A guide to how your Oscar night is probably going to go (if you're anything like me)

I need at least this much alcohol when watching the Oscars

It's Oscar night - HURRAY! And that means Twitter snarking, endless arguing ("Lupita was rooooooooooobed!" etc) and the God awful E! Red Carpet coverage is upon us. Like Jack Nicholson's unmovable grin beaming from the front row, I consider myself a bit of an Oscar veteran because I've been watching it live every year for ages. And it's this experience and that makes me relatively certain of how the night will pan out, even if I still have no idea who will actually win the little buggers. Grab some Bailey's and a non-nutritional snack: you're going to need it.


The red carpet circus begins a good three hours before the actual show so unfortunately you will have to tolerate Ryan Seacrest's grinning orange face, Guiliana Rancic's embarrassingly bad fawning and Kelly Osbourne trying to make us all forget that she's famous because of her swearing parents and shitting dogs. This is why I said to get some alcohol. Three fucking hours.


No-one interesting has showed up and they're just filling time. 


The "lower level" celebrities are beginning to arrive along with a few of the nominees from the acting four to get us a bit excited. Perhaps Amy Adams has shown up already and may or may not be showing a fuck tonne of side-boob.


Guiliana has already asked some people "what they're wearing" and the fans of correct grammar are just horrified. Guiliana laughs and doesn't mind being mocked because she's dead inside. 


Jennifer Lawrence has arrived wearing Dior because she's paid to and quickly photobombs June Squibb causing the elder Best Supporting Actress nominee to retaliate by flashing her vagina at her. Lawrence ignores her genitalia and starts talking about farting or something because she's just like us. 


You've just finished the last Oreo and accidentally drank water instead of straight vodka. Things aren't going well.


The red carpet is fucking rammed at this point and the paps are trying to get the nobodies out of the way so to catch any possible wardrobe malfunctions.


Lupita has arrived. Everyone hits the bar because they've realised they look completely shit in comparison.


A ray of sunshine has suddenly descended on the red carpet and doves are swirling around an arriving car. It's Brangelina. Everyone goes fucking mental while those uninvited (Translation: everyone on Twitter) talks about how high he looks and how skinny she is.


The show hasn't even started yet and you're already yawning. This isn't good.


Remember when it used to start at 1am? They're trying to kill us. 


The show begins and host Ellen Degeneres is telling some jokes.


She's singing a bit and an actor from the seating area (I'm guessing Hugh Jackman or Anne I-Hate-Yo-Ass Hathaway) has joined in.


Best supporting actor time. Jared Leto gives his speech and the camera pans to his hot mum. Seriously, they're all vampires.


At this point you've stopped paying attention to what's happening during the ceremony because you're too busy trying to say funny shit on Twitter. Whoever gets the most retweets wins!


Your last joke was retweeted and favourited by people you don't know or care about. You're loving this shit.


Someone drops the F-bomb so you down your drink. Not because you're playing a drinking game, but because it's respectful. 


Everyone on Twitter is going insane and you don't know why because you were on the toilet.


You're so desperate for alcohol you've begun drinking the wine usually only used for cooking. The snacks are finished so it's cereal time.


You've just woken up after a long blink.


Knee deep in technical awards now and even the guests are bored because Gravity is winning everything.


Quite tried now. Can we have Best Picture so we can all go to bed?


The constant tweeting and typing has made your hand start to ache and you given up trying to be funny. You're too drunk and tired to care.


You fell asleep again.




Best Picture is announced and you're either thrilled (if 12 Years A Slave won) or completely outraged and tweet that you're never watching this shit again because the Oscars don't care about movies (if 12 Years A Slave lost). 


Go to bed.


Wake up and immediately start watching rolling news coverage on BBC News 24 while Googling 'Best and Worst Dressed' lists. Realise you lead a pathetic life. Start drinking again.