Blaise Tapp: In a very chaotic world even the BRITs played it safe
It’s fair to say that, as I write, our world feels as unstable as it has at any time since I’ve been paying taxes which is saying something when you consider everything that’s happened since the turn of the century.
Like many, my Saturday was spent either within sight or earshot of any device which would keep me bang up to date with the grave goings on in the Middle East. Productivity levels in our house were at rock lows as we gave genuine meaning to the phrase doomscrolling, while the rolling news channels transmitted the same grim pictures of plumes of smoke into our living room throughout the day.
While we are yet to know what the action against Iran really means for the world, the shock that, after months of threats, it happened at all, meant that many of us spoke of little else in the hours afterwards. But, by the evening, news fatigue was very real, which is why I suggested to my lot that we watch the Brit Awards in a bid to take my over-stimulated mind off the carnage unfolding in not so far off lands.
Although I like to think that I have my mildly arthritic finger on the pulse of popular culture, I can’t remember the last time I watched the entire coverage of the annual celebration of our nation’s rich musical output - it might have been the one with Sam Fox and Mick Fleetwood. It’s fair to say that my expectations for the ceremony were low and it was just as well. Underwhelmed is the only way to describe how I felt after sitting through two hours of over choreographed performances and painfully long acceptance speeches.
Musically it was fine - I’m not one of those middle aged types who thinks pop and indie peaked when a pound a pint was a thing - but I was struck by how dull, modern superstars really are. I think I tuned in so I had something interesting to talk about - other than the state of geopolitics - in the office on Monday.
But. nobody dropped their trousers on stage - think Jarvis Cocker 30 years ago - or threw a bucket of water over a senior politician as Chumbawumba did to John Prescott in 1998. Very few acceptance speeches were slurred while some winners read from scripts on their phones - which is probably the most 2026 thing I have seen yet.
The only real jeopardy came when host Jack Whitehall did an impromptu interview with Mancunian masters of mayhem Shaun Ryder and Bez, which reminded us all how very naughty the 1990s were.
After it finished, I switched on the news and depressed myself even more.