I do not care about the Academy Awards, and never have. I like movie stars well enough, but Oscars night is mostly taken up by pasty-faced dweebs thanking their mothers for inspiring them to make films that are in no way inspiring. The hosts are either shticky re-treads (Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg) or disasters (Anne Hathaway and James Franco). The Oscar-nominated songs are always wretched, and no one has seen most of the films. But the worst thing is those geezers thanking mom, dad, an influential schoolteacher or the good lord for giving them the courage to be the great people they are. If the Oscars were about Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, and even the kid from the vampire movies who insists that he does not use steroids, my eyes would be glued to the TV set. But that's not what the Oscars are about. They're a chance for crass, middle-aged men with salt-and-pepper ponytails to thank their mums.

But this year I will be watching the Oscars. My friends Mike Lerner and Martin Herring, who run Roast Beef Productions in London, have seen their film, Hell and Back Again, nominated for best documentary. It is about a marine who gets shot to pieces in Afghanistan but can't wait to return to his unit because he believes that he is helping the people of Afghanistan – and because there is nothing much waiting back in Dixie for a shot-up marine. The marine and his wife will be at the ceremony on Sunday night. It was filmed on a customised rig and looks fabulous.

Oscar night matters to me this year because, for the first time, I have some skin in the game. I have watched the film thread its way towards Oscar night from the very beginning. I saw the raw footage of American soldiers in combat two years ago at their offices on Denmark Street. I was at a curry house in Soho the night they landed their editor. I was at Mike's house in Kilburn in November when he found out the film had been shortlisted. I told the waitress at a local restaurant about this but she said it was too late to be served so we would just have to go and celebrate with a pizza.

Last week the boys flew into the US from London for Mike's 50th birthday. They ate steak, steak, steak, all weekend. As well as one or two drinks. They were walking on air. They are normally quite cool and professional, but this time they're like little kids who have busted open the cookie jar. They are driving around Los Angeles in a rented Mustang and sunning themselves by the pool. Martin has already been pulled over by the LAPD, a glorious rite of passage for any British film-maker. They understand that the movie business is brutal, that this might not happen again for a while. They are doing this thing in style.

I normally don't care about the Oscars, but this year I do. Just as this could be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for my two friends, so it could be for me. I don't have any other friends who have been honoured by the academy, or honoured by anyone, for that matter. Hell and Back Again isn't stupid or cute or manipulative; it took guts for the director to get himself embedded with a marine unit out there; the film reminds you why you got excited about movies in the first place. And two of my best friends are up for an Academy Award, even if deep down inside they are still pommy bastards. This Sunday night, my wife and I are hosting our very first Oscar party. It will last at least until the Oscar for best documentary is announced, so guests should eat early and often. If Mike and Martin win – neither of whom sport a ponytail or spend a lot of time talking about their mothers – I'm going to jump into my car and drive around town honking my horn, shrieking: "Roast Beef wins the Oscar! Roast Beef wins the Oscar!" Then I'm heading back to that restaurant in Kilburn to see if my friends can get a table now.