No sooner has the spectacle of vanity, sanctimony, and conspicuous wealth and privilege of the Oscars been and gone, but now the TV BAFTAs will shortly be upon us. It's just as bad. Celebrating all the things that mean almost nothing to most people, and television that in some cases isn't watched by anyone at all, it's plonked down on primetime BBC1 as if the Great and the Good of Luvvieland have decided to share their lives with us for one short (but not as short as we'd like) evening. We are supposed to look on in awe and wonder at how much better our betters really are.
Except it's all horseshit. BAFTA isn't an Academy. It's a bar and a cinema in Piccadilly. it self-selects nominations from amongst its friends and if you're not in that particular gang, you've no chance. Much as Basildon Man and Worcester Woman have been identified in the past as typical voters, there's such a thing as BAFTA Woman. Aged 44, lives in SW7, single, Remainer (of course), has a cat and sticks a Ukrainian flag in her social media profiles. Expensively educated but knows fuck-all about fuck-all, other than if a tv programme is weird, badly acted or directed, has some sexually unorthodox activity and has been made by her mates, or some people who live in Tower Hamlets, she'll vote for it.
Needless to say, I won't be watching. I think Terminator II will have another airing on my TV screen that evening.
