Sunday night at the Oscars and everything is going splendidly. Everyone is hitting their lines, the hostess Ellen Degeneres is keeping the show ticking over nicely, the winners are happy and the losers gracious in defeat. Then, out of nowhere, Mr Saturday Night Fever opens his chiseled jaw and spoils the party.
I never really understood the fascination with John Travolta. Sure, he could dance and shake his tush in a pair of outrageous white flares, but... well let's just say I never found him the most engaging of interviewees and leave it at that.
Anyway. Up steps Travolta, teeth flashing, smile stuck in second gear and a glazed look that seemed to suggest he was on another planet, when disaster strikes. Bad enough that he looked about as interested as a vegetarian at a barbecue, but he couldn't even remember the name of the artist he was supposed to be introducing.