Why the hell am I blogging about the Brit Awards? Because my wife wouldn’t let me watch Generation Kill! or Ross Kemp: Return To Afghanistan, that’s why. Just as well we did watch the Brits though, because this year the usual cheese-fest of girl bands and chart singles you’ve never heard of was interspersed with moments of pure brilliance.
First big excitement: our friend Florence Welch from down the road, who used to be our babysitter, getting the prize for best newcomer. Her band Florence And The Machine is great – particularly her Kiss With A Fist single – and she’s going to be deservedly huge. And she’s actually nice with it. Really nice. Go Florence! Go!
Second big excitement: The Killers’ Brandon Flowers. Crikey his speech when he gave the Outstanding Achievement award to the Pet Shop Boys was good. Guess it’s what comes of being a sweet Mormon boy: you don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t do caffeine, you never ever pollute your brain with intoxicants or stimulants or fun-ulants of any kind. Result: you’re a pop star who can still string a sentence together.
As my friend Danielle Nay rightly points out, though, he seriously needs to get a new jacket. That military-style one with the feathered epaulettes has had way too many outings. Also, much as I admire – and envy – his drug-free articulacy, I still think there’s something basically wrong with pop stars not taking drugs. Bono especially. I bet he doesn’t take any drugs any more and he really ought to. Incredibly strong ones that prevent him from ever, EVER lecturing us on politics. Or making another pop record. Or doing anything, in fact, except living in a Syd-Barrett-style cupboard in Dublin or Ougadougou or wherever – and minding his own business.