You may know that every year, I make my poor brother sit through the entirety of THE BRIT AWARDS (or is it just THE BRITS nowadays) to provide some commentary on the movers and shakers that the major record company bosses are showering with money these days, from what I saw on the socials with Sam Smith turning up in an over-inflated gimp suit, there will be much to cover so let’s get cracking…..

The BRITs always used to feel like something edgy, where anything might happen. Nowadays, you watch it because it’s the only thing bloody on, and I’m not even watching it live – its Sunday, and there’s even less on than Saturday. As Jack Whitehall is probably too busy tweeting about that time he was in a film with THE ROCK (as in, the actual ‘The Rock’, Dwayne Johnson – you know, the wrestler-turned-actor? Jack was in A FILM with him!) and James Cordon has thankfully been chloroformed and chained up back in the States, we’re left with Mo Gilligan, whose Faustian pact he signed with the Devil in order to progress in the medium of television means he not only has to present fucking ‘That’s My Jam’, but also this awards ceremony. 

We open with a performance from Barry Styles, complete with red sparkly jacket and his gran’s trousers (probably). Despite this, he is quite possibly the fittest chap on the planet alive today, and its all I can do to prevent myself going off in my pants as he parades around the stage in quite a low-key rendition of ‘As It Was’, a song that came out about seven million light years ago. I fail. My pants are a mess. But still. Barry is stone-cold nailed-on assured of at least fifteen awards tonight, possibly even in categories he’s not nominated in.

Here's Mo for that awkward introductory skit, where he asks for “much love” to be shown to Barry, and tries to get the crowd going with some shit jokes. David Guetta is performing later on, if that floats your boat, although be warned, he no longer has long hair. The BRIT Award statue this year looks like it’s made out of chocolate. Seriously - it's like someone chucked some cheap-ass advent calendar chocolate in a mould and it's not really set properly. I bet they're edible this year - what could be more environmentally friendly? It does rather scupper you if you need to sell your BRIT Award though, like Paul from S Club Seven.

GRIME/HIP HOP

Jodie Turner Smith (I think) and soon-to-not-be-a-West-Ham-footballer Declan Rice are here to dish out the award for hip-hop/grime. Aitch is nominated, but unfortunately its not ‘H’ from Steps (imagine ‘H’ from Steps dropping urban raps and rhymes - it'd be SIIIIIIIIIIIICK), but instead some bloke who looks like a cross between Spud from Trainspotting and the lead singer from Hot Chip. He’s about fifteen, and did a song that samples The Stone Roses. Kudos for dropping the word “shitting” in his speech, which ITV don’t even attempt to edit out. 

Mo is really smashing home the fact we have an International Act category, which he’s now mentioned three times. 

INTERNATIONAL ACT

With no male or female categories now, everyone is lumped in together – they claim this is to ensure there’s no gender bias, and to improve inclusiveness, but really, I think it’s just to get the night over with ASAP. Beyonce wins, but “unfortunately she can’t be here tonight” (what? She had something more important on, or the organisers didn’t have a spare £25m to spend on getting her to attend?). 

DANCE

Emily Atack and Alex Scott are here for the dance category, with a joke that falls flatter than a dead hedgehog. Something about what single are we releasing, but Alex has to tell her that THEY are single. Even explaining it sounds shit. Becky Hill, who is legally contracted to sing on fucking everything these days, including the atrocious Mo Gilligan fame-vehicle ‘That’s My Jam’, wins. In fact, I don’t think the award is for her singing prowess, but for going through that horrendous experience. Possibly wasted on free BRITs booze already, Becky hyperventilates her way through her acceptance speech, remarking that the BRIT statue is “really heavy” (again, useful for battering her agent for putting her on ‘That’s My Jam’). 

Musical interlude! It’s the musical darlings of the moment, Wet Leg, who – just for shits and giggles – I shall refer to as Damp Thigh from now on. They have a more elaborate set than Barry Styles, including people dressed as owls and bulls, and some sort of Morris dancing routine. I’m not terribly sure what’s going on; the set is all overgrown, and reminds me of 'The Last of Us'. It's certainly more interesting than the song they’re doing, which is actually a bit shit, and takes the guitarist about a full minute to actually do anything meaningful with her guitar. I really don’t get what the fuss is with this lot, I’ve tried so hard to understand what the hype is, but… no. You get the unmistakeable whiff of the attendees heading off in droves to the bar or to do another bagful of cocaine in the bogs rather that listen to this toss. The big stage set was really the most interesting thing here, because there was just this vicious circle of the band not really giving a flying fuck, and the attendees equally not giving a fuck in return.

Mo is doing the obligatory BRIT Awards mosey through the tables, and bothers Stanley Tucci, who is probably just trying to have a nice evening out. Mo asks what type of cocktail Stanley would make him – by rights, Stanley should have said he’d just force-feed Mo fucking strychnine to get him to go away. The other people on Stanley’s table ignore him completely, not wanting to make eye contact lest they get drawn into the utter miserable bollocks of this time-filling shite. Mo is still going…but Lewis Capaldi is up next, as well as Best New Artist. (Best New Artist isn't Lewis Capaldi, I should say, although the way the BRITs seem to work, he could well be. I'm half expecting someone like Ellie Goulding to win a Best Breakthrough Artist gong). Christ. 

Ad break. I’m going to change my pants in case Barry Styles is back on later; these ones are getting a bit crusty.

POP/R ‘N’ B

There’s a woman presenting this award who looks like Salma Hayek. It might actually be Salma Hayek – why shouldn't it be? Barry Styles is up for this award, so he’d better win it or I’m fucking rioting. Mind you, Dua Lipa is nominated as well, and she’s very lovely indeed. Barry does indeed clinch it, and I notice he’s barely had time to get changed out of his red sparkly number, but has still forgotten to do his shirt up. Although at least he’s wearing one now. Oh God, he’s talking – I’ve creamed myself again. Bugger it. Barry says this means a lot because it’s a fan-voted award, which earns a cut to a load of giggling girls in the audience who think they’ve got a chance with him. Get behind me, bitches - I'm first in line, damn it.

Musical interlude – Lewis Capaldi, introduced for one night by Mo as "Sam Capaldi". Is it some Frankenstein mash-up of Sam Smith and Lewis Capaldi? No, it’s just the jovial Scottish singer (sporting what looks like a wig) singing on some steps. Despite everyone, Mo included (you see his very life flash before his eyes, as he envisages being immediately sent back to the BBC to do another five series of ‘That’s My Jam’), noticing his error, he is not drowned out in a football-terrace chorus of “YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP!”, which is bitterly disappointing. I’m not sure this performance is going to pick up any in terms of energy, although the lights do come up on a choir, who were quite possibly just there on stage, hanging about. Despite it being one of the most staid, predictable songs of the last five years, Capaldi blows Damp Thigh away, which is the least they deserve. I bet Mo is being read the riot act about his gaff on live telly by the producers – one of them cuffing him round the face like Gene Hunt: “Don’t faaaacking do that again, you mug!”

BEST NEW ARTIST

Ellie Goulding (I was actually joking when I made the connection between Goulding and a breakthrough artist award...) and Tom Grennan dish this one out. It’s guaranteed that I won’t have heard of any of these jokers. Oh wait, Mimi Webb I know, because she was on Children in Need. Damp Thigh claim the award. Even wandering up to get it they annoy me, like they fucking expected to win. Give them a year – just give them a year…I bet you’ll never hear of them again, or they’ll explode and bust up and pack the whole shebang in. The guitarist who didn’t do anything in their song for the first sixty seconds appears to recite some sort of poem about swamps, and has to hold her shoulder for most of her speech; perhaps her dress is broken. These guys really are the fucking pits.

Mo is with a girl group who won an award that isn’t important enough to be presented here tonight, and worryingly refers to them and their outfits as “sexy Vimto”.

Break time. I'm off to change my pants again because I came in my pants again when Barry Styles accepted his award a few minutes back. It was everywhere.

ARTIST OF THE YEAR

Not sure who is presenting this, because I fast-forwarded the adverts. George Ezra is up for this, but so is Barry Styles, which means poor George doesn't have a chance. I bet he's not even bothered coming. He heard Barry was on the nomination and was like: "Uh huh, I'm not digging my bicycle clips out for this shit". Unlike George, I came lots, going off like a spunky firework again as I get to see that adorable floppy hair as Barry vaults up to the stage again. The narrator of the awards tells us that Barry is currently on tour, and has renowned live shows. We kind of know that; couldn't you tell us if he prefers Heinz or Branston's baked beans? Where he's going on holiday? Who his fave serial killer is? Favourite album by The Chemical Brothers?

Mo collars Barry as he's about to sashay off with his statue, and challenges him to do a shot. Barry obliges, without even asking what the fuck it is. Mo could've just drugged him or anything, maybe to make him easier to lure backstage, before being caught in flagrante with him by a cleaner. Or is that just me? (It's just me).

Musical interlude. Lizzo is on, performing with what appears to be an enormous fluffy pink love seat resting on her shoulders. It's probably remaining erect because Barry Styles just looked at her, and as we all know, Barry can keep anything erect, as I can testify to. Despite the effort she puts in, Lizzo will never amount to anything while Beyonce is around, which is a sad fact of life. Lizzo ideally needs to do a Janine Butcher and chuck Beyonce off a cliff, before denying any knowledge of what happened and taking her crown as Queen/and/or King/them or they of Pop. Saying that, she's got longer on her performance than Damp Thigh, Lewis Capaldi or Barry Styles did for any of their songs - even including a random flute solo, which will surely go down in BRITs mythology along with Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox's horror show in the 80s, and Jarvis Cocker mooning Michael Jackson.

Seventeen minutes later (and possibly following an interpolation of part one of Mike Oldfield's 'Tubular Bells'), Lizzo finishes, earning gushing sycophancy from Mo Gilligan, who is now bothering Sam Ryder, who didn't win Eurovision. People behind them have even stood up and left their seats so as not to be ‘Gilliganed’. Mo asks Sam about Eurovision in Liverpool; despite the fact we didn't fucking win. Sam has to mention Ukraine, which is the right and proper thing to do.

Ad break, which mercifully fades out Mo being a goon. Sam Smith is on later, complete, no doubt, with a fucking ridiculous outfit just because he can.

INTERNATIONAL GROUP OF THE YEAR

Roman Kemp, Maya Jama and someone else are here to present this. Another category nobody gives a fuck about, because it's THE BRITS, not INTERNATIONAL BRITS. But hey, go with it. At least Damp Thigh aren't nominated, through some weird loophole of them being from the Isle of Wight, which they could've argued isn't part of the British Isles for some reason, just to get them another award. Grrrr. Fontaines D.C. win this, who are from Ireland. Woo! Totally international. Some man with pink hair has come on the stage now, but I was busy talking and I have no idea who he is. He just appears to have rocked up on stage and kissed everyone and started talking. I had to rewind this to work out who the fuck he is. I gather he's in the band, which is confusing because the rest of them are in Australia. Maybe he's their A & R man, or he comes around to fix their radiators. He's pissed, whoever he is, and rambles on for an age. 

GROUP OF THE YEAR

Leighanne from Little Mix, and someone called Chloe are on to present this one. Artic Monkeys, possibly one of the only worthy nominees this evening, do not stand a chance. Damp Thigh claim another award, which really pisses me off. Definitely some insider 'go on, have some awards so it looks like you know what you're doing' vibes going on here. They're fucking dull as dishwater, honest to God. There's NOTHING about them whatsoever. What really annoys me is that there's four of them, but everyone just wanks on about the girls, who are like two feeble dormice. Fucking hell.

INTERNATIONAL SONG OF THE YEAR

Another nothing category, based on foreign songs that are meant to mean something at a British awards ceremony. One of my four-year-old son's favourite songs, 'ABCDE' by Gayle, is nominated. She doesn't win though, because Beyonce has to be awarded it, just in case she gets annoyed and pulls out of her live shows in the UK, pissing inordinate amounts of people off in the process. 

Mo badgers Shania Twain, who is somehow in the audience. Have you heard her 'Giddy Up' song? It's...well...it's Shania.

ALTERNATIVE ROCK ACT

Her off 'This Country' and her mate present this one. More Damp Thigh nominations, more Arctic Monkeys. Tom Grennan is somehow pigeonholed as alternative rock, as are The 1975. What the actual fuck is going on? I'm surprised Barry Styles wasn't up for this. Surely he's done something that could be loosely interpreted as alternative rock? In much the same way Sugababes could possibly be termed "free-form lounge jazz". The 1975 win, and Tim Healy's son gives a short and sweet speech, which is how it should be. Twenty seconds, thank your parents, God and your record label, and fuck off.

To fill in time for this shorter acceptance, Mo twats about with Keith Lemon, Laura Whitmore and Roman Kemp, who may well be having a threesome later in the show. Not on stage, or anything, you animal. Backstage, with Barry Styles watching. Covered in baby oil.

Musical interlude: Stormzy! He's obviously had a right day of it because he gets to sit down, with a sensible polo shirt on, and a set that looks like it was ripped from a mid-seventies light entertainment programme, such is the amount of orange and brown going on. I did like Stormzy's 'Big For Your Boots'. That was a banger. He doesn't perform 'Big for Your Boots' tonight, which is odd, because Barry Styles did a song from ages ago at the start of the show.

Mo nearly spontaneously combusts after what is, I have to say, quite a languid and boring performance by Big Mike. Naturally, it was "spectacular". Ad break coming up, and I can't tell you what's coming up because I fast-forwarded it. I know Sam Smith is on, because why not.

SONG OF THE YEAR

No Damp Thigh, which is a surprise. But 'Song of the Year' implies it has to be a single. And bands don't release singles anymore, not even as downloads. Tracks just appear (or "drop") these days like they've been shat out of the arse of some omnipresent musical deity. But Elton John & Ed Sheeran's Christmas single is up for it, which I didn't actually mind. I'm lost. I totally admit it, I'm lost. I've no idea what the release window for consideration on this is, or anything. Shania Twain is presenting. Barry Styles wins, causing me to ruin yet another pair of Y-fronts and make me wish I was that woman sat on his table who got to hug him. More meaningless voiceover as Barry heads to the stage; we don't even get to find out which button configuration he uses on Fifa 23 on PlayStation, or whether he uses Stork margerine or real butter when he bakes cakes. Shania accosts him as he collects the award, and there's the slightly cringy "cougar" moment where you realise she probably would shag him. Wouldn't we all?

Shania Twain, who was probably meant to head offstage after the award presentation, stays on stage to annoy Mo and show off how much plastic surgery she's had since 1998. 

Musical interlude: Cat Burns. Or Cat Stevens. Was she nominated for something? Probably not, because everyone's made a massive furore of how few women were nominated for things, so probably not. There's been no big BRITs mash-up performance this year; remember when they used to do never-seen-before-or-again duets? Nothing this year. That's the cost of living for you.

PRODUCER OF THE YEAR

Presented by Fatboy Slim! For some reason! Oh, it turns out he's known the winner for a while - it's David Guetta (now with short hair, remember). Interesting fact: Guetta's song 'Titanium' actually makes me physically sick. I'm not being facetitous, I really feel nauseous when the beat kicks in on the chorus, and there's this weird 'phasing' effect that seems to go out of time, and...urrrr, I can't carry on talking about it. Sad to see Stephen Street not up for this gong, to be honest. Or Nigel Godrich.

Mo collars Leighanne Pinnock, who has lost her Little Mix band-mates and come on her own. She says "music" is on the way this year. Whether this is from herself or the whole of Little Mix, we never find out.

Musical interlude: Lewis Smith. No, only kidding - Mo at least gets Sam's name right. Utterly unfathomable staging of a song involving welding masks and Sam in some sort of Mad Max outfit. It's lovely he's (or is it "they've") embraced who he (they) is (are), but this all feels...a bit much, to be honest. Like drinking alcohol before 11am. He's singing a song about The Body Shop, but it all seems a bit ‘fetishistic’ so far, with no mention of dewberry oil, rhassoul mud shampoo or white musk fragrances in sight. Sam needs to go and have a cold shower after that, or get someone to throw ice on his balls or something. He seems rather het up from all that grinding and thrusting.

Mo doesn't quite know what to say after that performance. They obviously need to set something up and throw inexplicably to a video from last year of Adele, who we've all had fucking enough of now. Mo is banging on about 'The Masked Singer' with Joel Dummett, which is some nice promotion for ITV.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR

Stanley Tucci presenting. At least he was here for something. Damp Thigh again. A nomination, I mean - Barry Styles is up for this too, so SORRY GIRLS! NO DICE! Even Stormzy gives Barry a standing ovation, as I run the risk of distinct physical injury from lack of fluids after ejaculating for about the ninth time this evening, seeing Barry in all his sexiness. Look at him. LOOK AT HIM HE'S SO FIT! Some other blokes come up to do the acceptance speech with him, and I notice they do have to edit out some wording when things get a bit dodgy, but apparently the odd "shit" and "shitting" are OK.

Final musical interlude: David Guetta and Becky Hill, but it cuts off (you'll recall I recorded it from Saturday night) and I really wanted to see that one. Ah well, you win some and lose some. It's actually quite hilarious because Becky makes this grand entrance on a harness above the crowd, and the recording cut off just before she started singing. It was glorious.

Anyway, that's it. BRITs 2023 done. Please don't make me do this again. Someone save me. I'm off to wash the stink of mediocrity off me now. And Barry Styles. I'm COVERED in his stink. And it smells good. Breathe it in….

Words by Pete Muscutt (he’ll be back next year, mark my words!)