Buckle up tight kids and pop a condom on, for it’s time for the 2026 Brit Awards (aka The Brits…aka, a bunch of bands and artists whose record labels have paid through the nose for an award that means jack-shit unless you’re a 14 year old teeny-bopper who lives for Sabrina Carpenter or Olivia Rodrigo).
The star-studded show is once again being hosted by Etonian toff-boy Jack Whitehall. I personally can’t wait to hear what ‘howlers’ he has up his double cuffed shirt sleeves tonight, hopefully he’ll be poking fun at Harry Styles and maybe a couple of members of Little Mix (are they even still a thing?) At least it’s not James fucking Corden, I’d have donated a kidney not to see that waste of space on stage again.
Anyway, life jackets on…let’s dive in. I’ve poured myself a Malibu and Ribena, popped three Valium and had a Twix, so like a Reform UK party political broadcast, let’s get this over with.
And we’re live! Doubtless with a twenty-second delay so someone can panic and smack the big, red ‘CENSOR’ button when some drunk award-winner moves into unsavoury realms like immigration, protest speeches and ill-advised Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor jokes!! Once again, we’re lumbered with Jack Whitehall for presenting duties – I know this is intolerable, but realistically – who else is going to do it? Steven Mulhern? Joel Dommett???? Alison Hammond???! Personally, if he was still with us, I’d promptly install someone like Bill Hicks to front the show. His sardonic wit and barely-disguised contempt for many of the acts on display would’ve been hilarious. Alas, we’re stuck with Jack, but I understand this is his last hurrah before he gets drowned in a sleeping bag full of slugs backstage.
We open with the usual hilarious sketch, this year summing up Whitehall’s obsession with Harry Styles and his break he took from music in 2023. Instead of endearing, it comes across as slightly sinister. It does big up Styles for the ceremony opener, where he performs his recent single ‘Aperture’ along with a plethora of dancers sat on benches. Harry himself looks like he’s just come from an office job, albeit one where it’s permissible to wear high-waisted trousers. I don’t actually mind this track, it has a touch of Underworld about it. I mean, I’d still lay with Harry if he asked; quite possibly most men would. Anyone who says they wouldn’t is a liar.
Well done, Hazza – that was good, but don’t forget we’re due a ‘cannot miss show-closing performance’ from the legend that is Michael Bolton later, so stick around for that. Rumour has it he’s dropping his radical reworking of ‘How Can We Be Lovers If We Can’t Be Friends’. We’re reliably informed this is the 47th Brits, which is nearly unfathomable – so long ago since the legendary Sam Fox & Mick Fleetwood years.
Mark Ronson is pictured visibly cringing after being compared to Nick Grimshaw. It seems that simply by being in Manchester, this has granted some made-up songwriting award for Noel Gallagher, even though in his own words, he’s not written a song in two years.
First award! Here to present it is Robbie Williams, who now scarily resembles Morrissey.
Song of the Year
There’s a bafflingly long list of contenders for this, which reads like CD1 of a ‘Now…’ music compilation. Good luck guessing which one will win this, because everything from Lewis Fucking Capaldi to ‘Wicked’ is represented. Still no room for anything by Goldie Lookin’ Chain however, who’ve been knocking it out the park lately.
Predictably, Sam Fender – the Temu Bruce Springsteen - takes the gong along with Olivia Dean, who wasn’t even on the original song, and seems to have been added as an afterthought, purely to win awards like this. Sam does a great line in feigned surprise whenever he wins anything, and for a renowned performer, he’s strangely stilted when talking to an audience. Is that all Robbie has to do this evening? He was literally on telly for about thirty seconds. He did less work than the last Nottingham Forest manager.
Topical BAFTA Tourette’s bleep joke time, but to be honest having that Tourette’s chap on this show would’ve livened it up no end. Time for an advert/toilet/tea/heroin break, and we’re promised a performance by Raye later on. Whoopty-fucking-do, can’t wait. I might need more Malibu and Ribena.
We’re back. More live music – it’s the K-Pop Demon Hunters, which I said my son could stop up to watch. I’m surprised it’s the actual human performers, and not some Gorillaz-style animated projection. Actually, it looks like this bit is being performed outside, so maybe they’ve been banned from the actual premises due to their rampant demon hunting activities.
In perhaps the best cameo of the evening so far, they’ve found the gurning chap off the memes – the one who is pictured after doing a shitload of ‘E’.
More live music – fuck me, this is like Live Aid (a heavily commercial, pop-wank Live Aid). Fresh from winning an award already, Olivia Dean takes to the stage to do that song that sounds a bit like a Donna Summer out-take from the 1980s. I’m sorry, I missed what it was called, my son was telling me that he’s learning his eight times table at school. I think she’s had the most screen time of anyone so far.
No sign of Jarvis Cocker re-enacting his infamous 1996 stage invasion yet, but to be honest, does he really want to be doing such stunts these days? The man’s 62. He can be doing without that shit, but if I see anything that raises sufficient red flags, I’ll be sure to mention it. It’ll probably be when bloody Raye is on, if anyone deserves a stage invasion, it’s her.
For the next award, it’s time to wheel out Shaun Ryder and Bez, two men who certainly haven’t dined out on a career from thirty years ago. Not one bit. Fuck’s sake, Bez appears to have come dressed as Kevin Rowland from Dexy’s. Shaun has, as ever, come in his Phil Mitchell cosplay outfit.
Critic’s Choice
Jacob Alon
Rose Gray
Sienna Spiro
Aphex Twin
I’m not sure if this has been leaked or the award is just announced prior to the BRITs taking place, but Jacob Alon has apparently already won this award, so I’m not sure why I’m even telling you about it. It’s like when the BAFTAs are on, and they do that “here’s some awards presented earlier in the evening” (which are for things like Best Fourth Assistant Production Runner that they can’t be arsed to film). Unfortunately, Cornwall’s own Aphex Twin misses out on the Critic’s Choice, mainly because he hasn’t actually released a full-length album in twelve years. If you’re not in it, you can’t win it. But ‘Come to Daddy’ is still a right banger.
Group of the Year
The Last Dinner Party
Pulp
Sleep Token
Wet Leg
Wolf Alice
Bucks Fizz
So, we have a battle of the industry plants this year, the mighty Wet Leg vs The Last Dinner Party, who will be victorious? I would like an octagon to be installed in the centre of the arena and the two bands can fight it out (to the death). I reckon the sassy one from Wet Leg would probably eat The Last Dinner Party like a lion and then turn on her own band just for the hell of it, finally, having to be shot by a trained marksman before she breaks out into the arena and goes on a rampage, chewing the faces off other C-List celebs in the process. I am surprised to see PULP on the list, then again, their latest album was a triumph. I didn’t even know that Bucks Fizz were still going, I thought for legal reasons that they had to be called ‘The Fizz’, how wrong was I, expect a saucy intermission performance from Cheryl et al, in a plethora of coloured sequins and general showbiz tomfoolery.
Fully expecting Wet Leg to take this, but Wolf Alice win it. Front woman Ellie Rowsell has come prepared, and even written an acceptance speech on her iPhone that she probably constructed four weeks ago when they were told their record company popped the largest amount of cash in a padded envelope.
Bizarrely, we cut to a backstage skit with Whitehall and Harry Styles, with Jack in running gear, which doesn’t make sense seeing as he was literally on screen a minute ago in a suit. Jack then gets the tar beaten out of him by a man who we’re told is Harry’s running coach, in some even weirder comedy fight sequence. Cue another break. Christ, are we really only 35mins into this? Fetch me a Rennie.
Quick, look like you’re enjoying yourselves, it’s Part Three! More live music now, an “international leading light”…is it Jane McDonald? Oh no, it’s Raye. I’m not watching this, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m going to put my son to bed. He can’t stand her either.
OK, I’m back. Child has been despatched to bed and that gave me the chance to effectively time-travel and fast-forward Raye, because nobody needs that. Whitehall says she needs to do a Bond theme; don’t give her ideas. Andy Burnham is in attendance with Lisa Nandy, who has taken a break from being on ‘Question Time’ and moaning about the Tories to let her hair down for a bit.
Myles Smith is here to present the next award.
Breakthrough Artist
Barry Can't Swim
EsDeeKid
Jim Legxacy
Lola Young
Skye Newman
Steve Davis
With this being Breakthrough Artist, that’s usually code for “I Don’t Have A Bloody Clue Who 80% of This Lot Are”. Barry Can’t Swim I always get confused with Fred Again for some reason. I think its because they both have names like one of your dad’s mates he borrows power tools off. EsDeeKid? Nope. Likewise Jim Legxacy, who sounds like he ought to be a 1980s porn-star with a mullet. Lola Young is probably my pick here, if only because I’ve heard of her – she’s the girl who ruins cakes. Kudos to ex-snooker world champion Steve Davis, who made the bold step from the baize to the DJ turntables (he was one of the support acts for Blur when they played Wembley Stadium, dontchaknow…)
I’m thinking Lola Young for this one. And I’m right! Poor Steve Davis, he just can’t catch a break, can he? Thankfully Lola doesn’t collapse on stage, and she too has also written an acceptance speech on her phone. It seems that’s the done thing this year; does nobody write them on their arms any more so they go all sweaty and they inadvertently end up calling their fans “c***s”? Lola keeps it short and snappy, and gets back to her seat to get fucking mullered. Good girl.
Presenting the next award is Luke Littler and Angry Ginge. Why? I have no idea. This award is for International Song of the Year, which includes the likes of Disco Lines & Tinashe, Gigi Perez, Ravyn Lenae and other people you’ve never fucking heard of. Saying that, Chappell Roan, K-Pop Demon Hunters, Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter are on hand, so it’ll be one of those that win it. Got to be Taylor Swift, surely?
Bruno Mars and Rose win for their song “Apt.”, or is it “Apata”? “Apatapata”? “Apartment”? I still don’t know what the fuck they’re singing about, and it feels like the song has been out about fifteen years. Bruno hasn’t managed to peel himself off his mattress to attend this evening, so he leaves it to the bird from Blackpink to pick up the gong (which, incidentally, looks like a giant jelly sweet). Rose has not prepared an acceptance speech on her iPhone, and will probably now never win a Brit Award again. That’s karma for you.
Fucking hell – time for another break. After these corporate messages, we have a performance from Rosalia, who we’re all meant to be aware of. Here’s some facts I found about her during the ad break:
· Her full name is Rosalia Vila Tobella
· She’s friends with Yung Beef – yes, THAT Yung Beef
· Alex Petridis, writing in The Guardian, said: “she can really sing”
· Her lyrics deal with “general pop culture”
· She has ADHD
Not bad for two minutes’ work. A man can do a lot in two minutes. She’s getting a hell of a build-up, so let’s see what she’s all about. It’s massively orchestral – I’m not sure if that’s her usual sound or if they’ve chucked some considerable budget at her performance because it’s The Brits. She’s rather operatic, but it still sounds like something off a bank advert. Whitehall said this would be highbrow, but I really don’t think this kind of “fits” with The Brits. Maybe it’s just me. Some woman in blue comes wandering out, apparently dressed as a lampshade. For a moment I think it’s Bjork. Is this actually Rosalia? I’m well and truly confused now. What’s going on?! No wait, the woman in white who I think is Rosalia is back. Maybe that was Bjork? My head’s mashed by this, it’s now gone all opera-rave. Nope, I’m going to have to fast-forward again.
Absolutely no idea what the hell that was. Whitehall confirms it was Bjork, but it would have been nice to have been told before all that started. Whitehall is down in amongst the tables, where people are obviously meant to be scared they will get picked on for a ribbing. I hate these bits, they feel really forced and are obviously intended to fill time while they presumably do something with the stage, or stab some adrenaline into the chest cavities of the next few people who are presenting awards.
Cat Burns is here to introduce an award.
International Group of the Year
Geese
HAIM
HUNTR/X - EJAE/Audrey Nuna/REI AMI
Tame Impala
Turnstile
ZZ TOP
Valiant attempt at a comeback from ZZ Top, but I fear they will be steamrollered, as will all other competition, by HUNTR/X and their human counterparts, who – when you see them in real life – just appear utterly confused at whether they’re real people or are actually trapped inside an animated Netflix film loved by practically the entire global population between the ages of 6-12. HAIM remind me of those twin girls from ‘The Shining’, except there’s three of them, which makes them even scarier. The others I cannot enlighten you about without the aid of Wikipedia, and that would be cheating.
Geese get the win here, which I wasn’t expecting. They cut to some rapper-looking sort who chugs some wine and looks like he doesn’t give two shiny shits who wins this. You’re not alone, sir. Only one member of Geese manages to make it to the stage, and starts to say something along the lines of “free Palestine” before he’s cut off by the over-zealous censor button guy, who obviously doesn’t want to have to deal with a BBC/Glastonbury/Bob Vylan shit-show all over again, and who can blame them?
Whitehall is down in the pit with Ryder and Bez, who are now a lot more chemically enhanced than they were earlier. A woman sat the other side of Whitehall looks absolutely petrified. The drug-addled twosome correct Jack when he says they were at the Brits in the 90s, whereas Bez believes it was 1985. Christ, this is like chatting to two severely concussed pensioners, which I guess technically, it is. Whitehall starts to regret his interview choices when Bez tells him the secret of such a long friendship is “a sexless marriage”. I’m just perusing the booze selection on the tables this evening – looks like Moet or Asahi. The least they could do is bang some absinthe out.
Whitehall called Ryder and Bez “role-models”, then makes some rather cack-handed gag about whether either of them “like a bit of H”, before realising they will only know the drug ‘H’, and not the rapper, Aitch. The petrified woman now looks like she would rather be anywhere other than here, why some posh-boy sometime-comedian has taken the vacant seat next to him, and promptly delivers several withering death stares at him. She looks to someone else on the table and smiles, as if one of her mates has just made an off-screen “wanker” hand gesture at Whitehall, which they probably did.
I’m fast-forwarding again, as this interview segment is going nowhere. We go to the seventeenth commercial break of the evening just as Ryder starts telling everyone that someone, possibly the entire Happy Mondays, once had sex with Paddington Bear. Alex Warren is performing later. And the crowd goes mild!
We’re back, with Ryder and Bez now being reprimanded backstage by The Brits producers for bringing the show into disrepute. I mean that interview was, bizarrely, the most entertaining bit on the show so far, but it was also so calamitously bad I remain ambivalent about it. As promised (threatened) Alex Warren is here to perform a song that was apparently No.1 for about six years. I wouldn’t know, the last time I paid any attention to the charts was about…shit, 1999? (I do listen in to see who gets the Christmas No.1, but nobody even makes an effort to try and get that now, do they?)
Warren’s song ‘Ordinary’ is precisely that, despite him obviously wanting to be the next Michael Buble. This buys me four extra minutes of my evening back as I lovingly caress that ‘fast-forward’ button like a remote-control mounted clitoris. Thanks for coming, Alex. In another piece of “let’s not bother telling people who else is on stage with the main performer”, we learn afterwards that James Blunt was on piano duty for that song. I’d be fucking livid if I was Blunt and didn’t get a mention there. It’s like when I realised Colin Greenwood from Radiohead was in Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds…who knew??!
Quick shot of Calvin Harris and his missus, where Calvin probably asks if they’ve been there long enough to slip out unnoticed if there’s going to be any more shite like that on.
Time for this year’s Made Up Brit Award Because We’re in Manchester (sorry – Songwriter of the Year), presented by Bobby Gillespie, who exudes all the excitement of a man planning his own funeral. We all know Noel Gallagher has been granted this one, and it’s a strange one. Oasis’ songs are known throughout the world, and – while they are undeniably catchy, soundtracked a generation and captured the 90s Britpop zeitgeist (yes, that is a wanky word and I apologise) - have you ever stopped to read the lyrics? They’re that strange phenomenon of something that sounds good, but doesn’t make a blind bit of fucking sense. A bit like Tango Blast iced drinks. “Slowly walking down the hall/faster than a cannonball”? “And after all/You’re my wonderwall”? “She said she came to Spain to have a good time/But she was with her mum”? “Then your friends will all go green/for my lasagna”? David Lynch wrote less weird stuff than this.
Arse kissing done, we can move on. Another made up award now, for Outstanding Contribution to Music (whoever gets it, I doubt they’ve made that much of an outstanding contribution). Presenting it is a “UK grime pioneer”, Skepta. He looks a bit like Jamie Foxx. The winner is Mark Ronson, who brought us that infernal cover version of ‘Valerie’ and single-handedly convinced Bruno Mars he was stuck in the 1980s forever. Hopefully we’ll get back to the actual award categories after ad break #342, but I do know there’s meant to be something commemorating Ozzy Osborne, that well-established patron and supporter of the Brits, so…yay.
Still an hour of this to go. Music now from a “musical genius” (really?) – Mark Ronson. Who we literally heard from before the adverts. I don’t think we need to sit through this medley, especially as some aging man in a bright yellow and black tracksuit has just started rapping. They’ve shoe-horned Dua Lipa into proceedings now, and not even her legs are enough to keep me watching.
I still see there are five awards left to dispense before they unlock the doors and let people leave. Apparently the old rapper was Ghostface Killah – from Wu-Tang Clan?
Presenting the next award is Jade from Little Mix – the fox – and someone else. Not sure who she is.
International Artist of the Year
Bad Bunny
Chappell Roan
CMAT
Doechii
Lady Gaga
ROSALÍA
Sabrina Carpenter
Sombr
Taylor Swift
Tyler, The Creator
The Butthole Surfers
Quite a range here, which is understandable seeing as we have the entire world to choose from. Saying that, 70% of them are from the USA, so we’re not being terribly representative here. Of the others, Bad Bunny is wildly popular thanks to his Superbowl Half Time Show, which he managed to piss off Donald Trump off with, and has even had a match in WWE wrestling. ROSALIA I can’t comment on, as she’s Spanish, and the last Spanish act I listened to was probably Las Ketchup. Let’s hope Butthole Surfers can claim a win after their 1991 classic album ‘Piouhgd’ was sorely overlooked all those years ago. They will face stiff competition from the right raging sauce-pot that is Sabrina Carpenter, who will probably saunter on in see-through lingerie and make some innuendo about massive penises being inserted into a tight hole (fnarr fnarr).
Rosalia gets the win, which she had to after the elaborate staging of her bizarre song earlier. CMAT, who I’m going to see in a couple of weeks, reacts with crocodile tears that she didn’t win. I wanted her to win, but it seems the music industry is dead-set against giving her any sort of exposure.
Ooh, it’s time for the death bit where all the music-related bods who carked it get a mention. I wonder if they’ll include Neil Sedaka, who died yesterday (I didn’t see him). Introducing this bit is Charlatans singer Tim Burgess & His fringe. The names of those who have passed are spattered over the screen in a seemingly never-ending cavalcade of misery, and it’s a shit to be reminded that Clodagh Rodgers too, eloped from this mortal coil this past year. We cut to another ad break without any Whitehall wisecracks, because even he probably realises making a shoddy joke about dead people wouldn’t win many hearts.
Presenting the next award is the delectable Maya Jama and the less delectable James Blunt.
Artist of the Year
Dave
Fred again..
JADE
Lily Allen
Little Simz
Lola Young
Olivia Dean
PinkPantheress
Sam Fender
Self Esteem
Tiffany
This list looks kinda familiar to the one we just went through, Fender, Allen, Dean (all present and correct)…. Dave always manages to get a mention, I knew he won an award a few years back, maybe it’ll be his year? PinkPantheress has just picked up ‘Producer of the Year’ award from The Beano (or was it Whizzer & Chips – a wonder she won anything the amount of sampling she does) will it be her? Great to see Tiffany cancelling her tour of the US Mid-West shopping malls that she was double headering with Debbie Gibson, it takes guts to quit something that was pulling in 25 people at each gig, fair play to her, she’s probably making good use of her time in Blighty to attend a few ‘Back to the 80’s’ festivals at Butlins and other dismal ‘Tenko’ styled camps where the masses are forced to drink overpriced gassy lager and chow down on crap food whilst kidding themselves that they’re having the time of their lives!
Olivia Dean seems a surefire shoe-in, seeing as she’s this year’s Raye, but we’ll see. It’d be nice for Self Esteem, another superb performer who gets about 0.00001% of the adulation she’s due, to win, but fuck that of course Olivia Dean wins. I tried fast-forwarding her croaky-voiced, on-the-verge-of-tears acceptance speech, but I’ve now caught up with all my fast-forwarding, so I am back to having to watch the damn thing in real time. Danny Malin, that ‘Rate My Takeaway’ twunt, is in the crowd, who is another one I cannot stand and makes me want to vomit blood.
Wolf Alice perform next, with Ellie having changed into her dominatrix leather get up. Are they really singing a song about a sofa? Fuck me. I shit you not this song doesn’t half go on a bit. And it’s about a sofa, did I say? Yeah, thanks for that.
Time now to be told about the awards that they couldn’t be fucked showing, including:
Hip Hop/Grime/Rap Act (welcome mention of Central Cee, who seems to get nominated every year, but loses out this year to Dave).
Dance Act (no Aphex Twin??!?) which went to Fred Again, Skepta & PlaqueboyMax (??)
Alternative/Rock Act, which is shoved in the general direction of Sam Fucking Fender, who is about as alternative as a nice knitted cardigan
Pop Act, predictably hurled forcibly at Olivia Dean
R & B Act, projectile vomited all over Sault (no, me neither)
Wow, for a show running about two-and-a-half hours, they really couldn’t jettison something to fit some of those in? Maybe if they threw out most of Whitehall’s cringeworthy interview sections, we might’ve been able to actually show some awards being given out. We go to what has to be the final ad break of the night, just as some bloke wanders past and shouts “knobhead!” at Whitehall in a moment that made me snort my drink out of my nose. This is what we’ve been waiting for – it’s just taken until half ten to get it.
Presenting the next award is the living legend that is Jeff Goldblum.
Mastercard Album of the Year
Dave - The Boy Who Played the Harp
Lily Allen - West End Girl
Olivia Dean - The Art of Loving
Sam Fender - People Watching
Wolf Alice - The Clearing
Mrs Mills - The Very Best Of
A mixed bag of only the finest albums released since the last Brits Awards took place (February 2025 I assume?). Wolf Alice have had an interesting year, with Ellie Rowsall waking up one day and realising that she has been holding back on the ‘rock chick’ vibes and immediately went out and bought a range of figure hugging catsuits, thigh high boots and whatever else she could find at Madame Spank’s Pain Emporium down the Old Kent Road. Great to see Lily Allen has stuck her oar into this category, she’s stuck it in everywhere else where it’s not wanted, expect to see her popping up in the ‘survivor’ category later on too. Mrs Mills snuck in as a last minute entry, she’s worked hard over the years, she’s even been resurrected from her grave and has just been flown back from Turkey with a new Hollywood smile, especially for the occasion, hope she wins!
Has to be either Fender or Wolf Alice, seeing as we’re sucking up to them this year. Mind you, Olivia Dean has taken a fair pounding this evening too, so who knows/cares? Olivia Dean gets it, making that four for the night, and who will at least have some nice trophies to put on her toilet cistern or use to attack burglars with. That was the last award by my reckoning, and we still have twenty minutes left.
Sombr is next to perform, who has come dressed as the pink sweet from Quality Street. He also seems to have an invisible backing band, as magically there is music coming from somewhere, but we’re not sure where. Maybe a backing tape. Kudos to the set dresser who raided his local Poundland for all their gold glittery curtains, they must’ve spunked about £100 on that. The gold curtain gets taken down after a fake stage-invader runs on, and magically, Sombr’s backing band are there – they were hiding all along!
I can’t say it’s been an enjoyable experience doing this write up; its not like I’m being paid or anything. I don’t even get expenses, like electricity to endure (I mean ‘enjoy’) the ceremony on TV. I’m only glad the Shits are once a year, like tax returns or ‘The Traitors’.
Oh for the love of God, there’s another break.
For transparency, there’s a tribute to Ozzy after the break, but quite honestly? I can’t watch any more of this; I’m pretty sure Ozzy has little to no connection with The Brits, so I really don’t think there’s much point watching any more. They might as well have done a Brits tribute to Lego. Robbie Williams is on, if that’s your thing (it’s not mine), so I’m sticking Match of the Day on.
See you next year, Pop Pickers!
Words by P.T. Muscutt
Click HERE to see photos of the performances
Click HERE to see photos of the winner speeches
Click HERE to see photos from the red carpet