For years, like the cuckoo, it has been a herald of spring. The Oscars ceremony has other things in common with the vernal bird. It makes bizarre repetitive noises (“And the Oscar goes to”, “I would like to thank”). It casts a marauder’s shadow over the nests of other awards binges, stealing their glamour and publicity. And frequently, though also lovably, it is – for want of a better word – cuckoo.

We who are about to salute it, for the 80th time, were appalled on first hearing it might die, even for a year. We were even more appalled – or to be exact, startled – that the threat came from the Writers Guild. You mean the Oscars ceremony is written?