Be still my beating heart, Jack Whitehall is hosting the Brit Awards 2018 on the telly tonight. I do have something of a pash for Jack ever since he nailed it as Paul Pennyfeather in the BBC adaptation of Decline and Fall. It’s the combination of posh boy cheek and wonderment that his career has gone as smoothly as a pearl-handled knife through Kerrygold.
The Brits is a good excuse to catch-up on who the hell the kids are listening to nowadays. The last time I paid attention to pop music Jethro Tull were still in the charts. And then there are the monsters of frock that make the BAFTAs and the Academy Awards look positively tasteful and demure in comparison.
A lady called Dua Lipa turned-up as a toilet dolly in sugar pink layers of tulle. The name is reminiscent of a cleaning product like Cillit Bang. We shall see what we shall see. Whenever there’s an awards I am on the daybed in Bloomsbury Towers with cigarettes, gin and knitting furiously like Madame Defarge underneath the guillotine.
First for the chop is Paloma Faith. Nasty blouse! I always think Paloma seems like a wraith or fairy creature ie she seems to be living on a different astral plane and appears dazed to actually be on the red carpet if not planet earth. Middle Earth maybe what with Ed Sheehan performing tonight. But what does the ginger moppet care? He’s so rich anyway…
Why does every pop star and red carpet presenter speak that estuary/in-da-hood accent? They can’t all have been born in Bermondsey, innit? I do love them all trying to be right-on and emotional seeing as sincerity is the new punk. Who is Stormsy by the way?
The fashion on the red carpet appears to be frills and pouffy sleeves and frocks. They are all holding white roses to support the ‘Me Too’ movement but the gesture only makes the ensemble look like a naff prom night in Shreveport.
Kylie has changed frocks from red carpet to stage and is sharing the podium with a child called Millie Bobby Brown who looks like Jodie Foster as Tallulah in Bugsy Malone: a kid in too much slap and a grown-up’s frock.
The artist known as Dua Lipa has scored over one billion YouTube hits. A billion? Imagine how Tommy Steele’s Little White Bull would have done if social media existed in the dark ages. She sounds very RP receiving the award making me question the ghetto image in her videos. I smell Trustafarian from Notting Hill. She thanked every single female who has been on the stage before her. It is at the O2 so that includes Bette Midler.
Dua Lipa’s final sentiment was ‘more women taking over the world’. I bet Boadicea is turning in her grave. A consequence of me having a few more Diet Cokes of late is a sweet tooth. I die for chewy sugary sours to go with my Spritzer in bed. I will end up with teeth like Mrs Miggins.
Pity there is no Madonna, Katy Perry, Gaga or Taylor Swift performing at the BRITS this year. I can do without Sam Smith, Stormsy (who he?) and Mr Sheeran warbling Galway Girl. Who is Georgia Smith asks granny in Bloomsbury Towers? And as for Rag & Bone Man. Actually he has a voice like Paul Robeson being a big fat lad.
Everyone bar lovely Jack Whitehall is tattooed. Do you think I should? If I did it would be a scorpion on my left buttock but I fear I am too old school working class to ever have a tattoo or a piercing, Georgia Smith has rather a pure voice like Billie Holiday in her youth. Lovely duet with Mr Rag & Bone.
Who is Stormsy? Fook, he’s just won Best British Male solo act. Very shiny suit. He’s from Croydon. He thanked God and his Mum so he must be a well brought-up young fellow. Kept it short too. Jack Whitehall is doing rather well I think walking the line between cheeky and offensive with all the ease of a tightrope walker.
I rather like The Killers don’t you? They get my vote for Best International Group but the Foo Fighters are in the building so doubtless will take the gong for showing up. The BRITS do make one feel ancient. So swing if you’re winning and know the line that comes after ‘Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, let me love you Chaka Khan’…
Dua Lipa’s up so let’s see what kind of pistol she is packing. She’s Nenah Cherry crossed with Amy Winehouse and it’s not a good mix. Another damned song that you wouldn’t be able to hum if your life depended on it. I like songs that either build like Total Eclipse of the Heart or have a constant refrain like Chaka Khan Chaka Khan let me love you Chaka Khan. You know the rest Rowley.
I suppose Ed Sheeran is a hero for the snowflake Millennials who are encouraged to think that if a ginger hobbit can make it anyone can. He has a pleasant voice but he’s not Elvis, is he. I am not sure what all the fuss is about. I think you need a soupçon of sex to be a true rock star and Ed looks about as alluring as a flat batter pudding. Not a fan of falsetto either unless it is Farinelli.
Dermot O’Leary and Emma Willis have just made tits of themselves complaining that they aren’t presenting this year. Pity! I always find a little graciousness is in order when you are replaced though I wish I had thought as much when I left the BBC Royal Ascot fashion team. Regrets, I’ve had a few…
Well, enough of live blogging the BRITS. I am in need of sustenance to get through the second half. Maybe a Night Nurse will do the trick. Until next time.