by Paul Bassett Davies

There was a time when I could have written that the Awards season is upon us, what with the Baftas and the Oscars, but awards, especially for films, are now being dished out all the time, everywhere. Right now, somewhere in the world, someone is standing on a stage, delivering tearful thanks to family, God and rehab, while clutching anything from a passable imitation of the phallic yet elegantly asexual Oscar, to an abstract slab of something possibly radioactive, extracted from the local mines by political prisoners in an unpronounceable former soviet republic.

It's true: get a map of the world, close your eyes, and stick a pin in the map. (If you're doing this in a shop it's considered polite to pay for the map, or at least the pin, first.) You may think your pin has landed in the arctic wastes, or a vast stretch of empty Pacific ocean, but a little research will reveal that a terminally bored multinational team of environmentalists in the arctic, with nothing to divert them except a vast supply of DVDs, have organized their own awards ceremony, contacting Steven Seagal on the satellite link to congratulate him on winning the Most Ecologically Sustainable Actor category for his achievement in recycling the same performance in all his films, and the spot you've landed on in the Pacific is a Micronesian island whose inhabitants have given up cannibalism for film criticism and are holding a microfestival to celebrate. But old habits die hard, and one of the awards is for "Most Succulent Actress. If we still did that kind of thing. Which we don't. So, welcome, tourist friends, and hey, producers, check out these stunning locations and the risible minimum wage of  one human thigh per day. Whoops! We mean one dollar. Definitely not a thigh. A dollar."

The entire arts world is beginning to resemble Sports Day at a progressive kindergarten, with grinning teachers rushing around to make sure that no child goes home empty-handed, even if they fell over before their race began.

This largesse is reflected in film posters, each embellished with a discreet row of small, laurel-leaf medallions, representing awards bestowed at various festivals. They look impressive from a distance, like the decorations on the chest of a Ruritanian Field Marshall, but it's best not to inspect these things too closely. Many years ago I was at a party in the house of an entertaining con man, later jailed for defrauding heiresses. The house was a bungalow on the outskirts of Bristol, which should, perhaps, have rung a few alarm bells, but he was charming, and most heiresses are stupid, a combination con artists have relied on since the game began. The walls were hung with photos of my host shaking hands with various shady characters, including a selection of bewildered looking African dictators. There was also a glass case in the corner containing a pair of crossed fencing foils above a row of medals suspended from ribbons. The first three medals looked pretty kosher but the fourth was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the guarantee off an Italian washing machine.

So, while it's good to know that a British film has won The Golden Sausage of Zagreb for the Best Silent Comedy on the Theme of Assisted Suicide, many of the medallions are merely 'nominations', perhaps on a shortlist of ten, selected from a field of twelve eligible films. Other medals turn out to be 'jury' prizes, possibly awarded by the same jury that acquitted O.J. Simpson.

So, why do we do it? Well, I'm not a psychologist but - what was that? Oh, thank you. Very kind. Yes, I probably do have more incisive insights than most trained psychologists. I think any good writer probably does. It comes with the territory, and humility plays an important part. Where was I? Oh, yes. The reason we give each other awards is quite simple: it makes us feel good, and that includes everyone. The judges are able to feel wiser and more talented than the people they're judging, even when it's obvious they're not. But the winners don't care if their award was bestowed by a panel including Gary Bushell and Basil Brush, they just want the prize, along with the status, and, sometimes, the money, that goes with it. In fact, shrewd award organizers always include a couple of mediocrities on the panel, so the losers can have the satisfaction of complaining that such Philistines couldn't possibly recognize the merit of their masterpiece. Meanwhile, the sponsors get to demonstrate how much they appreciate the arts by donating a millionth of their annual profits to pay for the prize, the media get a few good stories, especially if the judges can be persuaded to argue and the guests can be relied on to get drunk and have a fight, and a lucky catering company makes a fortune.

So, let's have even more awards, I say. In fact, while I may not be an international statesman, I - what? Oh thank you. Yes, I probably could do a better job of it than most of them - I have a simple plan to foster world peace: we create a global culture of intensive, equitable, perpetual prize-giving. Under this scheme, instead of Russia and Georgia fighting over accusations of invading each other's territory, for example, they would give each other awards: Most Tightly Synchronized Tank Manoeuvres; Best Dressed Special Forces; Most Creative Propaganda Claim to be Acting in Self Defence; Best Actor in the Role of Outraged Foreign Minister, and so on. International mediators would ensure that both sides got the same number of prizes. There would simply be no time left to organize a proper war, what with the elaborate awards ceremonies, the thrill of meeting petulant celebrities, the interminable acceptance speeches, and the glittering after-show events, hosted by multinational corporations who will now have to obtain their oil, gas and mineral exploitation rights by sponsoring parties rather than wars.

Even though I say so myself, I think it's a brilliant idea, and if some people suggest I deserve some sort of award for thinking of it, who am I to refuse?

The author would like to thank his mother for her encouragement during the writing of this article. Although he wishes she wouldn't interrupt him like that. And no, he's not hungry. No, not even a sandwich, thank you.