The Bluetones - A New Athens (CIA)

Ah, the mid-Nineties. Home to some shit hair, shit clothes and shit teachers. But one thing the era did nail was music, with the aural majesty of Britpop in full bloom. And while the overall movement has long since expired, a few bastions of the genre remain, and, as The Bluetones testify, are every bit as tremendous in 2010 as they were in 1995.

A New Athens sees the band return for their sixth studio album, and it’s a welcome homecoming indeed. After Mark Morriss's 2008 solo album, itself a humble masterpiece, the stripped-back simplicity has made way for a busier, more thought-out arrangement with noticeably more depth. Not that Memory Muscle was in any way a throwaway or one-dimensional album, but A New Athens is very much a group effort.

On the whole, A New Athens carries the same buoyancy as the Bluetones of old, whilst bearing a sense of maturity without any feelings of stuffiness. That's not to say they've created an album of sunkissed Slight-Return-a-likes; in fact, the harder riffs of the title track document a more edgy Bluetones than we're used to, and they sound all the better for it.


Elsewhere, the shuffling, lilting country of demi-ballad Golden Soul and the twisted, looping electronica of opening track The Notes Between The Notes Between The Notes further demonstrate the steps outside of the box that makes A New Athens a mightily impressive return.

And for the occasional subtle change in direction, there’s little surprising about A New Athens. But that’s no bad thing, and it certainly doesn’t make for anything resembling tedium. It’s solid, it’s assured, there are hooks a-plenty and charm in abundance – in short, it’s every inch a Bluetones record.

It marks a band who’ve maintained their ideals, honed their talents and developed nicely, without clinging doggedly onto the ghosts of the Melody Maker or TFI Friday stage, as one might expect. And while their moment in the glare of the spotlight may have passed, there’s no trace of defeat or acquiescence, merely a contented and gifted demonstration that brilliance is still brilliance, however big the audience.

Honking Box Review: Spartacus: Blood & Sand

The term "so bad it's good" is bandied about far too freely these days. It's term often used to excuse shows which are terminally uncool to like by those ashamed to like them. Still, you occasionally come across a show so unbelievably atrocious from the outset, it's fan-frickin-tastic, such as Bonekickers or the legendary Sunset Beach. And from time to time, you come across a show which leaves you wondering whether it's a benchmark in so-bad-it's-good ironic brilliance, or a disastrous attempt at serious, groundbreaking drama.

One such example is Spartacus: Blood & Sand, a US-produced retelling of the titular legend's battles. Made by cable network Starz – a sort of poor man’s HBO apparently, and previously boasting an exclamation mark at the end of its name – you get some idea of the production values early on. But it’s the content within which truly cements the absolute sparkling awfulness.

Where Krod Mandoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire takes the idiosyncracies of fantasy epics and creates an affectionate parody from them, Spartacus tears the entire genre a gaping new arsehole, inadvertedly spoofing to a level that makes the likes of the Scary/Date/Epic Movie franchise look like subtle, intellectual satire.

The tidal waves of blood (literally - tidal waves) that saturate every fight scene provide an amount of claret and gore which, on paper, would invoke squeamishness in the hardiest of viewers. Yet the absurd cartoonish indulgence quickly underlines that while the overall concept of the show truly stomach-turning, the blood 'n' guts aspect is most certainly not. Spartacus: Blood & Sand is effectively a live-action Itchy & Scratchy.

Meanwhile, the soft-focus sex scenes, which seem to clumsily pepper the narrative with all the subtlety of a foghorn and all the relevance of a Pixie Lott-branded chocolate kettle, make the series look less like Red Shoe Diaries with a bigger budget. But even then, we're only talking a few extra dollars - Spartacus abuses the concept of green-screen beyond comprehension, featuring CGI worthy of Series 2 Knightmare, with the quality of dialogue not far off either.

In fact, the scripts go to the greatest lengths possible to match the tone set by the sex and violence, with more shoehorned-in swear words than an entire series of late-night Hollyoaks. But this provides some of the funniest moments in Spartacus, with "in-bred shit-whores" a particular highlight from the first episode.

And that’s, bizarrely, what makes Spartacus: Blood & Sand work. The darker, the coarser and the grittier it goes, the more hilarious it actually gets. Further inspection will prove interesting, as it’s hard to see where the series can go from such a preposterous introduction. And whether it’s a knowingly-dreadful work of comedy genius is still undetermined, but regardless, it makes for something highly watchable, even if most of that is through your fingers. A thoroughly-entertaining pile of shit.

Single Reviews 10/05/10

We had planned to start this week’s Single Reviews with some sort of blurb about how there hadn’t been a definitive result for Single of the Week and make some sort of clumsy parallel to the whole hung Parliament mess, but frankly, we’re fucking sick of the whole thing. Proof that stuffy cunts in suits don’t achieve jack, and that Charlie Brooker should be in charge.

Mini Viva kick things off with the mash-up of atonal rapping and helium shrilling, One Touch. There’s also an arrogance on board which seems to stem from some rancid expectation that they’re due success solely because of their Xenomania link. And while it’s a vast improvement on the ghastly I Wish, there’s no disguising Mini Viva are little more than the Vengaboys minus the cowboy and sailor.

And showing Mini Viva how to pull off punchy, catchy dance-pop is Alexandra Burke. While there’s much clucking across the intarwebz that The Silence would’ve been a better release, All Night Long picks up nicely from where her previous two singles were headed, and a largely irrelevant contribution from Pitbull doesn’t detract from the carefree pop immediacy she’s become so good at.

And lastly, our Single of the Week is awarded to Keane ahead of their Night Train EP release. As the current Ash singles project has shown, a lack of album constraints mixed with a touch of experimentation can create extraordinary results. Stop For A Minute is no exception, employing the talents of Somali rapper K’naan for a remarkable, anthemic, hip-hop-laced treat that bodes incredibly well for the aforementioned EP.

Greetings all. If you happen to be reading this from an airport internet connection in a faraway land because you can’t get a flight home thanks to the clouds of volcanic ash – stop your whining and enjoy! What the jiggins are you reading this shit for? Get back to the pool! The rest of you, bring in your washing and your pets, seal the windows, ready the inhaler and enjoy the Single Reviews...

First up is Shakira, whose celebrated psychosis is more than evident in the barmy Gypsy. Early listens would suggest it to be a summery ballad with a Middle-Eastern flavour, and fairly inoffensive as far as this loon goes. However, it plays host to one of the worst metaphors ever used in song (Sandi Thom still holds the crown) and is further proof – as if we needed any – that Shakira is utterly fucking crackers.

Next on the chopping block are 3OH!3, whose apparent goal to induce a cringe in every human being with access to modern technology is going swimmingly. While Starstrukk at least had some guilty pleasure infectiousness attached, Don’t Trust Me – and in particular, its shameful video – is a work of utter embarrassment that cements them as little more than a heterosexual Fierce Girl.

A slightly more positive review comes in the form of our Single of the Week, which is bestowed upon the very worthy Kelis. The haunting, hypnotic trance of Acapella is an intriguing new direction which matches her smoky, dark vocals nicely. An instant classic, it’s up there with Caught Out There, Get Along With You and Milkshake as one of her greatest offerings. Now if she could just get off her arse and do some promotion, she might get the commercial acclaim she’s more than capable of.

And finally, Hot Chip, a band who can always expect a warm welcome on these pages, except for when they release something we don’t like. Thankfully, I Feel Better ticks enough boxes to get a thumbs up, marrying lush strings with busy house rhythms, and the uniquely eerie quality only Hot Chip can provide.

Single Reviews 12/04/10

Welcome to this week’s Single Reviews, and hey, aren’t we getting better at this regularity lark? Now, you won’t have failed to notice that this week has seen a momentous decision made that will affect us all come May, and provide us with some tough decisions of our own – yes, Simon, Kara, Randy and Ellen opted to use the Judges’ Save on American Idol. Who says politics is boring?

Opening on a positive note, it’s Kate Nash. Arf! Just kidding of course, we still think she royally blows. That said, Do Wah Doo isn’t anywhere near as appalling as some of her more criminal singles, but still boasts enough Mockney whinging and lumbering lyrics to deal a fatal blow to the quality production, which still remains her greatest asset.

Lostprophets present another winner in the form of For He’s A Jolly Good Felon. While the breathtakingly good Darkest Blue might’ve been a wiser single choice (and fingers crossed, still might be), it’s an upbeat, exuberant contrast to Where We Belong. And it also begs the question: at the risk of sounding as sycophantic as a Chris Moyles Breakfast Show hanger-on, is this band actually capable of making a bad record?

In fact, Lostprophets are only trumped this week by the widescreen brilliance of Science of Fear, a substantial portion of musical paradise from The Temper Trap which dulls even Sweet Disposition into near-insignificance. It’s tracks like this which, aside from earning them Single of the Week on these fair pages, pave the way for them to snap at Muse’s heels as stadium-ruling rock pioneers.

And finally, perhaps the most polarising contestant in UK talent show history, Diana Vickers, with her debut release Once. Intentionally-ditzy, mildly-cerebral, girly pop, it’s pleasant enough but nowhere near as unique as the lady herself. And, while Diana’s individuality should no doubt be celebrated, to these ears, it still sounds like a choir of Clangers singing through a pair of tights.

Single Reviews 05/04/09

It's rather worrying to consider we've reached April, and this is the first Single Reviews we've actually gotten around to doing in 2010. Meaning the last time we brought you the Single Reviews was in the run-up to Christmas, and it's now Easter. At this rate, expect the next instalment to be sometime around Halloween.

Paramore are up first with, somewhat surprisingly, a rather decent acoustiballad as opposed to another hefty dose of trite, stage-school rock. The Only Exception is predictably polished and shamelessly overemotive, but its gentle strum and engaging melody make for a welcome display of talent from a band who previously felt more like a fictional Disney garage band than Kerrang-gracing post-rock champions.

A band snapping at the heels of both Ash and Weezer in terms of consistent brilliance, We Are Scientists scoop a piss-easy Single of the Week with the superb Rules Don't Stop. Marked clearly with the stamp of recognisable excellence we've come to love from Keith 'n' Chris whilst simultaneously boasting a fresh, novel edge, things bodes incredibly well for third album Barbara.

It's already blindingly obvious that serial shark-jumpers Xenomania have left the halcyon days of early Girls Aloud long behind them, but their spiral into utter pigswill is almost unfathomable. As if the dire Mini Viva weren't bad enough, dead-eyed nothingfest Alex Gardner continues the trend with the uninspiring gorgonzola beigeness of I'm Not Mad. It's genuinely depressing to think this is the same production outfit responsible for Sound of the Underground.

And closing proceedings - but by no means the headline act, bless her - is Sabrina Washington, presumably hoping to cash in on her appearance on ITV1's Jungle of Irrelevance with debut solo single OMG. There's a fundamental problem in that her impressive vocal contribution to Misteeq was nicely balanced by Alesha Dixon's lunatic MCing, with no such pay-off here. Still, it's all good fun. Enter!

Ash - A to Z Vol. 1 (Atomic Heart)

Popstars say the stupidest things, don’t they? The hordes of septuagenarian rockers embarking on a retirement tour, only for another tour kicking off a year on. Lily Allen swearing off social networking a dozen times. Thom Yorke threatening to write the Eurovision entry in 2003, or Morrissey promising the same thing two years later. In short, they’re all full of it.

So when Northern Ireland's outstanding Britpop transcendents Ash declared they were washing their hands of albums altogether to only release singles, an involuntary cynical scoff could be forgiven. And yet, here they are at the halfway point in their ambitious scheme to release a single every fortnight for a year, ready to set up a proverbial soup kitchen and dish out free helpings of humble pie to many a pessimist.

Crucially, A to Z Vol. 1 is not an album, but a documentation of this project. In effect, it’s a compilation. But what a compilation it is. Without the constraints of time or theme or running length or fluidity, Ash have come up with some of the greatest material of their career. Daring, carefree and audacious, each track is distinctive, interesting, and strikingly different from the next, with not one lone example of filler.

From the electro-twinkle of opener True Love 1980 to the indie-disco splendour of Space Shot, via the marathon Marshall-pillaging rock of Dionysian Urge, each track seems to represent everything we’ve come to love about Ash whilst simultaneously sounding light years away from anything they’ve done before. Individually, each track is close to tremendous. As an overall venture, it’s bafflingly brilliant.

1977 and Free All Angels were arguably two of the greatest LPs of the 90s and Noughties respectively. But on the indisputable strengths of this campaign, it might not even be too dark a day if Ash choose to never release another album again.

Honking Box Preview: American Idol

If the recent weather has been any indication, Spring is finally here. Which also means the American Idol live shows are about to kick off. Yes, just as The X Factor is synonymous with the run-up to Christmas, the soundtrack to each Springtime has become the trillings of a dozen hopefuls (with varying degrees of quality) followed by the snippy one-liners of a useless Englishman.

But who to support? Well, Ellen DeGeneres, obviously – the quicker Simon gets her over thisaway to replace Louis Walsh, the better. But contestant-wise, it’s a trickier situation. With Crystal Carrington-looking wistfulfest (and early favourite) Lilly Scott surprisingly getting the boot last week, this year’s Idol has already thrown up surprises left, right and centre, so don’t be surprised if the worst contestant scoops the final prize. But for now, our now-annual rundown of the American Idol Final 12 should give you at least some indication as to where to put your money...

Andrew Garcia
Having blown away the judges and the competition at Hollywood Week via an inspired acoustic version of Paula Abdul’s Straight Up, that same performance carried him through three consecutive weak performances during the semis. Unless he can pull out something truly special in the Top 12, we’ll be bidding him adieu within a fortnight.

Crystal Bowersox
While you get the impression she feels like she’s ever so slightly above this whole demented circus, there’s certainly talent on display. And even if you don’t like her brand of Lilith Fair she-rock, her expression of “please, shoot me in the face and end this misery” throughout each group song is something to behold.

Lee DeWyze
Perhaps the greatest hope as far as the boys go, Lee’s natural talent and pleasing rawk grizzle make him a very strong contender. After the successive wins of David Cook and Kris Allen, it’s clear America already has a taste for the airwave-friendly guitar-wielder, though with the judges openly gushing over the girls this year, it’s a toughie.

Siobhan Magnus
Small in stature and mahoosive in voice, but the true selling point of Siobhan is her charming indie-soul eccentricity. Expect to see this one reach the latter stages – she’s already been marked by Cowell as a dark horse. Admittedly, he said the same thing about Leona Lewis, but largely because she wouldn’t look out of place sporting a nosebag.

Paige Miles
The lone hope for the divas amidst a sea of folksy shoegazers, Paige has been told by Simon she carries the best female vocal in this year’s competition. Pity she doesn’t know what to do with it, then. A further issue is that her LOL ZOMG in-show ‘quirk’ is that she likes colouring-in books. Colouring-in. She’s 24 years old.

Aaron Kelly
...Or David Archuleta 2.0, as is more accurate. Sickeningly cutesy, entirely bland and more harmless than a paraplegic kitten – but not a bad singer by any measure – he’s a surefire bet for the nanna vote as well as the far more limber dialling fingers of pre-pubescent girls across America. Which, predictably, makes him pretty much a shoo-in for the final.

Didi Benami
Each season of Idol boasts a marvellously-monikered finalist – see also Lil Rounds, Ramiele Malubay and Bucky Covington. This year, the title falls to Didi Benami, though sadly there’s little else to write home about. Any other series, she’d have been the quirky option, but in the company of Crystal et al, she’s just beige. A female Kris Allen, if you will.

Casey James
It’s safe to say he’ll never shake off the indignity of being made to strip in his first audition by Kara DioGuardi and Victoria Beckham, but his country-tinged FM stylings aren’t half bad and might just be good enough to win votes outside of the inevitable housewife circle. (Not to be confused with Casey Jones, angry sportsman and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle aide.)

Katie Stevens
A wholesome teen belter who joins Paige on the bench of non-Alanisised strumster chicks. Well, not so much a bench this year as two broken deckchairs. In spite of some mighty vocals, she’s the most generic singer this season, something that’s unlikely to get her more than a few weeks into the competition.

Tim Urban
Flimsy-voiced blandfest Tim initially failed to make the Top 24, only to scrape through when another contestant exploded or got drunk or something. Without a doubt the weakest singer in the competition, the fact he has hair like Sue Lawley circa 1979 doesn’t help proceedings either. If there’s any justice, he’ll be first off.

Michael Lynche
Namely, the one whose wife went into labour during Hollywood Week – as far as talent show personal struggle subplots go, it’s a good ‘un. Perhaps second only to Lee as the strongest male contender, Michael’s characteristic voice (and let’s be honest, backstory) should see him progress well into the latter stages of live shows.

Lacey Brown
A near-miss last year, when she was cut at the same time the unthinkably dreadful Megan Joy was put through – enough to flatline anyone’s confidence, making her comeback all the more impressive. Horribly inconsistent throughout the semi-finals, but when she nails it, she nails it. Also, she’s from Amarillo. Sha la la, la la la la la. *clap-clap*

The Sloppy Dog LiveBlog: The Brit Awards 2010

Good evening all, and Gawd bless you for joining us as we 'celebrate' the 'cream' of the British 'music' industry. Yes, it's the Brit Awards 2010, and in true Brits style, expect big expensive performances, ludicrously-selected winners, jokes as flat as Alex Reid's nose, and absolutely no hint of the supposed perennial Brits controversy the organisers are so obviously gagging for. Hit refresh for updates, and feel free to leave a comment - it's always good to know there are other people as bitter as us.

20:01
Lily Allen opens the show doing The Fear. Not a bad choice of song by any means, but her choice of attire means she looks like the child Liza Minelli and David Gest never had.

20:03
Peter Kay is tonight's host, sadly not in costume as Geraldine McQueen. That one came and went pretty quick, eh? And for the third time tonight already, the audio has been muted. Perhaps we should consider that a blessing, as here's Sam Fox - no, really. She's presenting the Most Memorable Performance Award, which goes to...

20:06
THE SPICE GIRLS!!! GET. IN.

20:07
It's only Mel B and Geri, but hey, we'll take that. Bearing in mind each of them last appeared on this stage when they had the 'ump with each other, it's actually rather touching. (If you're a squeeing Spice Girls fanatic who should know better at 28.)

20:08
There's always someone worse off than you, though, as demonstrated by Mika and Calvin Harris - both inexplicably nominees for Best British Male. Thankfully, they've been pipped by Dizzee Rascal, who's not undeserving.

20:10
And so we come to the night's second performance, the gymslip-dampening behemoth that is JLS. A big epic opening complete with lasers and wires makes way for Beat Again, which is something to be pleased about - clearly someone at the label has realised this song shits all over the dreadful MN8-a-like Everybody In Love.

20:14
Aston lifts up his top during The Yellow One's solo part, thus shamelessly hijacking his thunder. Not cool. Any fule know The Yellow One is the best one. He did the 'Merry Christmas' part in Last Christmas! And it was AWFUL! And AMAZING!!

20:15
Fuck off, Fearne Cotton. Deja vu, anyone?

20:20
The next award is Best International Male, presented by Mel B. Fair enough, Victoria and Melanie C have a fair bit on, but you wonder what Emma was doing tonight that was more pressing, don't you? Anyway, the winner is Jay-Z, who thanks the Spice Girls. Perhaps ironically; the jury's still out.

20:24
Noddy Holder is up next, to present another self-congratulatory 30 Years of Brits award. Ten previous winners of Best British Album are all in the running, and let's face it, No Angel by Dido probably isn't much competition for (What's The Story?) Morning Glory.

20:25
...which, of course, nails it. Liam Gallagher is here, although his acceptance speech is muted after he thanks Alan White. Our guess is that he said "distant relative of The Sloppy Dog by marriage." TRUFAX.

20:28
Kasabian do Fire. It's rather good. There's not much else to say about it. There's no bells or whistles, apart from a wee bit of flame licking away, making it the kind of thing that would've looked great on Top of the Pops. Isn't it depressing that a solid, straightforward performance of a decent song is such a rarity these days? *dismounts soapbox*

20:31
And more Mel B! She's getting her money's worth tonight, isn't she? Mind you, she's with Fearne Cotton, which sort of cancels out any kind of awesomeness. Hell, Fearne Cotton could be flanked by Chris Lilley and Nancy Lam whilst riding Doug from Up, as the entire cast from Glee sing the back catalogue of The Boy Least Likely To, and she'd still sour proceedings.

20:36
We're back, and MORE Spice! Geri takes the opportunity to apologise for neglecting to mention Victoria, Emma and Melanie C, then lays into Kula Shaker. This is THE STUFF, ladies and gents. The nominees for Best British Newcomer are JLS, someone else, another act, and some other people. Hmmm. Who might take this one...?

20:39
Oritse from JLS underlines, apropos of nothing, that they got together 18 months prior to The X Factor. Yeah, way to claim that credibility. You can almost picture Rachel Hylton sat in her tower block living room, barking at her kids how "dat coulda been mummy" and kissing her teeth.

20:40
Peter Kay's presenting style is akin to that of Tim Lovejoy doing Something For The Weekend, namely on the verge of suicide. He introduces Courtney Love, who's here to give Ellie Goulding the Special Ellie Goulding Award, and looks like Jackie Stallone on her way to a fancy dress party as Daryl Hannah in Splash.

20:44
We've come to realise that it's entirely futile to try to liken Lady Gaga's outfit to anything else in existence. It's white and tissuey and will adorn the front page of many a scabloid in ten hours' time, and that's about it. What the jiggins is this she's singing? I'm sure Bad Romance is in there somewhere...

20:48
Nope, just the 'freak bitch' parts. This is what they call "one for the fans."

20:49
Geri tells Fuck Off Fearne that she'd have liked Gaga to sing something people knew. YES. This woman is AWESOME. Geri, we mean, not Fuck Off Fearne or Lady Gaga. All the noteworthy moments so far have come from Mel B and Geri - can't the organisers just get them to host the whole thing? Peter Kay already seems like he'd rather be at home playing solitaire in his undercrackers, and it's probably best to get Fuck Off Fearne away from all these celebrities before she combusts with raw sycophancy, so it's a win all round.

20:53
Yikes. Peter Kay's just dropped the garlic bread joke into a link. That's not a good sign, like when Ricky Gervais freezes onstage and pretends someone's heckled "DO THE DANCE!" at him, giving himself a good two minutes to get back on track. Duncan's friend from Family Affairs presents the Best British Group award, whilst also having a pop at Ashley Cole and John Terry much to the indifference of the British music industry.

20:56
The winners, Kasabian, have evidently been enjoying the hospitality, and fair play to them. Hell, we're being drip-fed from a flagon of mead as we type.

20:58
It's former host and contender for World's Hairiest Woman (no, for realz - you wanna see her up close), Cat Deeley. She says "it's good to be home". The audience reply "What, were you away...?"

20:59
The winner of Best International Breakthrough is Lady Gaga, whilst Deeley is claiming responsibility for her success by namedropping one lousy performance on So You Think You Can Dance. Let's see if Gaga thanks you in her speech, eh, Cat?

21:03
Dizzee Rascal and Florence & The Machine treat us to a duet, which is actually a duet, and not just a one-performance-followed-by-another 'duet' as exhibited by Outkast and Beyonce in 2004. They do look rather like a middle-aged art teacher doing a song with a Year 10 boy at the Christmas concert, mind.

21:10
Is Peter Kay intentionally missing his cue so he looks as though he doesn't give a shit? Still, no matter, Jonathan Ross is here to make everyone else - even Fuck Off Fearne - look like the very picture of dignity. He announces, like the utter spackfest he is, that Lady Gaga is the Best International Female.

21:12
She's crying again. Well, not so much crying as whimpering. Let's put it this way, she's no snot-waterfall Shaznay.

21:13
Best British Female is next, presented by Shirley Bassey. The nominations are a joke - if we'd had the opportunity to tamper with someone's computer up at Brits HQ, we'd be seeing a VT of Cerys Matthews, Alesha Dixon, VV Brown, Lady Sovereign, and just to really fuck with the industry's heads, Dame Vera Lynn. As it is, we're left with the likes of Leona Lewis and Pixie Lott.

21:15
Thankfully, it's Lily Allen. Is she dressed as Nicola Roberts? Seriously. Is she?!

21:16
Oh, apparently not. As the audio is dipped, we're 'treated' to a cutaway of Pixie Lott. Why is she even here? Where did she come from? What is she for? Be a dear, and fuck off.

21:19
Jay-Z and Alicia Keys perform Empire State of Mind. First one to spot Lil' Mama crashing the stage wins a bag of Jelly Belly beans. Mind you, this is the Brit Awards, so maybe we'll get her UK equivalent instead. So keep an eye out for... Verbalicious?

21:23
Fuck Off Fearne uses the term 'brap' whilst speaking to Jonathan Ross, who's pretending to be black. This is one burning cross short of a black-and-white minstrel routine.

21:28
Notorious heterosexual Mika does some sort of pre-emptive arse-kissing in case his favourite nominee for Best International Album wins the prize. But he doesn't actually say who it is, which sort of defeats the purpose. Fucking windowlicker.

21:29
And Lady Gaga makes it three for three. The more time she spends behind that podium, the more it looks as though the tears are coming from miniscule pipes hidden beneath the lace headdress.

21:31
Aw, lookit, it's the Nation's Sweetheart! The apparent delay in audio makes it look as though all the acts are miming tonight, although Cheryl Cole's is perhaps the first performance where that's probably a blessing.

21:34
Eh? A session singer bellowing acapella - which in itself is a colossal mistake, as it only highlights the reedy vocals of the main attraction - prompts a segue into Show Me Love. It's got a fun event vibe, if a tad weird.

21:36
Best British Single is unveiled by Alan Carr. Seriously, what must overseas audiences think of British comedic talent if this show is sold abroad? There's a few good choices in this category - Breathe Slow, Bad Boys, The Fear, Beat Again. And also some fucking horrible choices - Mama Do, Break Your Heart, and worst of all, The Climb.

21:38
The sarky voiceover lady says JLS are a controversial win. What's controversial about the most popular boyband this country has seen in decades winning the public vote for a rather brilliant pop song? Silly cow.

21:41
Tom Ford introduces Best British Album, which is Lungs by Florence & The Machine. She's gracious in her triumph, even if she is sporting a chronic breakout of oldface. Also, she seems to be buddies with Fucking Grimmeh off Radio 1, who's fast becoming the male Fuck Off Fearne.

21:44
And speaking of Fuck Off Fearne, she's doing her damndest to fellate all four members of JLS simultaneously, and also threatening us with the promise of Robbie Williams. If that's not a reason to flip over to Survivors, then what is? She's looking rather pasty, is Fuck Off Fearne. Maybe she was moved by Nicola Roberts' hard-hitting documentary about tanning? It's nice to think wee 'Cola has touched the heart of at least one person tonight, if not Lily Allen.

21:49
According to Peter Kay, there's no better recipient for the Outstanding Contribution award than Robbie Williams. Except for maybe Take That themselves? Or how about The Beatles, who've still not been given this? Hell, if we were to list every artist more deserving of Outstanding Contribution than Robbie Williams, we'd be here til the cleaners were rounding up the empties. At next year's event.

21:52
Let Me Entertain You sounds every bit as shit as it did in 1998. Thankfully, here's Feel, by far and away the best thing this irrelevant titwank of a human being has ever put his name to.

21:53
And here's Olly Murs! Holding up a massive cue card with the lyrics printed on!

21:54
Not really. :o(

21:56
A few more to chuck into the medley: that one that sampled I Will Survive, and that one that mentions razorblades. And another song which we can only assume was the B-side to the 7" of South of the Border, followed by that one that's on the radio sometimes.

21:58
You know when you've got a really sick relative, and they're constantly deteriorating, and you're constantly on edge because at any moment that dreaded phonecall could come, telling you exactly what you don't want to hear? That's sort of what we're feeling right this minute, knowing Rock DJ could appear at any moment.

22:00
Phew. It's Angels. Surely this is the climax? Are we out of the woods...?

22:02
And we're done! What a relief. Admittedly, it's not the worst Brit Awards of recent years, perhaps due to the Spice-heavy first half, as well as a few decent performances. And we're not too riled up about any particular artist being robbed of an award, but that's mainly because most artists we'd give a rat's ass about weren't even nominated in the first place. Still, it's been fun. Thank you for joining us - see you next year?

Testing. Testing. 1-2-3. Sort of.

We're ba-ack! Well, not quite, but the makeover is at last reaching its final stages. Sort of like how Lady Gaga applies her foundation, the fake lashes, the lipstick, the eyelid-rhinestones, the wig, the wicker marmoset, the stainless steel wings, THEN finally tucks her cock between her legs. That's round about where we are.

We'll be back proper in the immediate future, but until then, you'll have to pardon the lack of updates. And what better way to say Pardon Me than via the dynamic cinematography, the cutting-edge couture, the exquisite vocals and the raw sex appeal of Maxine Swaby?