The crimson shag-pile has been unrolled, the cameras are poised and Gwyneth’s ready to stuff her face with macrobiotic vol-au-vents.

In an a dazzling array of bleached smiles, tuxedos and bejewelled décolletages comes awards season, with its full scale assault of Grammys, Golden Globes and the don of them all, the Oscars. It’s a chance for the most prestigious thespians, musicians and industry geniuses to gain notoriety for their achievements, but, more importantly, an opportunity for us lowly mortals to engage in a spot of scathing judgment.

Behind the humble triumphs and gracious defeats remains the simple fact that, despite their dazzling facade, awards are nothing more than a competition; a little akin to a Mecca bingo hall, but with more talent and less gin.

As a species, we can’t get enough of a bit of healthy competition. We even subject our beloved canines to the annual furore that is Crufts. (Although last year’s event stirred up quite the controversy, what with the use of artificial eyelashes and dog makeup – personally I see nothing wrong with a pug sporting a weave.)

Rivalry claws its way into our impressionable minds from a tender age, disguised in the most innocent of forms.

What begins for most in the playground, with children heatedly comparing Pogs/Pokémon/Tamagotchis, often escalates with the trials of family game time (in my case ending in a bloodbath to rival Napoleonic times) and comes to a head on the dreaded sports day.

Creative competition is possibly the most arduous battle of them all; there are no clear cut rules to tell us what’s good and bad (apart from babies in flower pots – they’re pretty much always bad), and every day more and more hyper-talented folk seem to emerge. So how exactly do you rate your success and ability in such a tumultuous industry?

The majority of us will be denied the honour of placing the likes of an Oscar on our mantelpieces, perched amid the Subway vouchers and carriage clocks; I personally came to terms with this ever since I was denied a role as understudy dormouse in The Wiz. Not even the real Wizard of Oz. Pitiful.

Perhaps this means that we’ll have to rely on different ways to gain the fulfillment we’re after.

A little recognition, whatever form it may take – whether it’s a passing compliment from friend, your grandpa’s file of newspaper cuttings or a fantastic review – all helps to alleviate the doubt that you’re doing something you’re no good at. Unless it’s photographing babies in flower pots – you’re not good at that, no one is.

And now I leave you to retire to my toilet of conceit, housing the best of my flatmates’ achievements. No gold, but two very useful degrees and a world belly-boarding trophy.

More Nicola:

... on morals

... on irony

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