Single Reviews 11/05/09

Yes, we’re aware updates have been sporadic of late, if sporadic means “entirely absent.” Amongst other things, we’ve been undergoing the... er... immense task of setting up our Twitter page, which given we’re still not fully ‘getting’, is likely to be updated less often than this increasingly-patchy blog. But for now, enjoy our Single Reviews...

Having the unenviable spot of being the first single we’ve reviewed in a month means The Killers might be doused in stored-up bile. Luckily, we’ve rather taken to Day & Age-era Killers, something which The World We Live In cements further. This won’t do them any favours with the backwards fans who want them to revert to the diluted stabs at stadium rock, but the hummable, temperate synthage is more than passable.

Alesha Dixon follows up the still-genius Breathe Slow with the slightly-less genius Let’s Get Excited – a floorfilling pop thunderer which functions brilliantly as an album opener, but with the cheap, tawdry remix that’s unfathomably gone to radio, is unlikely to bring home the bacon as a single. Mind you, Alesha could burp the alphabet, release that a single and we’d still think she was the absolute dog’s bollocks.

Sounding like Coldplay’s entire back catalogue pretty much all at once is quite an achievement, but Gary Go manages it with ease on new single Open Arms – you, the reader, can decide whether that’s a compliment or a cuss-out. From where we’re standing, it might not display a whole lot in the way of originality, but the cascading riffs and rocketing vocals are an indicator of some genuine talent, and thus warrant a Single of the Week accolade.

Lastly, the ginormous cultural question mark that is Ebony Bones, with the similarly-baffling The Musik. Seriously, is this some sort of media-wide prank? Let’s break this down: Yasmin from Family Affairs (YASMIN! Low-rent Yasmin! Not even Dusty!) singing. Shouting, in fact. Over some pre-programmed 1991 school music-room Casio beats. Music and fashion press alike are foaming at the mouth. Fans, similarly, going apeshit. Ladies and gentlemen, the world is being Punk’d.

The Sloppy Dog LiveBlog: The Apprentice

Good evening, and thank you for choosing to spend the duration of The Apprentice with us, assuming you're reading this live. The rest of you - what's tomorrow like? Is it filled with hope and optimism, or is Fearne Cotton still alive? (Those of you who are reading this live, keep hitting refresh for updates).

21:01 - Not only are the half-hour opening titles duller than shite, they're also a sore reminder of the brilliant contenders that were sent packing. Sadface for Paula and Kimberley.

21:02 - A recap of last week's dire lack of action, and Noorul getting fired to worldwide indifference.

21:04 - Ben drops the prophetic statement that "a gateway is a gate to somewhere" - someone carve this man's every word in marble, for he is a veritable knowledgefest. Despite the contestants' hopes that they'll be heading off to sell sports cars on the beaches of Dubai, they're heading somewhere up Norf in the rain.

21:07 - Time to select the project managers. Mona's foolishly putting herself forward, which screams of a boardroom bloodbath. Meanwhile, on the opposing team whose name escapes me with all this team-swapping, Lorraine is at the helm. Poor, put-upon Lorraine. Flustered, overbite-tastic, accent-shifting know-it-all Lorraine. Last week, she was described by Margaret Mountford as being Cassandra:

(We're certain that's who she meant. Surely the cultured and wise Margaret Mountford, highly-educated laywer, entrepreneur and executive, currently studying for her doctorate in papyrology, couldn't have been talking about another Cassandra?)

21:10 - So the task, it seems, is to select and market a new product from a range proposed to each team by new designers. Or at least, that's as much as I could gather when I was busy Googling for an image of Cassandra. Amongst the products on display is a cardboard box for cats to play in, which your keyboard-battering correspondent spotted in an overpriced gift shop in Brighton last week. A spoiler, perhaps?

21:13 - Lorraine's team have selected the aforementioned cat monstrosity, and a bike bag, which she's now pitching horribly with Yasmina. Lorraine, FYI, is currently speaking with English accent. She'll no doubt flit to Irish before the episode is out. This is very annoying indeed.

21:17 - Mona has despatched Debra and Howard to pitch to the same panel of business-Scousers, with a similarly poor display to their rivals. Their products are a repugnant, impractical and presumably hugely uncomfortable sleeping bag with limbs, and a two-person dog lead. Or, if you use it upside down, a one-person dog lead for a two-headed dog.

21:21 - The voiceover describes "the shops of the North-West" in the same way as you'd describe "the slums of Sao Paolo". Not long after "the shops of the North-West" open, Mona flogs the people-shaped sleeping shrouds to a camping shop, while the ever-vile Ben nails a high-profile pitch. A pitch which is quickly hijacked by the hapless Lorraine, in spite of Yasmina's protests. This should be good.

21:24 - Debra Barr doesn't quite have the businesswoman look down pat, does she? She's not so much 'get the job done' as she is 'get fingered in the Wetherspoon's beer garden after two Smirnoff Ices.' A prime paradigm of pramface.

21:26 - Vile Ben, Whiny Geordie and Spare Slapperton Sister crash and burn in their pitch to a cycling shop. Meanwhile, Lorraine charges headlong into their big-money proposal with all the poise of a three-legged rhinoceros. It's not looking good for Stealth. Or Eclipse. Or Insight. Or Burglar. What are the teams called this year?

21:29 - Oo-er, Lorraine is snarking about Slapperton Kate's beauty. Well, wouldn't you, if you were the spitting image of Calamity James?

21:32 - Accentwatch: Lorraine's gone momentarily Irish.

21:34 - Time for the boardroom, and it's a reminder of just how little we've seen of Mona and James today. In fact, her whole team garnered sod-all screentime today. You'd initially think this might be a result of the opposing team's utter stupidity, but Sralan reveals they sold diddly-squat during the pitches he set up for them. Way to impress the boss, guys.

21:37 - Slapperton reveals Lorraine "lacked some structure", which may well be the most diplomatic way of saying "was a complete fucking moron who turned everything she touched into a puddle of diarrhoea."

21:38 - And Mona's team - Empire, we finally learn - win by a margin of £3000. Slapperton looks pissed, Ben looks vile, and Lorraine looks worried. As worried as one can look when their face is made of mouldy latex.

21:39 - The Sloppy Dog's backseat bloggers think Lorraine will be bringing Kate and Philip back in with her. Well, that's no good! Get rid of Vile Ben. Let him waddle back to his army-themed bedroom in his parents' house, and eat pies while wearing his fetching braces. Meanwhile, Empire live it up in a helicopter.

21:44 - Ben's coming across quite well in the firing line. This does not bode well.

21:45 - Philip is the best kind of bitch, in the sense that Lorraine is on the receiving end. Apparently, "a monkey in a pair of dungarees" could have done better, which is probably fair. Slapperton Kate, meanwhile, does not cope well under pressure. Better get to pouting, love, show Sralan your potential.

21:48 - And it's Kate and Philip who'll be joining Lorraine back in the boardroom. Does this mean we've got another week of seeing Ben's pockmarked, flabby, arrogant self strutting around like a Goomba dressed as Gordon Gekko?

21:50 - Philip, for all his flaws, stands up to Sralan in a rather impressive manner. However, he is quickly shot down by another Nick Hewer classic: "Tell us about Pants Man."

21:52 - Well the sneaky cow! Lorraine decides to bring out the big guns and reveal Kate and Philip have been getting all squelchy behind the scenes. Low blow, Lorraine, low blow. Philip is genuinely welling up.

21:54 - And the candidate being shown to the taxi of doom is...

21:55 - Philip. How disappointing. Still, you can't expect someone to stand up to Sralan and his Napoleon complex and live to see another day. How Debra even made it back after giving Nick Hewer a mouthful last week is utterly perplexing. In hindsight, Philip was his own worst enemy, and probably deserved to go. But not as much as Lorraine.

21:57 - Spare Slapperton Kate lays into Lorraine back in the house, and rightly so. She'd have been within her rights to uppercut the slimy bastard, in fairness. Debra congratulates Lorraine by saying "Well done Irishwoman" - so WHAT'S WITH THE BLOODY ACCENT?!

21:58 - Next week, Margate. Classy stuff indeed. Do they still have the Looping Star there?

22:00 - In summary: Ben and Debra being hideous; Kate looking like an All Saints merchandise blow-up doll; Lorraine displaying huge new levels of ineptitude; a disappointing lack of Margaret Mountford; and we bid farewell to Philip, surprisingly not off the back of Pants Man. Night-night all! x

Eoghan Quigg - Eoghan Quigg (RCA)

While Eoghan Quigg may have been an easy target for ridicule on the last series of The X Factor, it wasn’t without reason. A blatant attempt to attract a certain demographic of viewer as opposed to seeking out new talent, Eoghan’s place on the show was, in itself, laughable.

At the start of the live shows, Rachel, Alexandra, Ruth, JLS, Laura, Bad Lashes and Diana all had the potential to win the contest – so to think Eoghan Quigg took the bronze medal is actually pretty shameful. Therefore, as he launches his debut – and one would imagine, his final – album, we’re reminded why some aspects of The X Factor should be kept firmly within the show itself.

One of the two original offerings – yes, that’s TWO brand new songs on an album of eleven tracks – is the awkward, bandwagon-situated shitefest 28,000 Friends, a Happy Meal rock ditty clumsily namechecking MySpace, YouTube and Facebook. Penned by the hapless hand of ever-desperate Busted spunkbubble James Bourne, a man responsible for some of the worst pop music this century, it’s obviously not going to be laying claim to an Ivor Novello, but you’d think they’d at least try to disguise such cheap, hackneyed efforts.

The genuine musicianship of McFly’s All About You is replaced with tacky synth strings, while the Fisher Price keyboard witchcraft on the sexless take of Does Your Mother Know makes it wholly unlistenable. And every track sees the backing vocals cranked up way above Eoghan’s scrawny cough, further underlining just how underdeveloped he is as a singer.

How much of this is the fault of Quigg himself? Precisely none of it, we’d guess. Let’s not forget, this is a 16-year-old boy who was thrown into the spotlight because Simon Cowell knew he could make a quick buck off him, and in spite of being the weakest vocalist throughout the series, made it to the final off the back of kindly grandmas and obsessive, fanatical trolls.

And just as Leon Jackson (who, in fairness, was actually a unique singer, and certainly had potential) and Same Difference (a marketable, likeable pop group who never gave a bad vocal performance) are dropped for their supposedly poor sales, Eoghan Quigg merely proves that short-term dollar signs are far more important than development or artistry.

Anaemic vocals, appalling song selections and a shameless cash-in on X Factor ‘glories’ make this a strong contender for the worst thing ever to come out of the show. And bearing in mind this includes Chico, that’s pretty dire stuff indeed.

Single Reviews 30/03/09

The clocks have gone forward, the weather is scarily sporadic, even bloody Countryfile is moving slots. Is there no consistency in the world anymore?! Can we rely on nothing?! Well, you can rely on our Single Reviews (most of the time), and, if you read on, you’ll also find that you can rely on the Pussycat Dolls to be talentless trollops.

Given her lack of UK success and supposed spat with US label boss Jay-Z , we were a tad worried we’d seen the last of Lady Sovereign. And yet, here she is, back with a radio-friendly but uncompromising display of personality in the Cure-sampling masterpiece that is So Human. Classically hilarious and adept Sov, but with a 2009 renovation, it’s an easily-bestowed Single of the Week.

Another returning party from the Caucasian rap quarter this week comes in the form of Just Jack, with the outstanding Embers. Tingle-inducing strings and cheeky handclaps provide an exceptional backing for the inimitably frank vocals that rightfully made the nation’s ears prick up, although it seems undiluted, straight-down-the-line singing has overtaken the Home Counties hip-hop leanings as Jack’s calling card.

Bastardising the joyous climax to Slumdog Millionaire are the grotesque Pussycat Dolls, who take a break from spreading venereal disease their paltry R&B to dry-hump the Oscars bandwagon. And while Nicole’s backing scutters provide precisely NO vocals to Jai Ho (You Are My Destiny) whatsoever, the head harlot herself fails to even pronounce the song’s title correctly. As if offences against music and feminism weren’t enough, they’re now guilty for crimes against cinema.

And finally, yet another one-man electrofest to add to the pile, although thankfully Frankmusik is evidently a cut above many of his contemporaries. Most people from Thornton Heath leave a trail of greasy chicken boxes behind them, so the fact alone that he’s amounted to something more than a feral mong on the 109 warrants massive respect, and that’s even before you consider the catchy – if slightly jaded – charms of Better Off As Two. FYI, Calvin Harris, you may want to take note...

Honking Box Review: The Apprentice

If you weren’t aware that the new series of The Apprentice came to BBC One last night, then we’d quite like to know how you manage to switch off from all aspects of popular culture so easily – perhaps it’s some sort of pill you can take to block out certain entities? If so, put us down for a full prescription of forget-Fearne-Cotton-entirely (max strength).

For the rest of you, we’re not even sure why we’re bothering to cover the first episode, given the saturation it’ll already have provoked across the media. But hey, never one to turn down the opportunity to slag off reality contestants,

The first challenge saw the suited smarmfests getting their hands dirty – just like salt-of-the-earth hardworking man’s man Sralan Sugar did back int’day – working as cleaners. Cue the same old blend of blaming, fingerpointing, bitching and whining.

At this stage, it’s hard to determine who we like or don’t like. Actually, strike that – it’s hard to determine who we like, but a piece of piss to pick out the real tosspots. Early fuckwittery comes from the Phillip Taylor, who looks as though he’s made of plasticine and sounds as though he should be voicing a sock puppet; gobby ballcrusher and chronic oldface sufferer Debra Barr; and Noorul Choudhury, who we’re sure is actually a struggling actor who’s created the archetypal Apprentice twat character and is seeing how long he can play him without being rumbled.

Also on our ‘no’ pile would be the gent who uttered the following words on discovering the plush surroundings of the contestants’ penthouse...

“It’s SO feng shui!”
“I feel like Diddy!”
“King of the World!”

Sadly, we didn’t catch the visuals of whose execrable mouth these came out of – we were only provided with the audio, so we cannot attribute such bastardly foolish quotes to a specific cock. However, we did see – repeatedly – Mona Lewis uttering “at the end of the day” to a magnitude only ever reserved for jelly-brained Big Brother housemates, which adds yet another specimen to the cons list.

Not that there aren’t a few likeable characters in there. Kimberley Davis, the seemingly-proficient American with an apparent penchant for honesty; Majid Nagra, who’s already carving himself out as an endearingly hapless buffoon; the marvellously ginger Paula Jones; and Yasmina Siadatan, who looks sort of like a mouldy clone of the lovely Grace Dent, all seem to display a few traits of normalcy, or at least as much as is feasible from an Apprentice contestant.

The rest, we’re yet to come to a conclusion on, or are too boring to suss out at this particular point in the game. Of course, Nick Hewer and Margaret Mountford remain the true stars of the show, and we await Margaret’s cutting eye-rolls and Nick’s outstanding expressions of bafflement with genuine excitement. Sralan, miraculously, comes across as significantly less cunty than in previous series, although just one episode in, we’re sure that’ll change.

But overall, one of the most interesting aspects of The Apprentice last night was the reminder of just how unbelievably stressful it is to watch. The backstabbing, the weaselry, the accusations... it’s a solid hour of televised office politics, and it’s far from entertaining. And sure, it’s always been a key component of the show, but it reaches a point where it begins to grate, and heavily at that. We’re sure that there’ll be another moment of comedy gold, a la Simon Ambrose’s accidental trampoline wank, or Tre Azam’s killer one-liners, but we’re unlikely to reach it before we’ve been prompted to report the entire series to HR for unprofessionalism and gross misconduct.

Single Reviews 23/03/09

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Honking Box Preview: American Idol

Hello! We’re back from our wee jaunt across the pond, and while we don’t have any gems to bring you from the six-song playlist of XL 106.7 this time around, we’ve not neglected you completely. On our trip, we visited the American Idol Experience at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, completely for research purposes, of course.

Although toe-curlingly embarrassing at points (hello, Jordin Sparks’ horrifying interval video), the whole thing was actually very well executed. And if the winning act, a band-camp balladeer named Cara Something, does the business on next year’s show, we’re claiming we discovered her. We’ll just brush over the fact we actually voted for someone else...

But that’s a whole year away. For now, let’s focus on the high-gloss live finals, which kicked off last week. We had actually wanted to bring you a full recap of all twelve finalists, but bizarre scheduling meant the Wild Card show was randomly slotted in a week early, not to mention the additional thirteenth finalist throwing proceedings into further disarray. So you’ll have to make do with our rundown of the remaining eleven...

Kris Allen

Ah, you gotta love these filler contestants – the ones that pad out the live shows until we’re only left with the artists that people actually care about (see also: Scott Bruton, Chikezie, Gospel Simone out of Fame Academy, anyone in I’d Do Anything who wasn’t Jodie Prenger). Although now we’ve said that, he’ll probably reach the final. A killer voice but largely beige on any other level, all Kris brings to the party is his wholesome Christian schtick and the fact he resembles a shrunken Nick Lachey.

Danny Gokey

Effectively the US version of The X Factor’s Daniel Evans (i.e. they’re both called Daniel, and each are prompted to talk about their recently-deceased wives at every given opportunity), except this Danny actually has the pipes to handle the live shows. Looks a bit like Danny Wallace, who incidentally is another Daniel, although his wife is alive. A strong contender for the finals, Danny’s impressive vocals coupled with his backstory and his strong Christian values (another one!?) could see him go all the way.

Alexis Grace

It would appear pint-sized Alexis is the perennial rock contestant, although how she’d fare in a moshpit alongside Amanda Overmyer or Constantine Maroulis can only conjure up images of a veritable bloodbath. Alexis is one of those singers whose physical size prompts people to comment on the enormity of her voice – and yet, no-one batted an eyelid when the gigantic Michelle McManus somehow won Pop Idol with a reedy, tuneless cough.

Allison Iraheta

16-going-on-40, she may not look quite like a teenager, but Allison’s tremendous take on Heart’s Alone proved she doesn’t sound like one either, securing her a place in the Top 13 (at that point, merely a pedestrian, everyday Top 12). A far more convincing rock voice than Alexis, Allison boasts a powerhouse vocal that her co-wannabes should be very, very afraid of. And a scarlet hairdo that Idol stylists are probably very, very afraid of.

Anoop Desai

Flying the flag for geeks the world over, Anoop’s consistently impressive vocals prompted Simon to spontaneously create the thirteenth spot in the live finals. Not that it was pre-arranged with Fox and the entire production team or anything, oh no. Although the first live show put the self-styled ‘Noop Dogg in the bottom two, his hefty online following should see him progress pretty far.

Michael Sarver

Perhaps the most archetypal All-American contestant that Idol has ever seen, Michael is a Texan redneck (like, whoever thought that was a proper job title? Apparently, his proper role is ‘oil rig worker’, but far be it from us to contest the Idol producers), a devout Christian, and family man complete with two kiddies. Surely a walk-through on paper, but with three active God-botherers in this year’s finals, the fundie vote could be split.

Scott Macintyre
To quote the hapless moron that is Louis Walsh, “the poor guy’s blind, Simon!” – yes, Idol’s first visually-impaired finalist (a whole five series after 2 To Go on The X Factor), it’ll be interesting to see whether they choose to focus on (a) his striking voice, likeable nature, and remarkable piano skills, or (b) the fact that he has a disability. Either way, a place in the finals is almost a given.

Megan Joy Corkrey

This year’s official Vote For The Worst contestant, and rightly so – we can’t find a single reason this tuneless harpy even made it past the initial auditions. Particular mention must go to her weak, discordant honk butchering Put Your Records On (which she also bollocksed up the lyrics to, inadvertently creating a lesbianthem). However, her Rockin’ Robin was truly a sight to behold, possibly going down as the worst performance in Idol history.

Matt Giraud

Matt is a duelling piano player from Kalamazoo – a sentence which makes little sense to presumably 95% of the American Idol viewership, but sounds utterly fucking amazing. Looking like a touched-by-the-hand-of-God Justin Timberlake and peddling his own brand of white boy soul, Matt seems to have a lot going for him, and yet screams 10th place.

Lil Rounds

Already pre-equipped with a rapper name, surely stardom is a dead cert for mother-of-three Lil. Perhaps this year’s best female vocalist along from Allison, but her slightly generic quality makes her appear, at this stage anyway, a tad Fantasia-lite. Get yer personality out, love. Mind you, not having one at all didn’t stop Jordin Sparks winning...

Adam Lambert

A former star of Wicked and our current favourite in the absence of the awesome Jackie Tohn, it’s hard to pin Adam’s style down. A touch emo, a tad rockabilly, and a dash of glittery eye-shadow, he’s sorta like a gay David Cook. And although the overpronounced dramatics and Lloyd-Webber leanings detract ever so slightly, it’s hard not to notice Adam’s commercial relevance or, more importantly, the most impressive voice in the competition.

Single Reviews 02/03/09

We’re fully aware it’s been a rather patchy year thus far update-wise, but sadly, after today’s Single Reviews, we’re shutting up shop once again to get us some holiday merriment. Rest assured, we’ll return with tales of newborn pop culture rarities currently gleaming brightly in the exotic mystique of... erm... America. And bear in mind, last time round, we came back singing the praises of FloRida. Yikes.

The Saturdays get us off to a decidedly average start with this year’s Comic Relief offering. While it’s certainly no Who Do You Think You Are or All About You, their update of Just Can’t Get Enough is a faithful enough take on the Depeche Mode standard, albeit laced with enough cheeky winks to simultaneously keep the kids and the dirty mac brigade happy.

Next up, a woman we have little time for even when she’s halfway bearable. However, Kelly Clarkson seems determined to up that to full-on hatred, reintroducing herself as a sell-out identipop fuck-muppet via My Life Would Suck Without You. Apparently this is monstrosity is already scaling the uppermost echelons of the midweeks, but when an artist on her fourth album sounds like a Farmfoods mimic of Miley Cyrus, there has to be something wrong. Take note, record buyers!

And sticking with a theme of bile-drenched negativity, putting herself forward as a genuinely serious nominee for Worst Cover Version EVER is Annie Lennox, whose entirely obsolete butchering of the Ash masterpiece Shining Light is bereft of soul, originality, relevance and any discernible talent. We’d have expected someone of her experience to know not to tamper with such a classic, and yet, it’s on a par with the slurry churned out by Clock in the mid-90s. Truly disgusting stuff, this.

Finally, Chris Cornell takes a well-deserved Single of the Week with the inventive Part of Me, a Timbaland jobby with bleeps and squelches in all the right places, which, somewhat miraculously, blend with a grizzled rock vocal rather nicely. Tim himself jumps on decent backing duties, a thankful progression from his usual Chewbacca noises. Meanwhile, the undiluted vitriol on display in the chorus is refreshingly frank, and also makes us feel as though we’re in good company, given the last two reviews...

Single Reviews 23/02/09

Finally, we’ve gotten around to writing something. Not only do you lucky buggers get our Brits blog, but we’ve actually managed to do some Single Reviews this week. Don’t get too excited though - it’s holiday time in a couple of weeks so there’ll be another big ol’ block of time without one measly update. Until then, enjoy...

Perhaps the most unlikely comeback this week – nay, this decade – arrives in the form of Amy Studt, last seen spectacularly failing when her label decided to mould her into a UK Avril Lavigne at the last minute. And even though five years have passed, Nice Boys isn’t too far removed from her first-stab material, all iffy Kate Bush leanings and playground chants. And yet, it’s hard not to feel she’s capable of so much better. Despite the fact we’ve never seen evidence of this.

A band who inexplicably fell short of Travis/Coldplay-level commercial crossover magnitude, Starsailor have instead become a solid, endowed, consistent band more than capable of peddling a killer tune or three. Tell Me It’s Not Over is no different, boasting up-tempo splendour and confident riffs. Sadly though, it’s not the big push they deserve, so they’ll have to suffice with being our Single of the Week.

The wealth of talent in last year’s American Idol means we’ll likely be seeing plenty of releases from the finalists. No, it’s not Carly, or Brooke, or Syesha, or Michael, or him with the dreads. It’s David Archuleta. Sorry. In fairness, Crush is a far more impressive offering than Cowell’s attempts to shape him into a one-man High School Musical would’ve suggested, a melody-heavy airwave-hogger that actually suits him rather well. But above anything else, it underlines that David Cook was, by far, the deserving winner.

And bringing this week’s reviews to a close are Plain White Ts. Initial exposure might imply that Natural Disaster is actually something resembling acceptable, carrying a heavier, energetic sound. However, the cliché soon shines through, with the clumsy lyrics following shortly behind, cementing it as forgettable middle-school non-rock. The best thing we can say about it? It’s not Hey There Delilah.

Sloppy Dog Live Blog: The Brit Awards 2009

Right, bear with us in case this all goes horribly wrong - it's our first attempt at liveblogging. Mind you, given the consistently shambolic nature of the Brit Awards, it's safe to say the show itself is even more likely to go tits-up than our coverage will. But hey, welcome all the same! Keep hitting refresh if you're one of the two people joining us this evening.

With the nominations already looking pretty ropey, we're not off to a good start. The Red Carpet show, however, looked slightly more promising - Sara Cox being ace; Katy Perry looking as though she'd fallen into a skip out the back of Claire's Accessories; Kylie Minogue politely pretending to laugh at Mel Blatt's bizarre impression of Katie from the Ting Tings; and fucking Gok Wan essentially threatening to rape Kanye West. Bring on the main event!

20:02 - U2 open the show with a few strains of Rule Britannia. Or was it God Save The Queen? If they were real rock stars, they'd have torn up a picture of The Queen (or alternatively, National Treasure Cheryl Cole™) and launched into a post-hardcore version of Amhrán na bhFiann.
Good God, Bono. Grow old with dignity.

20:08 - After a largely meh opening from Kylie, James Corden and Matthew Horne, it's on with the awards. Best British Female is the first one up - Beth Rowley?! M.I.A!??! Who chooses these things? Where the jiggins is Alesha!?

20:10 - Oh, Duffy's won it. Fair enough. Bless her, she's crying before she's even reached the podium. Possibly because Adele tried to eat her.

20:14 - Ooh, it's International Female.

20:15 - SHUT THE FUCK UP!? Katy Perry??!?

20:19 - Girls Aloud are performing The Promise, heavily influenced by the Spice Girls' updated take on Too Much from the Return of the Spice Girls tour. Namely, a total rip-off. Still, Sarah and Nicola sound pretty good. Can someone turn Nadine's mic down? Her ad-libs are hideous.

20:20 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:27 - Mathew Horne is channelling Brian Molko. How does he manage to look considerably worse than his clinically obese pal? Sticking with the theme of skinny people looking bad, it's Alex James to announce Best British Newcomer. And it's another one for Duffy! Clearly, the listeners of Radio 1 aren't that stupid after all. So why do they continue to listen to Chris Moyles?

20:31 - Coldplay have come dressed as The Wiggles. You'd think we'd be bored to tears by Viva La Vida by now, but it still sounds fan-frickin'-tastic. Surely Best British Single is a certainty? Assuming the manic Girls Aloud fans have died from chronic texter's thumb, of course.

20:35 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:43 - I'm nostalgic for when Natalie Imbruglia was relevant. The nominees for International Group are predictably pretentious, but let's thank our lucky stars the Pussycat Dolls evaded a nod - between them and Katy Perry, the whole of Earls Court would have had crabs by the end of the night. And Kings of Leon nail the award!

20:46 - Jamies Oliver and Cullum are here to announce Best British Male. We'd have given this to Gavin Rossdale, but his omission is fair enough, given that Wanderlust sold all of four copies. Anyway, as expected, Paul Weller's won. For some reason, his acceptance VT features Adele. Hopefully, that's the last we'll see of her tonight. And as if to prove the point, here's Duffy to perform Warwick Avenue. Christ, she does look remarkably like Daniella Westbrook, doesn't she?

20:50 - Bloody Nora, this is dull. Couldn't she have done Rain On Your Parade instead?

20:51 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:59 - A painful skit courtesy of James Corden and Joe Calzaghe precedes International Album, which is identical nominee-wise to International Group, a point proven by the fact Kings of Leon win for the second time. Oo-er, faux pas o'clock - they thank 'England'. Way to get the T In The Park crowds all moist, lads.

21:04 - It's Take That! On a flying saucer! In some sort of Joe 90 get-up! Bored now.

21:07 - WHO did Scouting For Girls have to sleep with to get a nomination for Best Live Act? WHY aren't the Spice Girls nominated? WHAT can we say about Iron Maiden that's remotely interesting? Best acceptance speech of the night, perhaps?

21:10 - Do people not realise there's not enough irony in the world to excuse the presence of The Hoff anymore? He's here to announce the Best British Group, who inexplicably, are Elbow. Coldplay look suitably miffed. Everyone else looks suitably confused. Except Ashley Cole, who looks suitably bored.

21:13 - Seriously, FUCK OFF, Fearne Cotton!

21:17 - Grrr, Caleb Followill. Why couldn't they have done Sex On Fire? Are Number Ones suddenly passé?

21:18 - Ugh, The Hoff is trying to stick it in Fearne Cotton. This is deeply, deeply unpleasant stuff.

21:24 - Kylie's finally back, for what feels like only her second link of the night. Lazy cow. Ooh, Florence & The Machine have (has?) been dipped. Is she making naughty swears? That's not big, or clever. Fucking fuckwit.

21:26 - Why does Gok Wan exist? What is he for? When will it finally be revealed that he's not a real person, but another Sacha Baron Cohen character?

21:28 - Best International Male is Kanye West! Good choice. But sadly, he's not here to collect it in person, possibly as a result of hearing Gok Wan wanted to get on him.

21:32 - It's the perennial Brits collaboration, this year courtesy of Estelle and the Ting Tings, up there with time-honoured team-ups including Dave Stewart & Shola Ama, Daniel & Natasha Bedingfield, the hideous Abba tribute performed by Steps, Billie Piper, B*Witched and Cleopatra, gatecrashed by Tina Cousins. Ooooh, this is a tad hurty on the ears. Poor Estelle.

21:35 - Best British Single is... Girls Aloud! Mind the debris from the exploding Popjustice messageboard. It's a long-deserved triumph, in all fairness, but it's a shame it wasn't for one of their better efforts. Kimberley is sweet, Sarah is hammered, Nadine is incomprehensible, Cheryl has the crowd frothing at the genitals, and Nicola doesn't get to speak. All in all, a perfectly normal day for Girls Aloud, then.

21:39 - So, it's the supposed 'big one'. Surely Coldplay have it in the bag? Oh, apparently not - Duffy makes it three in a row. Does this now mean they're one of those successful, reliable British bands that have passed the plateau of credibility beyond which the Brits do not exist? See also: Keane, Oasis, Stereophonics, Manic Street Preachers.

21:41 - Did you not hear us the first time, Fearne Cotton? And now you're daring to tease us with the threat of Lady GaGa?! Seriously, first person to chuck a bucket of holy water over this execrable creature gets a tenner.

21:49 - SHUT UP, Brandon Flowers. Jesus wept, this man can talk. It feels like yesterday this segment begun. Oh thank fuck, he's reeling it in. The Pet Shop Boys!

21:50 - A shot of Louis Walsh watching the Pet Shop Boys do Suburbia. Is he hoping he'll get a chance afterwards to tell them they're like a young Aretha Franklin, and that all of Newcastle ought to vote for them?

21:53 - And the medley segues into Go West - ironically, given the last comment, it'll never be a patch on the hilarious Rhydian adaptation. Oh sweet Jesus, what has Lady GaGa come as?

21:54 - Oh, is that it from her? Thank heavens for small mercies.

21:56 - And Brandon Flowers is back, thankfully singing this time.

21:58 - We spoke too soon - it's bloody Lady GaGa again. She looks like a willow pattern crockery set. Still, amusing shot of Janet Street Porter soaking in the Pet Shop goodness.

21:59 - And we are done! Didn't that just fly by? Apart from Brandon Flowers' month-long monologue, that is. Overall, this year's event turned out to be a marginally less shite offering than we had been expecting. But then, we've come to expect horrific things from the Brit Awards, so anything less than genocide is a welcome relief. Nighty-night! x