I was at an engagement drinks on Saturday night (not mine, clearly), when my ex-flatmate, who I hadn’t seen in years, bounded up to me. ‘Enjoying all the awards ceremonies then, Imo?’ she teased.

For I have been obsessed with awards ceremonies for YEARS. I used to pretend to my Mum that I had to get up early on Oscar Monday to finish my homework – when in reality I’d scuttle downstairs and watch the last hour (the good bits) live with the television volume on its lowest setting. Quite possibly the most exciting moment of my life was going and actually watching my Dad pick up his gong for Evita. It was "The English Patient" year and I remember my little brother following Juliette Binoche round at every party open mouthed. I wasn’t any better – Ralph Fiennes had an overweight gawky teenage stalker for the night.

But along with getting traditionally over-excited in an extremely sad trainspottery way about the Academy Awards I also predict everything but Best Supporting Actress right. And so it was this year, when our own Tilda Swinton won over Cate Blanchette.

The more I hear about Tilda, the more I think: only made in Britain, and God how cool is this woman? She doesn’t give a flying f**k what people make of her outlandish outfits, or her unusual domestic set-up – she and her partner bring up their children in Scotland while she has a toy boy painter amour for when she’s not there. She also gave the best speech of the night, taking the p**s out of her Michael Clayton co-star George Clooney (what’s with his girlfriend – she’s been around for ages) for his disastrous foray as Batman:

" Seeing you climb into that rubber batsuit from Batman and Robin – the one with the nipples – every morning under your costume, on the set, off the set, hanging upside down at lunch. You rock, man!"

And so, Tilda, do you…