13 February

I get a call from my mate Max, who got a call from our mate Trevor, who got a call from Joe who was watching Sky. I have been nominated for an Oscar.

15 February

Home. The buzzer rings and I let in a Fed Ex man. He comes bow-legged up our stairs with a huge box. It is a present from Universal Studios. I am delighted. This is pay day. The film has made about $100 million worldwide and I've not seen a penny, but now the famous largesse of Hollywood studios will act as some compensation. Now they realise my worth.

I rip open the immense box, expecting a telly, a case of wine or something comparable. I discover a water pistol, some banana-flavoured Curious George chewable 'candy' and some dominoes. I wonder if the box was meant for Jamie Bell. I quickly calculate the combined value of the gifts and realise it is a small fraction of the cost of shipping. I tip out all the polystyrene stuffing in a vain search for a book token. Nothing, except a letter telling me the person who makes the shortest acceptance speech on the night will win a telly.

21 February

Every single person I have met in the last week has asked what I will be wearing. What the fuck do they think I will be wearing? I tell people I will don a miner's lamp and carry a canary. No one finds this funny. I am approached by Angela who tells me she will help fix me up with some designer togs for the main event - she got a complete wardrobe for Guy Ritchie and the blokes from Snatch so I shouldn't be a problem. She says she'll be back in touch.

I go home and give the box of toys to the children next door. Their excited faces drop when they pull out the banana-flavoured Curious George chewable 'candy', and they disappear without a thank you.

17 March

Only a week to go. I suddenly realise I still have nothing to wear. I call Angela who explains that she has called all her usual designers. After the initial excitement that they have the opportunity to dress an Oscar nominee, they suddenly find themselves short on stock when they discover I am a writer. Maybe Oswald Boateng will do something at cost. I get excited until I realise exactly what Oswald will cost. While I'd love a proper Boateng suit, I get queasy about shelling out for a dinner jacket. Anyway, I'd have to go in for a fitting which is impossible as I am in Newcastle.

21 March

I leave for LA tomorrow. I still have nothing to wear. I panic and go to an ex-hire shop. For 90 quid, I get a tin flute, bow tie and cummerbund. What's more, being 100 per cent polyester, it is creaseproof and stands up on its own. The proprietor warns me against naked flames. Talk to Stephen Daldry who tells me his filming is running over and he might not make it out. He will try to get there at the last minute.

22 March

We fly to LA. There is a telly you can watch when you're on the bog. I have a gander at the local news. The stand outside the Oscars has fallen down and a few of the Mexican labourers are in intensive care.

24 March

We discover a stretch limo has been booked to ferry us to the Universal nominees' party at Il Ceilo's. As we are getting into the limo, I see Il Ceilo's - it is right across the street. I realise that because of the one-way system, it would take about five minutes to get there by stretch limo - and about 30 seconds to walk. We decide to walk but agree not to tell the car company so the driver can get a full night's wages.

At the party, I find Julie Walters and Jamie Bell. While I chat with Julie, Jamie works the room. One minute he is joshing with Russell Crowe, the next Julia Roberts is stroking his cheek. I get stuck with a part-time dentist who used to rewrite scripts for Roger Corman. He tells me we should collaborate on a script about football hooliganism. I take his card and promise to email. Jamie, by this point, has been invited to a party at DreamWorks. Even though I spent all last year writing a script for Mr Spielberg, I had no idea of this party's existence. Though Jamie insists I should come anyway, I decide to have an early night.

25 March

The big day. Stephen Daldry arrives on a cargo plane from Frankfurt having only finished his filming at 7pm yesterday night. I wake at 11am and stick the TV on. ABC is running a 24-hour Oscar show. Apparently, people have been queuing for 11 days to sit on the stands to watch people go in. I fish around in my haversack and retrieve my DJ. It emerges completely uncreased.

My girlfriend Christine and I go downstairs for the limo. The driver tells us that although the Shrine Auditorium is 15 minutes away there is an expected journey time of two hours. However, there is some lukewarm champagne in an 'Oscar box' in the back. We crack it open. As we get close to the auditorium, the traffic slows to a jam. I look out of the sunroof and see rows of limos four abreast stretching into infinity. Along the route, there are lines of fans waving banners. I see groups of bearded men with posters of Jamie Bell. Then groups of fundamentalist Christians with signs saying: 'Go to the Oscars, Burn in Hell.' I wind down my window to get a better look. A man in a devil suit shouts at me to 'repent now'. We move slowly past an indigent man with no teeth bearing a sign saying: 'Out of work - will do anything. Business cards accepted.' His hopeful look sends a shiver down my spine. I wind the window up and return to the hermetic world of over-indulgence and conspicuous privilege.

We finally arrive. Unfortunately, we've got split up from Jamie and Julie but we can hear people screaming their names. After the metal detectors and the body search, we are ushered on to the red carpet, which is a sort of corral. We shuffle off inside and the tawdry reality of the event kicks in. The airy glitz of the cakewalk gives way to the gloom of the Shrine Auditorium foyer. Then you realise that while there may be, say, 100 stars here, maybe double that if you include the character actors, there are 6,000 neckbenders all aggressively jostling for canapés and warm wine. I try to find Stephen and Jamie but it is impossible in the crush, so we take our seats.

I have not had time to be nervous as the surface detail of the trip has been so diverting. Now it actually hits that there is a one-in-five chance that I will have to get up in front of a billion people and say something cogent, and I have not prepared a speech. I decide to go for the free TV so to calm my nerves I repeat the mantra: 'Thanks very much. Please send me the telly.'

The ceremony starts. The usual twaddle but I am excited that I'll get to see Randy Newman. The first half-hour is remarkably pleasant, until I realise we are only on to Best Sound Design and there are 20 more categories to go. The speeches are interminable. Most winners have thrown caution to the wind and are thanking dead relatives and defiantly shouting over the band as it sweeps in to usher them off. I can take no more. I go off for a pee. The lobby is filled with disgruntled nominees drowning their sorrows or nervously sneaking off for a pee. I hurry back to discover I've missed Randy Newman.

Several hours pass. Björk comes off stage wearing a swan costume and sits in front of me. I am now beginning to get genuinely bored. Around the hall are several TV screens and you see how much better everything looks on telly. The rather scruffy reality is somehow transformed into glitz.

Bob Dylan is announced and I sit up hopefully. Unfortunately, he is in Sydney. Before I know it, Tom Hanks is announcing my category. A camera is stuck in my face, but before I have time to be sick, Hanks reads out the name Cameron Crowe. Relief sweeps over me, accompanied by a vague sense that I'd been conned. How could I have taken it all so seriously? I'd even prepared a speech, for god's sake.

Then off to the Governor's Ball. After Daldry has done sufficient networking, we all head off to the Vanity Fair party. Stephen immediately passes out and Jamie and I watch the party on the television. Just a few feet away, we could see impossibly hip people having the time of their lives - Tom Hanks, Puff Daddy, you name them - but we seemed stuck in another stationary stretch of limos. The driver thought it'd only be another half-hour and he'd have us in.

Half an hour later, we decide to wake Stephen and risk walking. We fight our way through the crowds and get to the entrance. The security team bars our way. To my delight, Harvey Weinstein joins us in the queue and is also refused entry. Luckily, Stephen's friend Lucy knows one of the doormen from a club in New York and we are then ushered through.

We stand like someone's parents at a teenage birthday party. I'm next to a tall black man who appears to be in drag. Jamie points out that this is Whitney Houston. Puff Daddy and Snoop Doggy Dog come over and give their 'respect' to Jamie, who handles it all with great aplomb. For some reason, Zoe Ball is there and also gives her respect to Jamie, but by this time we'd had had enough. We struggle to get out through the people struggling to get in and emerge into the night.

The men with beards are there shouting for Jamie. We decide to ignore them. One bearded man tries to make a run for it, but is wrestled to the ground by security. The limo arrives and we all collapse into the hotel, exhausted.

I wake promptly at five in the morning. The telly's still on and there is Stephen Daldry still at the party. I look across the room and my suit is standing in the corner. I vow that if I ever get nominated again I'll be doing it in front of the telly with a take-out curry.

Lee Hall is adapting The Good Hope for the National Theatre and writing a screenplay for Company Pictures and Tom Hanks's company Playtone.