Nail me to the Laz-e-boy and gag me with a spoon, it’s Logies time again. Is it really a year since last we laid in a bucket of the Colonel’s finest and knocked the top off the first of the evening’s alcopops or is there some weird quantum mechanical thing happening and the universe is reverting to strings? But we’re forgetting that the Logies are like porn. Between the anticipation and the reality falls a shadow – it’s the same old t-ts and a-se.

Of which there is no shortage on the red carpet. As the camera lens crawls over the female celebs like a garden snail, we are presented with the annual conundrum of gravity. No, really, how are those norks contained? Possibly we are back in the realm of quantum mechanics. Livinia and Jules and some other sheila are so perky you could tie them in a hessian sack with a monkey and a rat and throw them in the Tiber.

These guys are so peppy, peppy, peppy and with more dud lines than some bozo outside Crown Casino who’s just scored a gram of Ajax before hitting King (Hit) Street. Anyway, so the look this year is Grecian caryatid. Somewhere there are acres of stone entablature supported by nothing but air. Which brings us to our first faux category. Most Egregiously Sponsored Totty.

“Who are you dressed by tonight?” Livinia or the other sheila simpers and we get everything but the price (GST incl.) and the couturier’s personal mobile number. It’s an award closely followed by The Most Overused Word Connoting An Impossibly Good Time. “Amazing” gets off to a flier and is really never headed although “awesome”, reflecting the new demographic, gives it a bit of a scare. And proceedings aren’t even under way.

Stephen Hawking where the Planck’s constant are you when the televerse needs explaining? Instead there is Miss Universe sounding by her ecstatic tones as if she’s just back from a quick whiz through the cosmos with the “So You Think You Can Dance?” in tow. And everything is swathed in gauzy stuff and hair, lots and lots of hair. The fear always was that hairdressers would take over the world, and here it is, it’s happened.

But just at the point where a bloke is contemplating eating his young (the bucket of chicken has been reduced to bones an age ago), the thing itself kicks in. Whoo-hoo. Only what we get straight up are the crap categories. Best Foot-In-The-Door Journalism Parading As A Community Service, that sort of thing. Then on comes Patti Newton and Dingdong Denise Drysdale in a deathless routine which confirms that time is truly relative. The universe yawns.

The Choir of Hard Knocks misses out on an award (there is no God) while Chris Lilley bags Silver (I’m a believer again). Then one is plunged into abject apostasy with the award to Bindi Irwin for being A Complete And Utter Televisual Pest. Is there no statute of limitations on condolence?

And then something remarkable happens for an event which trades in unreality – it gets political. No sooner has Gary McDonald had an agricultural swipe at the Nine Network whose boast to be Proudly Australian is at odds with its commitment to a little thing called Canal Road than Gary Lyon cops shite for turning an acceptance speech into a defence of Sam Newman whose chief claim to nobility and integrity is that he “generates enormous publicity” for The Footy Show. Gary, mate, you were lucky the womenfolk confined themselves to boos and did not rain down half-eaten bread rolls on your thick noggin.

It is all downhill on a luge from thereon in. The Garuda Plane Crash scores a Logie (well done those pilots for contriving a truly spectacular catastrophe for the profit and delight of the nightly news), the Supercheap Auto Bathurst 1000 provides thrills of another order (although really the same thing) and Rebecca Gibney presents a tribute to those who have passed untimely. Vale Sue Becker. We will never see her like again. And you think I’m being facetious. Never, never. If video killed the radio star then irony has done for telly. It is all so knowing that it is no longer possible to enjoy what is too often its sheer awfulness. What was wonderfully bad is now merely camp.

John Clarke, bless his gumbies, can still spy the absurdity of a medium which takes itself too seriously. If only he could see, bookending his induction into the Logies Hall of Fame, the ads for “Guts, Glory and Gatto”. After such a breathtaking segue, the announcement of the Gold Logie is almost anticlimactic. It goes to Kate Ritchie whose acquaintance this viewer makes for the first time.

Apparently, Ms Ritchie has been on Home and Away so long her first appearance was very nearly in vitro. Well done, Kate. Whoever you are. But I should have said. Since telly decided its chief function was to deliver a captive audience to advertisers, I read books for preference. Books? Oh never mind.