Our straight talking Lancashire lass takes a sideways look at the daily news.
The Brit bratpack!
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Last night I very much enjoyed watching the Brits, it’s always good fun. Not to be taken seriously for it’s musical value (it’s the same old artists churning out the same old vapid noises), but it’s always amusing watching the cock-ups. I am not a nice person.
The big gaff was Adele’s acceptance speech being cut off, just as she was about to thank the British public (Gawd bless ‘er!) for buying her mega-successful album 21.
Honestly, if we could all capitalise on our sorry love lives the world would be a much happier place. Or, everyone would be splitting up at a rate of knots – we would be emotionally ravaged, but at least we could cover the rent.
So Adele was about to start crying, thanking her parents for having her, her manager for managing her and all you beautiful people for giving her the oxygen of publicity and downloading millions of her songs – when she was stopped in her tracks. Because the ‘suits’ wanted to watch Blur instead. Abrupt, cruel and actually quite relieving (I don’t like long-winded ‘you the people put me here’ speeches).
Ah Blur… sometimes some people should know when to stop. They were great back in the day but I found their on-stage Mockney swaggering embarrasing. It doesn’t help that Alex James (the moody bassist) is now mates with David Cameron, lives next door to Rebekah Brookes and writes about cheese for the Guardian. He’s also a stalwart of the Chipping Norton set. Hardly rock ‘n’ roll.
Actually, I lost interest after Parklife and I thought the Blur versus Oasis debacle (cleverly orchestrated by PR guru Johnny Hopkins) was rubbish. They totally destroyed the early 90s indie music scene and I find it hard to forgive.
But I digress… Rihanna entertained everyone with a massive on-stage paint fight, and One Direction inexplicably scooped the Best Single. Bring on the apocalypse and shoot me now!
Still, nothing can ever top the astonishing Brit fest of 1989. Yes folks, I’m taking about Samantha Fox and Mick Fleetwood’s disastrous presenting style. ‘Painful’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. ‘Bad Panto’ does.
Watch. Cringe. Enjoy. And ask the Brits to being back more of this please!
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