As weird as it sounds, there’s something ever so slightly
reassuring about the Brit Awards being shit.
They’re consistent – you know where you stand with the
Brits. You go in expecting to be disappointed by the overwhelming blandness of
such a relentlessly corporate affair and those expectations are always met. And
anyway, we’d only have to find something else to complain about if this
changed.
Last year, I made a point of not watching the Brits
(explaining why here), but for 2015’s awards I decided to bite the bullet and
subject myself to just over two hours of musical diarrhoea, vomit-inducing sycophancy
and veteran pop singers hitting the floor at considerable speed, recording my
thoughts in the process.
Don’t say you weren’t warned…
8pm – proceedings kick off with a frankly bizarre but
mercifully brief ‘dance’ routine involving a banquet which feels like it’s on
the verge of erupting into the kind of party where car keys are pulled from
bowls. Nothing quite says ‘the best of British music’ like dour-faced celebrity
chef Marco Pierre White, does it? And that’s probably why he was chosen to put
an end to this utterly pointless routine by lifting the lid on a giant silver
serving plate to reveal our cheeky, chirpy hosts for this evening’s ‘merriment’…
yup, Ant and Dec. Hey, at least it’s not James Corden again.
8.05pm – if Taylor Swift’s opening performance excels at anything,
it’s being lacklustre. She looks and sounds like she’s there because she has to
be. ‘Blank Space’? I’ll say.
8.09pm – Dec warns us that Kanye West is in the building. I
think it’s going to be one of those nights where I’d happily see him ruin
anyone’s acceptance speech. Fingers crossed for Sheeran or Smith, eh?
8.11pm – first painfully predictable award of the night goes
to Ed Sheeran for Best British Male Solo Artist. Presented by Orlando Bloom and
Rita Ora (looking like a deflated Brigitte Nielsen), Sheeran steps up to
receive something resembling an ornament from your grandma’s downstairs toilet.
Kanye nowhere to be seen, but the night is young.
8.20pm - “Are you having a great time? I know I am," says
Jimmy Page without so much as a hint of enthusiasm in his voice as he prepares
to present the award for Best British Group to Royal Blood. The Twittersphere
is awash with furious One Direction fans who, like, totally, literally, cannot
BELIEVE an award has gone to someone they’ve never heard of.
8.23pm – we’re ‘treated’ to a live performance by whimpering
robot Sam Smith. Maybe I’m missing something here, but how can someone marketed
as a supposed soul singer make music that is so devoid of any actual soul? Mute
button.
8.36pm – Excruciating effort at ‘humour’ between Lewis
Hamilton and Ellie Goulding (admittedly neither are renowned for their
razor-sharp wit and comic timing, but still…) as they shuffle on stage looking
like the happy couple at a second-rate footballer’s wedding to present the Best
International Female toilet decoration to Taylor Swift, who promptly dedicates
it to tea and all things British.
8.40pm – Royal Blood perform live, presumably fuelled by the
bitter, stinging tears of livid One Directioners. I like to think that future
Royal Blood riders will include, nay, DEMAND barrels of the stuff.
8.51pm – Simon Cowell’s mouth botox doesn’t appear to have
worn off yet. Either that or he’s just pissed. Either way, tonight he looks
less like a music impresario and more like an inebriated English teacher sitting
out a dance at the school prom.
8.56pm – a busker seems to have wandered on stage while no
one’s looking. Oh, wait – it’s Ed Sheeran, comin’ on like a Games Workshop
Justin Timberlake. At one point, he looks like he’s actually trying to put his
guitar out of its misery. I wish I was that guitar.
9.11pm – “Everyone has to get up on their feet and welcome
my husband, Kanye West!” shouts professional oxygen thief Kim Kardashian before
His Lordship takes to the stage with what appears to be the entire population
of a small town (I assume for protection in case Beck decides to crash the
party) for a performance which TV bosses keep muting, despite it being shown
after the watershed. Is this the most pointless television performance ever? To
be fair, I’d probably still be asking that question even if it wasn’t being
muted.
9.16pm – for some inexplicable reason, Zac Efron in drag
comes on to present the award for Best International Male Solo Artist. Oh no,
wait, it’s Cara Delevingne. Winner Pharrell Williams can’t be arsed to turn up
so he sends a video in which he says “Best International Solo Artist? I don’t
know…” – which, funnily enough, is exactly what I was thinking.
9.26pm – Ant and Dec do the sort of ‘comedy’ routine they’d
have done when they still did kids’ TV and which even the Chuckle Brothers
would now dismiss as ‘dated’. I’m rapidly starting to lose interest and a live
performance by Take That (now just a three-piece following Jason Orange’s
departure to focus on… oh, fuck knows) fails to reverse the situation. I’ve
forgotten the song already and they haven’t finished performing it yet.
9.40pm – identikit busker-done-good George Ezra tries to
liven up a predictably dull performance by giving full-blown hipsters jobs in
his backing band. As charitable as that may be, the whole thing just feels flat
and lifeless. He’s performed ‘Budapest’ so many times that even he sounds bored
of it now.
9.50pm – award number two (in every sense) for Sam Smith as
he wins British Breakthrough Act. Just to rub salt into the wound, someone’s
seen fit to ask Fearne Cotton to present the award. Kanye, where are you? Bring
the flamethrower.
9.56pm – “British music is the best, isn’t it?” yelps an
over-excited Ant. Indeed. Maybe we should have an awards ceremony recognising
the best of British music. I can’t think of anything more exciting.
9.58pm – Wand Erection finally win an award for Best British
Video and they haven’t even turned up to collect it. An increasingly dishevelled
looking Cowell accepts it in their place. To be fair, he’s the only one who’s
actually had any input into their career to date so he may as well have their
award too. I still want to smash my face into the nearest wall, however.
10.06pm – Russell Crowe presents what we are promised is the
final award of the night, for Best British Album. It’s fucking Ed Sheeran
again. Crowe shakes his hand like a headteacher congratulating his star pupil
on winning the school science prize. Sheeran ponders flogging his award because
“it’s a Tracey Emin, innit?” You might get some money for that guitar too. Just
a thought.
10.11pm – it’s a sad indictment on the Brits that the most
interesting thing about the whole sorry affair is Madonna falling off the stage
with a not inconsiderable thump, inadvertently creating what will no doubt be the
defining moment of this year’s awards. To be fair, she dusts herself off and
carries on but as comebacks go… ouch.
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