Can you smell it in the air? The faint yet overbearing whiff of overachievement and barely-concealed rivalry, the fruity, overripe aroma of swelling egos, the smell of freshly-pressed suits and designer dresses? Yes, readers, it’s awards season.  This year’s festival of self-congratulation kicked off a few days ago with the Golden Globes, hosted by Britain’s very own Ricky Gervais, with the upcoming Oscars in March. On a side note, Zeitgeist Tape is starting to get concerned about how many British actors are jumping ship for America. Kate Winslet, Jude Law, Hugh Laurie, now Ricky Gervais – at this rate, soon we’ll be left with Vinne Jones in a corset, single-handedly propping up the BBC Austen season.

 Gervais deployed his trademark tactlessness (jokes about Paul McCartney’s divorce settlement), although you have to feel for the audience – they had the desperate look of someone trapped next to the drunk uncle at Christmas dinner, the one who repeatedly entreats you to pull his cracker, accidentally outs your closeted cousin Dan and then reminds everybody about his upcoming divorce in the awkward silence.

Nevertheless, James Cameron won best drama for Avatar and best director, so self-congratulations remained the order of the day. James Cameron, Globe aloft in hand, now resembles Susan B. Anthony in an Armani suit, or one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence. “We all have the best job in the world!” Cameron, possibly Roosevelt’s third cousin, informed guests. ZT wonders if the last name ‘Cameron’ lends itself to a certain earnest smugness, a kind of self-righteousness primarily located in the lower jowls – no, too much of a stretch?

In any case, Avatar has already broken all records in the world ever existing ever, which just goes to reveal a hitherto unrealised global demand for a film where sexy blue cat-people reinterpret Pocahontas. There’s already online chatter about a Na’vi secession state in Pensacola, Florida. “After all,” opines its would-be founder, who possesses a somewhat creative approach to historical narrative, “Native American tribes and even countries such as Kosovo had to start somewhere”. Huster has even announced an Avatar porn spoof (sadly, not to be titled Avatart: I Blue Myself.)    

Back on our shores, the Brit Awards nominations have been released. Pixie Lott has racked up three nods, which brings us to the question: what is Pixie Lott? A marketing simulacrum that disappears if you look too closely, like a Benefit-lipsticked mirage in the desert? Amy Winehouse minus everything interesting about Amy Winehouse? A Petula Clark clone in an updo and Uggs? Her song ‘Mama Do’ is up for Best Single, alongside JLS’ ‘Beat Again’ (it’s important to note that the Brit Awards have never been about the power of the British music, they’re about the power of its PR industry). And the nominations for BRITs Album of 30 Years? Duffy, Keane and Dido.

It’s official: the sun has set on the British Empire; we have entered the final days of Rome. As we enter the pollution-suffused twilight of our existence, we will curse the following: Simon Cowell, Johnny Rotten for Country Life butter, Paul McCartney for ever giving up the fight and every single one of Dappy from N-Dubz’s hats.

Incidentally, Dappy has been dropped from an anti-bullying campaign because he texted a death threat to Chloe, a Radio 1 listener who accused him of being a “loser”. Said text began with “your gonna die” for what she had done on the “The Chris Moyels [sic] Show”. You know what? If we were a 5”3 rapper from Camden with an illustrious collection of knitted hatwear, we wouldn’t care about accurate spelling in our death threats either! ROCK AND ROLL!