Scientist proves that in a weird parallel universe the Brits are actually quite good…
Hurrah, for the future of British music!
The Brits are back to stun our senses, confound expectations and prove incontrovertibly that experimentation, creativity and risk are still alive and well among our proud pop standard bearers…
Oh, sorry hecklerspray must have been briefly transported to a strange parallel universe by downing one too many extra strength Lemsips.
No, in the real world welcome to a few lowlights from yet another dreadful display of corporate backslapping, unashamed attention seeking and lumpen, proletariat tat that somehow alleges to pass for the cream of British popular music and entertainment.
The Brits isn’t something that should go out on prime time national TV; it should be kept hidden under several urine stained tarpaulins in a derelict truck stop off the M62.
As if Joss Stone winning a pointless trophy is deserving of any attention whatsoever – apart from wondering how she manages to come across as being quite so thick… and best urban act? Don’t get hecklerspray started. She is about as urban as a school run in Richmond-upon-Thames. This clueless geek, with admittedly the voice of an angel, is as manufactured and, more importantly, annoying as Busted ever were.
Even worse, they callously decide to offer an award for the best song of the last 25 years, voted for by those well-known arbiters of good taste – Radio 2 listeners… and the winner is… words just fail me: ‘Angels’ by Robbie F. Williams. (a cocky, bug-eyed chancer from the Potteries with a mawkish ballad, so overblown it could knock you right over).
They shouldn’t be celebrating these people, they should put them in irons and parade them around the Falls Road in an open top bus wrapped in a Union Jack on a busy Saturday afternoon. Give them the kind of response they really deserve…
But wait, there’s more… Keane, middle class bum boys, with a lead singer you just want to slap SO hard… Muse, fret wankers so far up their own arses they’ve almost come out the other side… The Streets, Mikey boy we want to dry our eyes of the tears shed every time we listen to your mockney urban tosh…
The list is endless.
Sorry, but this time round hecklerspray refuses to be lulled into a false sense of security by the ‘post-ironic’ camp or by the facile ‘it’s so shit, it must be good’ argument. Let’s just forget that bollocks right now and admit at last that it all just stinks like a week old rotting carcass.
Next up, the ‘Brats’…
