The Brits as Unsuccessful Cilice

The Brits... strangled affair really, with echoes of 1995 dotted throughout and evidence of time travelling - Lemarr, Craig David!! (did they even release stuff this year?)... and how is Chris Evans invited back (you can only wonder at those that turned it down); last time he had any grip on the public imagination was during the 'egg on your face' game on Big Breakfast, where the accompanying tune sunk deep into my unconscious and helped me get to grip with revising Cognitive Neuroscience 1.

I made it to ten o'clock (the terrible spectre of The Weller To Come eventually forcing my hand), using the whole show as an extended Cilice but not really getting off on the self-loathing at all. I'd expected an ounce or two of smugbeans at least from watching idiots vote in the Grate and the Grey but the sight of the Kaiser Chiefs made me physically sick after a while, forcing me to wolf down Ginger Nuts and cover myself from head to toe in anti-inflammatory cream.

This was no fun at all. I'd expected something like the Top Of The Pops chart rundown - crap, crap, good video, reeealy crap, okay, good, crap, crap.... - fun for all the family, a little bit of gently cathartic hating to ease me towards a spectacularly dull meeting I had planned for Friday morning but wave after wave of odd, sensory deprived grey sludge was being shed here and I was beginning to worry for my children.

Kelly Clarkson couldn't make it and got replaced by an Edwardian street urchin having a fullsome Karaoke crack at her punky rock, bouncing around just enough to evade the cameras full gaze before disappearing into a backstage envelope to shine shoes and sell BOGOF blowjobs to the assorted losers.

Occasionally The Arcade Fire appeared on screen, I can't remember why.

Everyone on stage was pushing 30. Even James Thousand-Yard-Stare Blunt looked confused when he somehow got voted Best Pop Act.

Kanye West tried to add ironic bling but came dressed as an unfortunate pirate with sunglasses that would only have looked good on Lux Interior (i.e. someone who genuinely didn't want to see the world too clearly) and got consistently trumped by Mr Rose Tyler who squealed about the flesh on show every spare minute, thus reducing the 'shock' of the parade to the kind of disappointment only ever experienced by cheapo Porn fans who click on the Free Web Cam ads and don't pay up...

Jo Wylie appeared looking even more a lost Hawklord than ever. The guy from Flaming Lips appeared to give an award. I can't remember why and, by now, neither can he.

Prince turned up. Noodled. Sent Joss Stone and KT Tunstall into labile squeals. Noodled some more. Left. My 14 year old son came in and asked: "Who is he?" "It's a long story", I told him. "Not a good one, I expect," he said, shuffling out of the room.

Madonna has been inspired by Elvis Costello and Radiohead. Oh. She looked mildly furious at being overlooked for Best British Act, though I expect the bucketloads of Bifidium Digestivum and Omega 3 is eventually taking it's toll: her ass is winning the protein war but her brain is vaulting vital amino acids all over the dancefloor.
Everything was overwhelmingly nice, except Craig David who looked pissed off, perhaps because his category - Urban - was won by Ruud Van Nistleroy in 'Mamie' mode. On second thoughts maybe he was pissed off because he'd been here since 2003, trapped in a bewildering rush of music that's passed him by. Using Ms Dynamite as a marker proved to be a mistake because she's trapped here too in a Ballardian Urban Squall which brings to mind the head-flicking daydream I had the other day whilst at a College Function about being trapped forever in an endless Conference Centre...

Oh. And The Arctic Monkeys won something as well.