Wednesday, 17 February 2010
53 minutes into last nights Brit Awards it officially died a death when host Peter Kay resorted to his old ‘Garlic Bread’ joke circa 2005, and shock horror, still got no laughs. It would be safe to say he went down like John Leslie at a hen party. Was it just me who gasped when he entered last night? I almost mistaken him for a small house, I know he does like a cake or two but shit me, I think it’s safe to say his local Gregg’s isn’t suffering from the recession. I wish I was there just to shout out ‘she’s packed in to that isn’t she.’
Still reeking of desperation like a Bishop on a child abuse charge was Geri Halliwell. Managing to throw herself in front of the camera 3 times, trying desperately to take over a back stage interview with Fearne Cotton (who had obviously employed Crusty the Clown to ensemble her outfit), in the hope of bagging herself a presenting job on the ITV2’s extended milking of the affair.
Clutching desperately onto my Bacardi and Coke I was sure that Lady Gaga would inject some life into the sorry affair, which by this point was running as professionally as a show in the local British Legion. Unfortunately the only thing GaGa seem to inject was Diazepam straight into her veins. One can forgive her though as she must have been knackered carrying around that vintage Argos Lamp Shade around on her head all night.
Single-handedly Alisha Keys made it worth while to tune into with her amazing performance of ‘Empire State of Mind,’ unfortunately even that was ruined by someone called Jay-Z persistently rapping over it and telling the crowd to ‘Put Your Hands Up,’ who had quite rightly got themselves that pissed most of them were laying in a comatose state desperately reaching for another line of Ketamine to no don’t end any further suffering, and boy did it come.
It so nearly all went right for Cheryl Cole, who is to pop music what Osama Bin Laden is to world peace, until she opened her mouth. One had such high expectations for her after spring-boarding her way onto stage, instead I was left almost crying into my newly opened and pored glass of Veuve Cliquot. Unfortunately whatever track was being played into her ear was not the same as what the rest of us were hearing, making it look like her jaw was swing lower than a queens after snorting four grams of Columbian Marching Powder down Canal Street on a Friday night.
ITV, I’d like to say good effort, but it was obvious than none what so ever went into last nights shower of shite, and I have to say just like Cheryl Cole’s marriage was doomed from the start. Next year ITV I’ll host it in a Little Chef on the M1. It will be cheaper and no doubt a thousand times better.