AH, the TV Baftas (Sunday BBC 1, 8pm), bless them. With all the will in the world, they’re not exactly the Oscars, are they?

Yes, there are limos. Yes, there is even a red carpet, but that’s where the similarity ends. At the annual Academy Awards, in the suffused, golden light of an LA dusk, Hollywood’s big-hitters, generally weighing the equivalent of a malnourished chihuahua, waft into the arena of dreams draped in Graff diamonds and vintage Dior, all glowing, toned skin and glistening hair and flashing the sort of cosmetic dentistry work that would set your average Joe back two year’s salary.

You get the occasional Celine (why the long face?) Dion reversed tuxedo or Bjork-being-a-swan-laying-an-egg wardrobe malfunction, but on the whole, the nominees arrive looking more polished than the little golden statuette they would gladly kill their granny to win.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the pond, our version of stars at the top of their game spewed out of cars outside London’s Grosvenor Hotel, all acres of exposed flesh, ranging in texture and hue from corned-beef to Canadian redwood, over-done hair, Queen Mum teeth and ill-fitting taffeta. And that was just the blokes!

Which is one of the reasons why the TV Baftas are far more fun to watch than the sort of slick, budget-busting smug-fests where you’d never spot a smear of lippy on a tooth, a bingo wing or yesterday’s barnet just zuushed (never know how to spell that word!) up a bit.

That, and the joyfully amateurish nature of the entire affair, helped on, of course, by the killer combination of zero food and lashings of free booze.

For instance, Graham Norton hosted, but he also won (Best Entertainment Performance), so there was a fabulous village hall play moment where he stood to one side doing his main job, presenting, then ran round the other side to do the other, that of accepting.

Norton’s overall delivery was fine, though many of his jokes were over-scripted, random and not that funny. But he got himself out of a hole with the one about how we all loved watching the Royal Wedding, er, except the Duchess of York . . . and the one about the cast of The Only Way Is Essex (TOWIE, to those in the know) nicking the hotel’s towels, only to be begged to take the sheets as well on account of their being ruined by all their fake tan, got him off the hook entirely.

And there was much worthiness among the winners.

Sherlock was named best drama series, Jo Brand got best comedy actress, David Attenborough’s 3-D Flying Monsters bagged the Special Factual gong, Sir Trevor McD (the new Queen Mum) was presented with a Fellowship Award and the brilliant documentary, Zimbabwe’s Forgotten Children won Best Current Affairs.

In his acceptance speech for Forgotten Children, its maker (Jezza Neumann) praised us viewers for our integrity, compassion and power. He described how, after the hard-hitting film aired, people watching were so moved by the plight of the children that they set up a Facebook page in a bid to help. Within a week, it had attracted 10,000 people and went on to help raise funds that meant all of the children featured could get help and allowed the makers to get involved in a feeding project for schools.

So, what did this same discerning, philanthropic, intelligent audience vote for as the best television show bar none in this year’s YouTube Audience Vote Award category?

Why, The Only Way is Essex, of course.

Shu’up! OMG!

Up traipsed the squealing, vagazzled, creosoted cast of the ridiculously popular faux reality show, looking like they’d come from the My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding crew’s table by mistake and grabbed the Bafta with fluorescent, zebra-printed nail extensions.

Girls who looked like Jordan at the end of a rough night and vainglorious blokes who, ironically, wouldn’t know who Narcissus was if he bashed them over the head with a giant mirror, screamed their fanx to the audience and flew back to their table to start partying propah.

The looks on the faces of some of our best-known costume-drama, crime-stopping luvvies, were worth the licence fee alone.

So, well done, you mad, eclectic bunch. We may be less shiny than our cousins across the Atlantic, but nobody could ever accuse us of being predictable!