Oh God, where to start? Well, how about Mika, as he was given the honour of opening the show with the now traditional -big number’. This turned out to be a medley of his incredibly annoying disco tunes, punctuated only by the equally annoying Beth Ditto appearing to help him murder the actually rather fab -Standing In The Way Of Control’. She departs, the curtain nearly comes down on her head and Mika does a bit more of his stuff before departing, confident that we’ll be seeing him later. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what may well come to be known as one of the worst Brits shows ever.
First the good bits, it won’t take long. The Klaxons mashing it up with Rihanna may have faltered a bit in parts but was generally a fine idea and managed to get the year’s two most fantastic pop records into the same 3 minute slot. Nice lasers too. And Leona Lewis, no really. When the Spice Girls tried to gate crash the -proper bands’ party twelve years ago they were met with derision but since then the industry has come to realise that it’s reality stars like Lewis who are keeping them in a job so she was given a more polite reception. She deserves it too, great song, great voice.
But that really was it, wasn’t it? The Osbournes as hosts? Let’s party like its 1999. Sharon seemed a bit on the edge, Kelly can read an autocue, Jack did nothing and Ozzy introduced Mr Sir Paul McCartney at the wrong time. Textbook. For the most part it was all just a bit dull. There was an awful lot of love in the room for Kylie, shame she responded with a pop-by-numbers performance. Mark Ronson’s medley wasn’t a patch on his stunning Electric Proms appearance, but it did provide an opportunity for the start of the great Amy Winehouse rehabilitation. Yes she seemed aware of where she was and generally more interested than of late, but showboating through an out of time version of -Valerie’ is hardly going to make up for past demeanours. They even gave her a second go, allowing her to crowbar in her now customary shout out to her Blakey.
At least Ronson, who doesn’t sing, write or play his songs, gave a nice speech on receiving Best British Male. Adele, who’d had a mere three months to prepare, said little but was quite sweet. Kate Nash seemed bowled over (‘oh my gawd’) and seeing as none of the international artists bothered to show, Dave Grohl made some uncharacteristically smart arse remarks via video link. Best of all were Take That, who in picking up the prize for best single and best live act perfectly summed up the all encompassing nature of their comeback. Boyzone take note.
Then it all got a bit strange. Alan Carr was very drunk. Jim Reeves was just weird and ended up in some sort of fight with Sharon Osbourne. The Artic Monkeys blagged the big two awards on the back of a very average year and arrived very, very drunk in fancy dress and were either a) a refreshing alternative to the pompous mood of the evening or b) a bunch of irritating kids, depending on your level of tolerance by this point. Thank God, for Mr Sir Paul McCartney who at least closed the thing on a cuddly, feel good sort of high with a career spanning (ie. solo – ok, Wings – better, Beatles – now we’re talking) mini set that brought the suits and the kids together in one unifying, arm waving whole. Suddenly the Meteors don’t seem quite so bad.