No surprises last night at the largely predictable BAFTA awards, which managed to make even Terry Gilliam and all his Monty Python output seem boring. Things perked up when it looked like Sharon Stoned might forget to finish her sentences, but no such luck. Nobody tripped, gushed, cried (except a possible sniffle from Goldie Hawn as she presented Best Supporting Actor, but then she’s always teetering on the teary-eyed) or made a fool of themselves, with good-time veteran Mickey Rourke’s expletives delivered so tamely that the bleeping seemed superfluous. Even the dresses were dull. Onanistic twaddle for the most part, which leads one to wonder why we have all become so mesmerised with this one professional realm that we are so glued to the screens when they hand out their sycophantic accolades. Bah. If that’s entertainment, I’m tuning in to the Annual Builders and Plumbers Awards – at least there’d be bottom on show. In the meantime, I’m taking recommendations for the Jameson Film Festival – what should I be booking?