The ceremony opened with the human equivalent of 12 general anaesthetics, Coldplay, who appeared to have come straight from the paintball scene in Biker Grove where PJ goes blind, with an extra helping of Paul’s Boutique to add insult to sartorial injury. The event was hosted by Chairman of The Intolerable Cunt Parade ™ himself, James Corden (you’ll remember him from films such as The History Boys and Babe 2: Pig In The City.) Winner of the Critic’s Choice award went to the lovechild of Beverley Knight and Ed The Duck, Emeli Sande. YAWN. A half-arsed montage of Whitney Houston followed. Apparently she died or something? Here’s hoping this is just another vicious Internet rumour, guys!
Everyone’s favourite demented harpy, Florence Welch took to the stage to perform ‘No Likey, No Lighty.’ The performance could not have been more indulgent if she had cracked one off using one of her CD’s as a shiny dildo. For a successful 25-year old, my girl could do with putting a fucking donk on it, pronto. Mrs Mangle lookalike, Bruno Mars won Best International Male. Given that Aloe Blacc was in that category, that’s not exactly much to be write home about. Adele picked up the No Shit Sherlock, sorry, Best Female award. Ed Sheeran took Best Male, dressed like someone taking the complete piss out of Scottish people. Adele’s performance was her first in the UK since a major operation to undo the damage shitloads of fags has had on her vocal chords. It was not pretty. She’s lost the gravelly tone to her voice that had people jizzing over themselves, this time last year, and if I was her, I’d begin to keep one eye on the Government Workfare initiatives in her local area. JUS’ SAYIN’.
Bruno Mars’ performance gave everyone the opportunity to go for a wee, or decorate the spare room. The queue for the bogs at the 02 must have been visible from space at this point. Rihanna, who picked up Best International Female, performed We Found Love in Petit-Filou splattered version of The Cube. The singer, who has reportedly got back with woman-beating-shitweasel Chris Brown, showed she is clearly going through a very public breakdown, by wearing what looked suspiciously like Brantano Timberland knock-offs, as her footwear of choice for the performance.
Despite not winning an award, Jessie J was all over the fucking show, like canapé-chasing-waste-of-vital-organs Paloma Faith, in any given copy of ES Magazine. A very bizarre advert for sponsors MasterCard, featured Jessie J performing a ‘priceless duet’ with some of her ‘fans’. For the record, being in a stretch-hummer, having Jessie J go all Eartha Kitt in my face, circumnavigating Romford, is EXACTLY how I picture hell.
Adele’s win was totally eclipsed by the fact Sid Owen was sat on her fucking table
Lol of the night was surprisingly provided courtesy of Lana Del Rey, who bagged Best International Breakthrough, for thanking GERMANY (she knows about the war and stuff, yeah? Cool) in her acceptance speech. I could almost smell the jazz cigarettes when George Michael appeared on screen to present Adele with the award for Best Album. However, Adele’s win was totally eclipsed by the fact Sid Owen was sat on her fucking table. WTF X INFINITY??? The idea alone that this might be some sort of indicator that Sid might be considering a return to the charts (not that ‘Smoke Get’s In Your Eyes’ was not a game changer in the world of reggae for white people) is reason enough to cancel these awards indefinitely. Babe, sorry, James Corden, controversially cut Adele off before she got the chance to thank Sid Owen, as Blur were about to close the show.
Blur’s performance was the ‘Samantha Fox and Mick Fleetwood’ moment of this year’s awards. It made Olly Murs’ earlier performance, with the poster-boys for fetal alcohol syndrome themselves, Rizzle Kicks, look like the Velvet Underground. The only good thing about Blur’s performance (aside from the fact anything that keeps Alex James out of the dairy aisle in Asda is always a worthwhile endeavour), was Kevin off Eastenders made an appearance- someone let Denise know, yeah? Actually, no, that was also about as pleasurable as ramming a Sharpie through your cock and making it disappear altogether, by hammering it down with a copy of the Yellow Pages, with a nail in the end of it. That said, I am now on first name terms with the lady that mans the out-of-hours phone line at Dignitas. Every cloud, eh?
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