I don't even know why I watch any more. They never thank me. That is not an exaggeration: they have never once thanked me. I am beginning to give up hope.

I can scarcely remember when first it started, this curious conviction that one day someone winning an Emmy or an Oscar will mention me in their acceptance speech. I have dim recall of sitting as a young lad in a beige leatherette La-Z-Boy recliner, watching in an ever-ossifying state of befuddlement as a procession of people I didn't know appeared on stage to make personal mention of an even longer list of people I didn't know, trying to make things more interesting for myself by pretending that one day one of them would mention me.

That way, I knew, a gazillion strangers could blink in blank indifference at the sound of my name. The thought thrilled me.

As I grew older, my daydream mysteriously became a state of constant expectation. I have been known to shush people when Meryl Streep stepped to the podium to receive an Oscar. For some reason when I was young I felt Meryl and I had an understanding. More with the teenaged Brooke Shields, to tell you the truth, but the teenaged Brooke Shields was never in line to win an Oscar, and quite right too. But do I ever get a mention? I do not. Instead there is an endless roll-call of Mike McCaffreys and Irving Schlinks and Tommy Monkfishes and, "of course, Billy Baumgarten, who has been there for me and kept faith ever since the beginning. This is for you, Billy!"

It was not egotism that made me dream of being mentioned. Just the opposite. When I was small I never identified with the stars that were actually winning the awards. I knew I was not Tom Selleck, nor was meant to be. I could not dream much further than wondering what it was like to appear in a thank-you speech. Do your friends cheer and slap you on your back? Does your phone ring off the hook with people asking, "Say, are you that Irving Schlink?" Is it suddenly easier to get a date for Friday night? ("Hiya, baby. Did you happen to catch Ray Romano's acceptance speech at the Emmys last night? You did? Honey, this is your lucky day...") I did, however, have a favourite acceptance speech, which I vowed to use if ever opportunity arose. In the late 1980s, when John Larroquette accepted the Emmy for his role in Night Court, he propped himself against the podium, scratched his head, and said: "Uh, thanks to mom for going through with it." Then he slouched off stage, reaching in his jacket for a hipflask.

A few years ago a sober John Larroquette won an Emmy for his guest role in an episode of The Practice. He bounded on stage, clear-eyed and chipper. He was more than chipper. He was chippest. He began his speech. "I am honoured to receive this award tonight," he said, "and I would like to thank all the people that made it possible. Mike McCaffrey, Irving Schlink, Tommy Monkfish..." It was a moment that told me everything I need to know about the desirability of quitting drinking.

The 54th Emmy Awards (M-Net; Monday) came complete with a "54" logo, shamelessly filched from Studio 54, and an alarming-looking host named Conan O'Brien. Conan O'Brien is a strange, tall, gingerish fellow with a disturbingly smooth white face, like the mask Michael Myers wore to stalk Jamie Leigh Curtis in the original Halloween.

(Note to young readers: Michael Myers was a fictional villain, not to be confused with Canadian comedian Mike Myers, who is a real-life villain for encouraging the unseemly trend among otherwise sensible adults of saying things like "shagadelic, baby!" in the mistaken belief that they are being amusing.)

It was business as usual at the Emmys. Last year the Emmys congratulated themselves for happening, with all the delays and traumas and security threats. This year the Emmys congratulated themselves for happening without all the delays and traumas and security threats.

There was a lot of congratulating going on. And why not? Spread the love - that was the message. A dumpy individual named Doris Roberts won the award for Best Supporting Actress. She was a small, squat bushel of love. "I'd like to thank everyone who voted for me," she declared, "and even those who didn't." Gee, Doris, my pleasure.

John Spencer won for Best Supporting Actor. "I dedicate this to Aaron Sorkin, one of the greatest writers of all time," said John Spencer with all the confidence and literary authority of, well, an actor. No doubt as we speak the mayor of Stratford-on-Avon is beefing up the budget for next year's PR campaign.

Next up was Tom Hanks presenting - I am not making this up - a humanitarian award to Oprah Winfrey. Hanks and Winfrey on stage together are a couple to cause teeth to ache and diabetics to reach for their insulin. All around the world, dentists rubbed their hands together and planned next year's holiday to the Bahamas. "We are all human," said Tom Hanks helpfully, "but Oprah is a little more human than the rest of us." The camera panned to Oprah in the front row. It was true. Her buttons were just about popping with all that extra humanity.

"There is nothing more important to me than being a good human being," said Oprah without a trace of embarrassment, "so nothing could make me happier than winning this award." I wonder how people cope who have to try to be good human beings without winning awards. But Oprah wasn't finished.

"I owe this award," she said, "to one man. I would like to thank Darrel Bristow-Bovey for providing me with the moral example to be the best me I can be." Suddenly, I didn't know what to say.