WATCHING television last Sunday, I was grateful that I did not have to be there in person for Bolton Wanderers’ miserable afternoon in the snow at Blackburn or for the London Bafta awards involving the great and good of the film world.

I usually associate awards ceremonies with people sitting at tables sipping glasses of champagne (Holt’s ales are rarely visible) and chatting animatedly as the stars collect their hard-won statuettes.

This time they sat in their seats at the Royal Opera House conscious that the TV cameras were trained on their faces hoping to catch glimpses of disappointment or rage as rivals made their acceptance speeches on the stage.

As it went on, I realised that this gang of professionals had more than enough expertise to keep their thoughts to themselves, even those who were probably bored stiff and concerned that the bar might have closed by the time it was all over.

Jonathan Ross was a well-behaved host and Prince William, the new Bafta president, presented the Bafta fellowship to Vanessa Redgrave, a well-known supporter of Left-wing causes and not somebody you would expect to curtsy to the future king and praise his dad, Prince Charles, for his “intelligence, humility and kindness”.

Prince William conducted his minimal duties well enough, I thought, but I suspect he was wondering what he had got himself in to as Vanessa burbled on at some length.

As he stood there, fidgeting in the background, I could not help thinking he looked considerably less regal than the talented actress being honoured.

That’s showbusiness.