All right Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my Oscar
I don't know what to say, I'm literally speechless! I'm not prepared for this. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you, Academy. Thank you, fans. Thank you all.
I didn't write a speech, obviously apart from some typewritten notes in the limo on the way over. I tucked them into the top of my bra, just in case. My Elle MacPhersons are particularly stretchy for added comfort, so a couple of pieces of A4 just slotted right in there.
But I digress. I didn't write a formal speech because I didn't think I'd need to; let's face it, I was up against the best. Meryl, you look absolutely beautiful, look at her, doesn't she, people?
You were magnificent in The Iron Lady, the spitting image of Maggie Thatcher. Obviously I would've been unable to take on the role, given that I'm decades younger than you. I can remember watching you in Silkwood in 1983, and I was almost still in nappies!
Or diapers, as you call them over here.
And Glenn. You were glorious in Albert Nobbs, even though I knew you didn't stand a chance. I mean to say, who the heck would call a movie that? The fact that you appear not to have succumbed to major facial plastic surgery, given your face of many wrinkles (and I say good on you, girlfriend, woo!) is admirable, but you're probably now seen as lacking versatility.
It's not your acting ability, no, not at all, Glenn, it's simply your age. Our 'old lady of film' truly deserves a round of applause, everyone, just for leaving her walker at home and struggling over the red carpet to be here tonight. Clap, clap.
Michelle - my little Shelley - I personally think it's time you disrobed yourself from the pity coat you've been hanging on to since our favourite Antipodean heart throb Heath Ledger left you, your daughter and this earth several years ago.
No offence, but no one who starred in Dawson's Creek should even step foot on this stage, let alone be listed amongst the finalists here tonight. And I mean that in a loving way. Everyone, acknowledgement for the small effort little Shelley has made to world cinema. Clap, clap.
Viola, has anyone seen someone so cute before? You remind me of a younger and slimmer Oprah, and you were breathtaking in The Help. Keep up the good work and don't despair. At some stage you might get an Oscar like mine, so continue to try welly welly welly hard and good things will come your way, I'm sure.
As for you, Rooney Mara, I've never heard of you so I can't possibly comment. Other than to wonder what your parents were THINKING when they named you. Good luck with that.
Obviously, though, there are many I need to thank. Firstly, the Academy, for having the gonads to pick someone with overwhelmingly raw potential like mine. You might be a bunch of rich, white, old geezers, but I'm proof that you get it right sometimes.
To Brad Pitt, for leaving Angie and coming to live with me on my exclusive Carribbean island that Peter Jackson bought me, I am deeply grateful. Darling Brad, you look good even though you're 50, a bit hairier than you once were and a tad boring.
You're a smidge too fond of taking your motorbike for a spin to god-only-knows-where, and your hair has more product on it than the entire population of Wellington, but you're nice to come home to of an evening, and you make spag bol to die for.
Tom and Katie, what can I say? Your guidance and friendship has been invaluable. It's great that you've arranged for David Beckham to clean my Hollywood Hills pool and John Travolta to whisk me off to Whistle for a spot of skiing, but at some stage I just have to put my foot down and say no, I simply can't join your little church. I'll star in your next movie though, Tom. The script for Mission Impossible: The Second-to- Last-But-One Samurai sure looks promising.
Then there's Colin Firth, my one true Mr Darcy. You're here somewhere, aren't you Col? What a guy. Why Bridget Jones would pick Hugh Grant over you, I've never fathomed, but you've been my inspiration all along and I love you deeply, even though you're still shacked up with that tarty- looking Italian bird.
What do you call her? Oh yeah, 'wife'.
I can't leave the stage without a call-out to my besties; you know who you are Madonna, Sandra, Fergie, Penelope, Eva, Gwyneth, Cameron, Jennifer, Reese, Megan, Scarlett, Keira and my personal favourite, Shakira. I love the girls' nights out we have, and how you all look up to me.
And yes, tomorrow night you can all come around to mine and touch this best actress Oscar I've won tonight. Might well be the closest most of you'll ever get. Clap, clap.
Finally, to my fans. What would I be without you? Probably still phenomenally successful, I'd expect, rolling in squillions and looking fabulous 24 hours a day, but perhaps a bit lonely as well.
Keep buying cinema tickets to the sloppy chick flicks my agent insists are ongoing easy money.
Ohmigodohmigod - oh my god! I'm going to cry. just don't know what to say (sob), except thank you for this incredible surprise. I'm speechless (sob) and breathless, chuffed and yet secretly adamant (sob) that I'm the answer to world peace.
So, a round of applause (sob) for me, ladies and (sob) gentlemen.
Clap (sob), clap.
Taranaki Daily News