by Stuart Heritage
Last night’s Brit Awards were the first Brit Awards to be televised live for a few years, lending events an edge of danger – literally anything could happen, and if it did you could be sure that ITV would politely dip the sound until it stopped happening.
It’s a sad state of affairs when Joss Stone is the most rock and roll thing at an awards ceremony, but – hey – that’s The Brits. The big winners of The Brit Awards last night were Arctic Monkeys, who didn’t turn up; The Killers, who did turn up but nobody really noticed; and Amy Winehouse, who turned up, sang a song, got given an award, sort of didn’t understand how to work her microphone and walked off again. And Lily Allen didn’t win a single thing. Hooray for The Brit Awards!
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by C J Davies
‘Exciting’ really is a subjective term.
For example, if you asked hecklerspray to picture something ‘exciting’, we’d probably suggest white-water-rafting in a river full of mutant sharks. Or maybe ram-raiding a petrol station while smoking cigarettes in a car made of balsa wood. Or possibly the wildest idea we can think of: staying out really late until our mum shouts at us.
‘Exciting’, however, is not a word we’d use to describe the music of Lily Allen. If we were being kind, we’d say ‘overplayed’. If we were being moderate, we’d say ‘not our cup of tea.’ And if we were being vicious – i.e. ourselves – we’d say ‘unmitigated cack’.
In Lily Allen’s mind, though, things are different. It’s slowly becoming clear that she sees yakking away in a pretend-Brixton accent while occasionally taking recreational drugs as being on a revolutionary par with Abbie Hoffman or something.
How else could you justify the pot-calling-kettle action of Lily slagging off fellow Brit Nominee Corinne Bailey Rae?
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