Millions of people will sit down in front of their TV sets tonight to watch the BritAwards. Why? They happened yesterday.
Let's ignore the fact that the Brit Awards are nothing but a manufactured corporate PR exercise designed to promote mainstream acts, shift CDs and line the pockets of record company shareholders. I know it's hard to ignore, but let's try. Let's ignore the fact that nobody really gives a damn who wins the award for 'Best International Breakthrough Artist', least of all the bemused artist concerned, because the shortlist was padded out with a bunch of nobodies to start with. And let's ignore the pained jokes and stilted autocue as host Chris Evans struggles to make a draughty room full of sober marketing executives laugh. No, my major concern here is not with the awards themselves, but with their scheduling.
A Brit Award announcement ought to go like this:
Chris Evans: ...and the horse never walked again! (pause while crowd sniggers) And now here to announce the next award it's Brad Pitt and the Duchess of Cornwall. Duchess of Cornwall: One is most pleased to be here. (fat skinhead runs on stage with a bucket of pickled herrings and dumps it over HRH's head) Duchess of Cornwall: (splutter! mumble! burble!) TV audience: Oh this is bloody fantastic live telly! Brad Pitt: Hi, I'm gorgeous. And the nominations are... mysterious voiceover: Kaiser Chiefs... Gorillaz... The Go! Team... Hard-Fi... James Blunt Brad Pitt: (rips open envelope) And the winner is... TV audience: Ooh, ooh, who's going to win? Could be Hard-Fi. Might be Kaiser Chiefs. Probably deserves to be Gorillaz. Maybe the Go! Team. But I bet it's James f'ing Blunt. Ooh, ooh, the anticipation! Duchess of Cornwall: Sir James Blunt! (James pretends to look surprised and walks excitedly towards the stage) James Blunt: One is most pleased to be here. I'd like to thank mater and pater, and dearest grandmamma, and my hairdresser, and the entire menopausal population of Britain for buying my records.
Unfortunately most Brit Award announcements go like this instead:
Chris Evans: ...and ITV renewed my chatshow! (deathly tumbleweed silence) And now here to announce the next award it's Chantelle and Leo Sayer. Chantelle: Oh my god. Hi mum! (fat skinhead approaches stage carrying bucket full of something gungy-looking) TV audience: Oh fab, I read about this in the paper this morning. She gets well soaked! (slightly jerky edit as TV producers cut out the interesting bit) TV audience: Damn! Leo Sayer: Hi, I'm Number One! And the nominations are... mysterious voiceover: Shayne Ward... Pussycat Dolls... Some bland bloke with a guitar... Annie Lennox... James Blunt Leo Sayer: (rips open envelope) And the winner is... TV audience: Yeah we already know. It was on the internet last night. It was on the radio this morning. We've been discussing it all day at work. It's James f'ing Blunt. <switches off television>
It appears that, yet again, the British public aren't permitted to watch this year's Brit Award ceremony until 24 hours after it took place. Live television may be exciting, and immediate, but it's also risky. There might have been some foul language, or an unscheduled incident, or an irreverent comment, or a wardrobe malfunction, or an embarrassing gaffe, and we can't have that can we? We don't want to offend any of the nice aunties who might splash out and buy James Blunt's latest album the next time they're in Tesco. No, let's wait a day, edit out the interesting off-message bits and then stick a sterilised version of the awards show on TV, sandwiched by credit card ads. It's not about celebrating talent, it's about filling record shops on Saturday. And, sadly, it's not about suspense and excitement for the viewing public, it's about time-delayed predictability.
...get all your moaning and despairing out of the way now, and then you won't have to watch the Brits on telly later this evening. Although I'm told Prince is very good, and Gorillaz put on an amazing spectacle, and Kanye West's backing singers are wearing next-to-nothing. But I bet they cut out the stage invasion by the fat skinhead.
