Veteran producer Laszlo Barna, this year alone, has garnered 30 Gemini Award nominations, including 10 for Da Vinci’s Inquest and 10 for Blue Murder.

Those were the good old days – but you never realize these things at the time. All I could focus on then was that none of my shows were nominated for a Gemini. Self-pityingly, it seemed to me that everyone else had a reason to go to the live broadcast and awards dinner, everyone but me.

I tried various rationales to make myself feel better: the Geminis were fixed; they had a secret rule that only one Hungarian could be nominated per season and Robert Lantos was clearly unbeatable, forever. I told myself the broadcast sucked; the wrong program always won; the juries were made up of drunkards and drug addicts. But the fact was that none of these excuses made me feel any better – until I found the perfect Outsiders Retribution – gate crashing.

One moment I was sitting at home in boxer shorts, unnominated and scowling at the Gemini broadcast on TV; the next I was sitting in my car dressed in my one suit, pedal to the metal, on my way to the Convention Center. My spirits soared.

When I returned to reality and thought about it, I realized I’d get bounced. After all, it’s a pricey ticket to an exclusive event and you’d expect a protective wall of security. But hell, I’m a child of the ’60s; I’ve crashed a few Doors concerts in my time. I thought at least I’ll give the bouncers a run for their money.

I left the parking garage and descended the escalator to the basement of the Convention Center where the dinner is served. The hallway was empty except for Gemini staff outside the ballroom. I quickly scooped a program from the floor. I supplemented it with a torn ticket stub from an ashtray.

I was now fully armed with the trappings of an instant legitimate identity. Just in time. A burly tuxedoed man approached me and asked where I was supposed to be. I flashed my pathetic credentials. It wasn’t good enough. I escalated. I told him that I was a war correspondent for YTV and had just returned from Nelvana. He ushered me inside the ballroom. ‘What’s your table number?’ he asked. I fumbled inside my jacket while I scanned the room. ‘ Fifty-six,’ I said, hoping the date of the Hungarian Revolution would satisfy him. He left me to my own devices.

There I was – the interloper, the perennial non-nominee – surrounded by a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, people popping champagne and exuding entitlement to schmooze. Doubt nipped at my heels; had I done the right thing? Should a hungry man go sightseeing at Bistro 990?

A friendly voice quelled my hesitation. It was Simcha Jacobovici. There was room at the Associated Producers table. There was even an extra meal because Simcha eats kosher. And there, in its statuesque glory, beside the salt shaker on the table, stood the Gemini, gleaming and close enough to touch. I shared the excitement of the Gemini winners that night. My delight was enhanced perhaps a little by the knowledge that I had Yippied myself into the hallowed halls.

Like I said, those were the halcyon days when you didn’t have to rent a smelly tux and shoes so glossy even Wayne Newton would take a pass. You didn’t have to painstakingly craft a clever little speech you never got to deliver because your nominated program lost.

But who knows. It’s a fickle industry. Sometime soon I may be a hungry tourist at the Geminis again. One thing I know for sure: Simcha will still be eating kosher.