The Brits
It was the Brit Awards last night, so Fenella and myself were in the vicinity of Earl’s Court (the Editor was not allowed to come along for complex legal reasons). Some things happened, and there was a certain amount of free alcohol, I believe. We were loudly discussing the the many bewildering sights that had presented themselves.
“Hideous,” commented Fenella, cradling a bottle of nasty music-beano almost-champagne. “All those Sunny Delight-crazed faces shouting their approval. It was like something from 1930s Germany with added tartrazine.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “KT Tunstall wasn’t so bad, considering.”
“Have you noticed,” Fenella slurred, “how when she sings the top half of her head moves up and down whereas her lower jaw stays still? It’s terrifying. Can we even write that?”
“I’m not sure. You seemed to react strongly to Chris Martin though.”
“HATEFUL, HATEFUL CUNT!” screeched Fenella.
“Hush!” I said. “That’s got us in enough trouble already tonight!” We both looked glumly at the floor for a while.
“Who won again?” said Fenella finally.
“Everyone lost.”
“SHUT UP THE PAIR OF YOU!” screamed the arresting officer (clearly not a Withnail fan; that was an opportunity too good to pass up if you ask me).