In an absurd 24 hours David Philpott travelled from the dusty roads of Kampala, Uganda to the glittering ballroom of the Grosvenor House Hotel to attend the Charity Awards.

The chandeliered ballroom of the Grosvenor House Hotel positively shimmered with sequined dresses and the atmosphere was hung heavy with the weight of charity sector celebrity – not to mention real TV celebrities like Gaby Roslin, Alex Jones, Matthew Wright, and paralympian Baroness Tanni Grey-Thompson to name but a few – as the hopeless and the hopeful gathered for the fourteenth year in a row, to celebrate all that is good and excellent in our often overlooked sector.

In the pre-ceremony drinks reception, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb, for I lost count of the number of people, who on seeing me leaning against a load bearing column making love to my glass of champagne, asked from whence I had procured it, as if perhaps I was a waiter myself. To be fair, I did not sport the same level of finesse in my costume as the other 700 souls assembling, this on account of the fact that just a dozen hours or so previously, I had been roaming the dusty streets of Kampala and my attempts at both self-barbering and dressing had left a lot to be desired. Never before had the phrase “Look what the cat dragged in” seemed more apropos as my mind remembered scenes from the hilarious film ‘the Wedding Crashers’. It gave me great delight though to be mistaken as a server instead of one of the served so that I could flirt with my drink, the first drop of bubbly in six months after a self-imposed abstinence; but that’s another story for another time – next week perhaps.

I have done a lot of awards ceremonies over the past few years so consider myself a bit of an expert. Indeed, there is rather a good joke about awards and haemorrhoids that I would love to tell but the pages of civilsociety.co.uk are far too refined for that, so perhaps it would better be saved and used in Private Eye – were my near neighbour Mr Hislop ever to realise that he had a wannabe hack living in his backyard.

An exceptional rarity 

For the past three years I have judged the KEIBA’s (Kent Excellence in Business Awards) and will shortly be judging the Red Ribbon Awards – a grand affair at the Lancaster Hotel – which celebrates the achievements of many of Britain’s outstanding Family Businesses. I was also a last minute, table-filling guest at the Institute of Directors Awards at the Landmark Hotel recently – a droll affair if truth be told, both enhanced no end by the comedic skill and timing of Giles Brandreth who gave the keynote speech.

Of all of the Awards ceremonies previously attended, those in the Grosvenor House Hotel last week scored well, this on account of excellent, witty and self-deprecating hosting by the brilliant Sally Phillips who could only have been upstaged had Miranda Hart herself turned up. The presentation was slick, the speeches short, and to top it all, the food quite exceptional – a rarity for those of us who have to endure what I think Nigel Lawson once called ‘the Rubber Chicken Circuit’.

Bold decisions

The causes of all of the worthy winners were noble. Especially, in my opinion, the charity that served the national and international conscience by highlighting the death, damage and destructions that President Obama’s drone strikes were having in Pakistan. It was bold step for the judges to award a prize to such as they and clear evidence, if indeed evidence were needed, that the judges had been rigorous in their contemplations, deliberations and decisions.

I had to leave early so I missed the last award, but as I tweeted from my taxi en-route to St Pancras Station, I had a flashback to the Treasured Kids Kindergarten in the slums of Kampala where I had been 24 hours beforehand and I smiled at the absurdity of my life. Hobo one day, all glammed up the next .

“What’s funny?” asked the cabbie looking in his rear view mirror. “Just remembered a joke or something?”
“Yeah” said I. “Do you know what Award Ceremonies and Haemorrhoid’s have in common...?”