The year is 1996. At the annual Brit Awards ceremony, in the midst of an impassioned, sweaty and climatic performance of his ethical anthem Earth Song, the King of Pop himself was rudely interrupted mid crotch-grab by none other than Jarvis Cocker’s gleamingly white arse, mooning him from the front of the stage.
As much as this occurrence sounds like disrespectful, inappropriate grounds for arrest to us today, there was a time when such rambunctious celebrity behaviour at the Brit Awards was par for the course. From the controversy of Britney and Madonna’s faux-lesbian encounter, to John Prescot’s soaking at the hands of Chumbawamba (nay his presence at the event at all), the Brit Awards used to be thought of as a hotbed of anarchic happenings and drunken brawls.
It was then with a small amount of hopeful anticipation that I settled down last night to enjoy the smorgasbord of celebrity self-congratulation that promised to be the Brit Awards 2015. Hosted by the unstoppable, but undeniably family-friendly power-couple Ant and Dec, its safe to say that I was not expecting them to emerge as the most controversial element of the entire ceremony…
Opened by Taylor Swift, a veritable pillar of banality and selling-out, performing yet another single about her ‘long list of ex-lovers’, the tone is set for the evening in more ways than one. If we are to believe countless tabloids and trashy magazines found in Doctor’s waiting rooms, one such ex-lover is none other than Ed Sheeran, who features so intensely in this year’s Brit Awards, I could even swear that I saw him appear as a nominee for ‘Best British Female’.
In a manner they have been patenting since SMTV Live, Ant and Dec explode out of the gates with chaotic enthusiasm, finishing each other’s sentences and of course, always positioned in the agreed order of Ant to the right, Dec to the left. After the first few awards, I begin to wonder when Sam Smith will inevitably perform. Right on cue, he appears with what can only be described as a disproportionately large orchestra, and begins the tradition of performing one song away from the one everyone actually wants to hear. We then cut to a dull interview with Ed Sheeran, because we have accidentally gone twenty minutes without him being mentioned.
It is at this point that the universe (or Ant and Dec’s state-of-the-art randomising machine) aligns to produce possibly the most awkwardly awful celebrity coupling humanly possible – Ellie Goulding and Lewis Hamilton. Despite possessing all the personality of a dog bowl between the two of them, Ellie and Lewis manage to stammer their way through announcing the ‘Best International Female’ nominees, with only Lewis, dressed up to the nines in his best pair of diamond earrings, cracking out what he clearly thought a proper bit of banter about Ellie’s lacy white dress, displaying a grand level of ignorance regarding topical feminism as he does so. Ellie tries her best to bring the level of wit back to the realms of acceptability but sadly, the damage has been done. The only course of action for her is to announce Taylor Swift as the winner, whilst name checking her as a ‘dear friend’. In a (not infrequent) moment of knuckle-biting cringe, Taylor accepts her award, listing and thanking her ‘British friends’ Sam (Smith), Ed (Sheeran) and Cara (Delivigne), before deliriously strolling off the stage and at the extreme last minute, hastily adding “Oh and Ellie!” Gotta let that burn Goulding.
Royal Blood perform a thrashing, headbanging lazor-fest to a wholly static and unmoved crowd. Paloma Faith then thanks pretty much everyone in the world as she accepts her award for ‘Best British Female’. Ed Sheeran, who is in danger of single-handedly becoming the entire UK music scene, is now performing a song no-one really asked for, with much loop-pedal assisted angst.
Kim Kardashian is on stage, because eventually she gets everywhere. In a manner not dissimilar to a mum at her son’s 5th birthday party, coercing the guests into letting him win at pass-the-parcel, she encourages the sceptical crowd to ‘get on your feet for my husband!’ Watched on live TV, Kanye’s proceeding aggressive, thug-life performance loses some of its edge when every other word is censored and replaced with sounds of guests milling merrily around backstage. Still, I try to enjoy it. For poor Kim.
Then, it happens. A tumble of such calibre it can only have been Madonna’s. Twitter implodes. As I watch and wince, all I can think is ‘imagine being that be-horned dancer. The one whose magnificent head piece is responsible for dragging the Queen of Pop by her neck down a flight of stairs in front of an audience of millions. What on earth will he say down the job centre on monday morning?’
If nothing else, this cloven-hooved genius has single-handedly done what no celebrity in the past 5 years has managed to do – reintroduce the carnage and chaos that the Brits used to stand for. Who’d have thought that all it would take was a pair of horns, small flight of stairs, and a pioneering cloak which has finally answered the long-standing question: at what exact length does a cape cease to be dramatic and become a full-blown health and safety hazard?