Even if I was still a hip young gunslinger, rather than the rancid old fart I’ve become, I’d still say the Brit Awards (ITV1) was seriously crap.
The presenter was James Corden. Why? He is neither comfortable with nor capable of hosting a live TV event. Having said that, British telly has a strong tradition of using inarticulate dorks to front high profile shows. Dermot O’Leary anyone? No, thought not …
And what about the ‘artists’? Well, clearly most women singers long ago realised that pop music has used up all its good melodies. So they’ve settled instead for prancing around in their knickers and pouting at the cameras. To hell with the music!
And Rihanna, after your lumbering raunchfest of an overlong set, don’t bother ringing me, pet. I’m not impressed. What a mess your dancers made with all that paint! It was all so … underwhelming.
How different, and much better, women singers were years ago, when they didn’t dress like sex industry workers, when they could sing really well, and when they had decent songs. Think Dusty Springfield, folks. Class.
Adele, from what little I’ve heard of her stuff, can sing, but her public persona, and her voice when speaking is awful. Seriously, her voice is so common and stoopid-sounding. And that American-style hair ... does she wear it like that for a bet?
Thankfully, Adele wasn’t allowed to say much at the end of the show when she picked up her Best Album award. She was ungraciously cut off by the oaf Corden. Then, as if to confirm her status as being as common as muck, she gave a one-fingered salute to TV execs. They deserved it, but even so as a gesture it lacked charm.
Just before that, George Michael gave an incoherent, mumbling talk. He should have been the one ushered off stage.
Sadly, there was no attempt to censor the sententious Damon Albarn . He was allowed to crap on and on and on in his oxygen-stealing acceptance speech for Blur’s Outstanding Contribution To Music award.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had to endure Blur performing, looking way too old and middle class for the role, doing their hits of yesteryear, which I – and anyone with any musical credibility – never liked anyway!
Albarn pranced about like a teenager, wearing what appeared to be Tesco Poohead branded jeans, his voice as strained as a useless teacher struggling to establish control of an unruly classroom.
Almost inevitably, this very white and pretentious band did a song featuring a black gospel-style choir. What a f***ing cliché!
And the nail in the show's coffin was the clip of Louie Spence dancing like a tit. As if the viewer hadn't suffered enough!
This dross was presumably shown around the world, bringing derision to our once admired national culture.