How the Brit awards went from gong to wrong

“Ladies and gentlemen, The Four Tops!” “No darlin’, it’s Boy George!” Yep, you might assume the British Phonographic Industry’s annual backslapping sesh bottomed out with the shambolic 1989 edition hosted by Mick Fleetwood and Samantha Fox. Who could have possibly predicted that an inexperienced model and her haunted ostrich butler couldn’t slickly helm three hours of live telly?

Hold your pop horses, however, because the Brits came back like a boomerang during the pwopah nawty 90s, when booze flowed, toilet cubicles were permanently engaged and anarchy reigned. The KLF fired machine guns over the crowd and dumped a dead sheep outside the afterparty. Jarvis Cocker waggled his bony backside at Wacko Jacko. Geri Halliwell wore “that” Union Jack dress (is there an argument to say Brexit started here? Probably not but give it a go down the pub some time). A fresh feud seemed to kick off each year: Oasis v Blur, Liam v Robbie, Chumbawamba v John Prescott, Geri (her again) v a massive inflatable birth canal. These were halcyon days, viewers. If only we knew it at the time, we might have pulled up our twisted Levi’s, peered through the Marlboro Lights fug and paid more attention.

Worried the Brits were in danger of becoming (gasp!) actual fun, organisers banned alcohol for several years – gee thanks, vicar – until 2004, when compere Cat Deeley celebrated the return of booze by riding in on a giant champagne bottle while wearing a top hat and suspenders. You didn’t get that on SMTV.

The rot really set in by 2011, when it moved from Earls Court to the O2 Arena, a vibe-free enormo-dome with echoey sound, awkward pauses as standard and all the atmosphere of an airport Pret. Steered by the likes of Dermot O’Leary, Ant & Dec or James Corden, the previously unpredictable bash became a sanitised sales conference. If it weren’t for the odd incendiary performance, usually by a grime or hip-hop artist, it would be as boring as a beige stapler.

The final kick in the phonographic testes came when it launched the godawful global success award in 2013, initially as a sly way of giving One Direction a consolation prize when the poor ickle multimillionaires hadn’t won a proper award. The Brits had always been a music biz circle-jerk but this felt a tad too craven. For the last two years, it has been sheepishly handed to Ed Sheeran, who needs more approval like he needs another overly literal tattoo. Meanwhile, ratings have tumbled from a high of 10 million to the current 4 million, which is less than a mid-season episode of Midsomer Murders gets.

The 2020 ceremony airs on ITV this Tuesday, with JP from Fresh Meat – sorry, Jack Whitehall – handling host duties for the third year running. Expect scruffy Glaswegian balladeer Lewis Capaldi to win big. Rock and, if you will, roll. Frankly, we’d rather watch the inaugural show in 1977, when it was hosted by Michael Aspel and the best male winner was Cliff Richard. Mum! Your programme’s on!