X

Create an account to continue reading.

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles
For unlimited access to The Spectator, subscribe below

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles

Sign in to continue

Already have an account?

What's my subscriber number?

Subscribe now from £1 a week

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
 
View subscription offers

Already a subscriber?

or

Subscribe now for unlimited access

ALL FROM JUST £1 A WEEK

View subscription offers

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Login

Don't have an account? Sign up
X

Subscription expired

Your subscription has expired. Please go to My Account to renew it or view subscription offers.

X

Forgot Password

Please check your email

If the email address you entered is associated with a web account on our system, you will receive an email from us with instructions for resetting your password.

If you don't receive this email, please check your junk mail folder.

X

It's time to subscribe.

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access – from just £1 a week

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
X

Sign up

What's my subscriber number? Already have an account?

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Your subscriber number is the 8 digit number printed above your name on the address sheet sent with your magazine each week. If you receive it, you’ll also find your subscriber number at the top of our weekly highlights email.

Entering your subscriber number will enable full access to all magazine articles on the site.

If you cannot find your subscriber number then please contact us on customerhelp@subscriptions.spectator.co.uk or call 0330 333 0050. If you’ve only just subscribed, you may not yet have been issued with a subscriber number. In this case you can use the temporary web ID number, included in your email order confirmation.

You can create an account in the meantime and link your subscription at a later time. Simply visit the My Account page, enter your subscriber number in the relevant field and click 'submit changes'.

If you have any difficulties creating an account or logging in please take a look at our FAQs page.

Culture House Daily

We watched the Brits so you didn’t have to…

20 February 2014

9:23 AM

20 February 2014

9:23 AM

It goes without saying that the Brits are not the draw they once were. But I was sick of being cynical about them. I sunk into my chair with the reservoir of alcohol I had bought and waited to witness something other than James Corden and mediocre musical performances.

And did I? The fact that Ellie Goulding was named best British female solo artist should tell you everything. Of course I bloody didn’t. Unless you count David Bowie’s unionist shout out, delivered by a Kate Moss-shaped proxy, as inflammatory (it wasn’t), this junket was as boring and self-congratulatory as last year’s. And the year before. And the year before that.

Compère James Corden did some things he thought people would find amusing. Which they didn’t. And took some selfies he believed qualified as ironic. Which they weren’t. In fact, James Corden was a recurring annoyance; I promise not to mention him again.

[Alt-Text]


Otherwise, Prince and his band 3rdEYEGIRL who I saw the other night at one of their secret gigs (where they were quite exciting) made an appearance (where they weren’t). Katy Perry unveiled her new Aztec look. Beyoncé did a turn – while I went to buy bread – and Bruno Mars won an award, as did Bastille.

Now I don’t know about you, but having never knowingly heard any songs chart-topping indie combo Bastille, I didn’t have an opinion before last night. Now I have heard two of their songs – and I still have no opinion. They’re just one of those bands I guess. Can you imagine describing yourself as a ‘Bastille fan’? What would the demonym be? Bastillian? Bastillard? You know where this is going.

Whatever the case, they didn’t win best group or the very rock ‘n’ roll MASTERCARD British album of the year award – both went to the Arctic Monkeys for the third time in seven years, which although utterly predictable was probably fair. I can’t think of a British band or album less boring than them or their one.

I got no air-punching impulse from the win. Nor did I feel particularly proprietorial over the spectacle of Fabregas handing the best international solo artist gong to Nile Rodgers, standing in for Daft Punk. It was beyond personal taste. There was a carefully-selected winner for absolutely everyone sufficiently bored to suffer it.

There were surprises, but they were very much calculated surprises. Rudimental’s best British single win was the obligatory daring moment, while Bowie’s coronation as best British solo artist confirmed nothing the baby boomer audience didn’t already know.

No, it’s the speeches, the transparent drive for manageable controversy to top Jarvis Cocker’s bum-wiggling or John Prescott’s drenching, the parochial nature of it all, regardless of how many American stars they rope in, that make it all such a non-event. I was sick of being cynical about the Brits – what I hadn’t acknowledged was that I’d never sat through the entire thing on telly before.

Give something clever this Christmas – a year’s subscription to The Spectator for just £75. And we’ll give you a free bottle of champagne. Click here.


Show comments
Close