I am not normally caught in front of the telly these days - to be honest with you, I've never been a big fan - which is why, when I occasionally hurl myself on the sofa for an evening of zapping and become, without exception, bitterly disappointed, I am more and more inclined to believe it has become utterly superfluous.

Why oh why in Almighty's name would I be tempted to succumb to the unbelievable disgrace to showbiz the B awards have become?
Illustrating to the furthest how low music has fallen, the ceremony needed - let me stress that - NEEDED to be seen by all, great and small,as a historic masterpiece of combined kitsch, horror and ridicule.

Let's see: first, the Oz family. Thank heavens, I turned on the TV about halfway thru so I was spared the sight of Ozzy decomposing on stage (was he there at all or have the moths got to him already?). Hurrah then for girl power - one would think - until the old hag Mrs. Oz opened her mouth to shower us with a tasteless imitation of 'lassie-at-the-pub' jergo, even managing to embarass her nearest and dearest on stage. Not that the offspring was any better. Whilst Jack presumably went in search of\escorted Ozzy to the loos, his sister managed to look like a twat, not knowing exactly how to hold the mike and what to utter. Oh, I sympathise. It must be hard moving those jaws that block the view.

You know the rest. They cut off the Arctic Monkeys(whatever happened to the freedom of speech? it would have been far more entertaining for the nation to hear their drunken rantings) and ushered in Macca, who took us back to the time when they still made music. Notice the past tense. Notice the fact my mom used to sing the same tunes he sang last night. Notice my mom does it better than Paul. Wheeeey!

And don't even let me start on the pathetic joke of a human being Amy is, blurting out messages to hubby (still in prison, still not bothered) whilst flapping her wig and forgetting her lyrics. It's a wonder she can still stand with the amount of okey-cokey in her veins.

These are who we look up to, ladies and gents. An army of sad wannabees, imitations, blink-and-they're-gones, 60's and 80's replicas, addicts of all sorts, illiterates hiding under the pretense of making music. We buy them, we cherish their shallowness, we cannot wait to hear about their sorry lives. Because, petty as it might be, it's still better than ours.

And what worries me most is the round of applause they got into the press today...