On the eve of the "biggest night" on the movie calendar, I'm afraid old Oscar is in desperate need of a makeover, a rewrite, and dare I suggest, a change of scenery.

Los Angeles has played host to the movie industry's grand gala since the annual back-slapping began in 1929, and yet it is aired at a time when most of Europe and Africa is sleeping, while Asia and Australia are struggling with a Monday morning commute.

Only in North America, stuffed snugly into their sofas for this primetime TV face-stuffing of microwave cheese-filled snacks washed down with an overdose of celebrity flattery, is this nauseating nonsense really watched.