10 Reasons Why We Hated Last Year's Brits

James Corden, James Corden, James Corden... but it doesn't end there, the music biz's back-slapping fest gets right up my nose much like the mountains of Colombian consumed by the countless industry wankers.
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James Corden, James Corden, James Corden... but it doesn't end there, the music biz's back-slapping fest gets right up my nose much like the mountains of Colombian consumed by the countless industry wankers.

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Everyone hates the Brits. Like a large, hideous corporate poo on a glass coffee table, it represents all that is disgustingly decadent about the British music industry. Horrific music moguls shovelling gak into their beaks, over hyped ‘acts’ who promptly disappear into obscurity, and more booze than Phil Mitchell’s kidneys could process in a fortnight. Predictably, this year it was both boring and blood boilingly irritating, featuring the worst excesses of humanity. Such as:

1) James Corden

Yes, this year the Brits were presented by Mount Cuntimanjaro himself, James Corden. You and a team of Sherpas could hack away at him with little ice picks for months and you still wouldn’t be able to appreciate the sheer, unprecedented scale of his awfulness. It’s almost worth learning an instrument, hiring a voice coach, rehearsing 5 times a week, writing an album, recording it, getting signed, playing hundreds of gigs and winning a Brit - just so you could BEAT HIM TO DEATH with it while shouting ‘Ooh, it’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?’ Appropriately enough, just like him, the stage was shaped like a cock.

2) The Audience

The Brits audience is a strange beast. If you’re sitting at a table you are either a rock star or an industry wanker – a soulless waste of genetic material held together by drugs, champagne and a baffling sense of your own importance. If you’re standing at the back, chances are you are a squealing 12 year old and you have just done a big excited Bieber wee on your shoes. Either way, not good.

3) The YBAs (Young British Arseholes)

With the obvious exception of the fabulous Adele, who sings like a steam train made of out fags, lager and laddered tights, The Brits is crawling with jumped up little performing shits. Usually they’ve been expelled from the arse pipe of the Brit School, and will visit rehab and some vintage boutiques before getting a presenting job on T4. Jessie J, I am pointing at you (with a shotgun).

4) Mumford and Sons

These fake folk fucknuts are more irritating than a jam-filled jockstrap full of wasps. A compelling reason never to live in the country. Get back to Yeo Valley, you talentless pricks.

5) Rhianna’s nasty outfits

When I see Rhianna, I want to see her in bondage gear, dangling about in a wire mesh cage full of swans. I do not want to see her wearing control pants or a minging bridesmaids dress from the Pronuptia ‘red roses’ range for Debenhams in 1994.

Tinie Tempah responded to the attention with cool detachment and loads of Observer readers swooned at his ‘urban beatz’ before settling down for a nice cup of chamomile tea from an Orla Kiely mug.

6) The Dead Woman Announcer

Sounding just like Rob Brydon’s Man in a box, there was continuous and underwhelming commentary from a woman who sounded like she’d been buried alive under a massive pile of sand. This had a narcotic effect completely at odds with the razzle dazzle on the stage. Odd. OK for presenting a late night programme about woodwork for Schools and Colleges, but not this.

7) The actual awards

Designed by Vivienne Westwood, this was no ordinary Brit – it was a special climate change Brit.  To go with the lakes of climate change booze and the climate change private jets for all the guests. Plus, you could use its little pointy head to chop up your climate change rainforest coke cut with Fairtrade baby laxative. Thanks Vivienne – you saved the world -  you can put your wig back on its stand now and go and watch Corrie.

7) The Choreography

Plan B’s laughable courtroom riot made West Side Story look like a realistic portrayal of New York gang violence. How do you solve a problem like Plan B? Wish I fucking knew.

8) The ‘Special’ guests

As stellar as an average night on A Question of Sport, the awards were being given out by such stars as Boris Becker, Avril Lavigne, Will Young and someone else I can’t remember (possibly Su Pollard). I personally would run up thousands of pounds on my coke encrusted Mastercard to be in a different country to Avril Lavigne, whose Mrs Thatcher face and inverted teeth make my bowels contract with fear.

9) Overuse of The Words ‘Tinie’ and ‘Tempah’

Tinie, Tinchy, Dizzee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, Titch – Britain’s rap stars are amongst the best in the world. And tonight it was Tinie Tempah’s turn to be relentlessly namechecked. Tinie Tempah responded to the attention with cool detachment and loads of Observer readers swooned at his ‘urban beatz’ before settling down for a nice cup of chamomile tea from an Orla Kiely mug.

10) Robbie Williams

Unless he’s sitting at home in LA, playing Xbox in his eggy stained pants, you can always guarantee Robbie will make some gurning faces and do a hilarious joke in the background. And this year was no exception. The only thing he said was…wait for it….’Shabba’. Brilliant eh? Huh huh. But that’s the Brits for you. Crazy, off the cuff, outrageous, uniformly terrible, and as they say at Mastercard  - pointless. I mean, priceless.

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