This week’s Emmys reminded me just how much I detest award shows. Everything about them is uncomfortable, from the tight garments that makes physical motion, including respiration and peristalsis, virtually impossible, to the acceptance speeches that almost invariably start with a breathless gush of faux incredulity culminating in a rapid-fire laundry list of producers, directors, agents, managers, family members and an occasional God to thank. The pre-ceremony red carpet arrival packs a double whammy: another hour of awkward prefixed to an evening already millenia too long, plus Ryan Seacrest.

This cavalcade of grandstanding, voyeuristic tedium is topped off a day later on Fashion Police, when Joan Rivers and Kelly Osbourne will heatedly debate the existence of Gwyneth Paltrow’s muffin top.

On a positive note, never has the likelihood that I will die in obscurity seemed more appealing.