So the Brit Awards are taking place in London tonight, and I for one cannot wait. The Brits are one of those events that seem to come round very quickly, like the Oscars, and Christmas, and I unashamedly adore them. I even went one year in 2007 with our Maria, after I won a competition on Juice FM against a cocky little fool who was so utterly convinced that they were going to win before we’d even started that they announced “I’ll be taking such and such a person with me, can’t wait!” Actually, pal, you won’t be taking anyone anywhere because you were beaten by little old me. (We won’t mention the fact that the seats were so far away from the stage that we’d have been better off watching at home, because I still hold memories of that sweet, sweet victory dear.)
I know it’s corporate nonsense. I know that all the music snobs will fume when someone like Macklemore & Ryan Lewis wins Best International Group over, say, Arcade Fire. But I really don’t care. I watch it, like I watch the likes of X Factor et al, solely on the basis of entertainment. I love the controversy and the random choices of people they pair up to present awards together and the dresses and the inevitable bad performances. I’m so enthusiastic about it that I’m even in the tiny minority that finds James Corden amusing as a presenter.
As I am currently on Princewatch, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for my beloved Purple One to perform, and for Janelle Monáe to win Best International Female. Neither of these things are likely to happen, but I live in hope regardless. Roll on 8pm!