direction. “After all I’ve done for them,” grumbled God.
One after the other, strings of bulimics tottered up to the stage, crying and shaking as they clutched their awards to their heaving chests. They must have watched CNN’s coverage of the Haiti disaster and studied the survivors before heading on down to the Beverly Hilton Hotel. “If I win, that’s the look I’m going for!”
All the married winners were effusive in their praise for their wonderful, extraordinary wives and husbands without whom they would be living under bridges and scavenging for dead rats in the sewers. They would be winos and junkies and serial killers with tattoos and no teeth.
Me, I’m married to a woman whose idea of being supportive is to tell me to get out of the house and find a real job. It’s a wonder that I still have the self-confidence to dress myself.
Wearing a top freshly flayed to ribbons, Cher rushed over from an S&M orgy to present one of the awards. Reports that her blood supply has been replaced with embalming fluid would explain her stiff performance.
Her co-presenter, Christina Aguilera, seemed to have nothing whatsoever in her veins. I have never seen a woman so pale.
Jennifer Aniston was also one of the presenters. Her being there selfishly denied me a glimpse of Angelina Jolie.
Angie: “We’re not going and that’s final!”
Brad: “Aw, babe. Why can’t we just …”
Angie: “Because the Aniston slut will be there and you know what that means.”
Brad: “Gee honey, I don’t think …”
Angie: “No, you don’t. Shut up and watch the news. Haiti is on in a moment. Help me pick out a fresh orphan.”
Then they trotted out 106-year-old Sophia Loren who, like Cher, has also been dipping into the embalming fluid. I don’t come over all queer when I see her, which is the only real acid test for homosexuality.
Other highlights, apart from finding a fresh six-pack beneath the sink, included Mickey Rourke arriving with a teenage mail-order stripper from Vladivostok, Mike Tyson giving renewed respectability to convicted rapists and reformed cannibals everywhere, Mel Gibson pretending to be drunk in front of a room full of Jews, and Sandra Bullock, married to the luckiest motorcycle mechanic who ever lived.
James Cameron, taking the top award for his R1.8-billion film about blue humanoids who talk gibberish, got everyone to give themselves a big round of applause. Let no-one dare accuse these magnificent people of being repulsive narcissists.
“We have the best job in the world,” he crowed, filling the rest of us with resentment and self-loathing.
I can hardly wait for the Oscars.