Home // Culture // Bar/Venue/Club // From The Inside: The Brits Nominations
The BRIT Awards 2012 with MasterCard: Nominations Launch Party

From The Inside: The Brits Nominations

To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t believe my luck when I was offered the chance to attend the Brit Awards 2012 Nominations Party. “Finally!” I thought. “I’ll get to talk to JLS!”

My head swam with things I wanted to ask them. “Which one of you first wore those infamous deep V t-shirts?”, “Are you really all as nice as you seem? Surely one of you has to be a bastard?”, “Who does your eyebrows, I’m jealous!” And most crucially, “Why are you the only act in the charts never to have done a collaboration with David Guetta?”

As I approached the glistening facade of The Savoy, my heart raced. I was so excited. Like many people in their late 20s, the Brit Awards had always held a certain reverence in my formative years. It was the yearly window in to a world of rock n roll excess, of glamour, of live music, of excitement – that at age 12 was miles out of my reach.

In short, I was fucking hyped about this.

I approached a doorman and proudly held out my ticket, I felt like Charlie, and this guy in his smart outfit and top hat was Wonka. But he didn’t usher me through golden gates. He sent me down a dank alleyway. I was to use the ‘Embankment entrance’. Venturing along my new route, that saw me creeping through the bowels of a nearby pub that reeked of yeast and fag ends, my excitement increased. I turned a corner and was met by a baying mob of teenagages. Contained behind barriers, they yelled at the paps who bunched around the entrance of like laurels on Caesar’s temples.

“Can I come in this way?” I asked one. “Nah,” he said, gruffly. “Press go down there.” As I turned to walk off they all began laughing at me. Bastards.

Trotting in to the lobby, I felt myself sink in to the deep carpets. Minutes later, my heart sank just as fast when I was told I couldn’t talk to JLS – or anyone else for that matter – and had to wait for an hour to see a special ‘nominations ceremony’, and two live performances. “Wow! I thought. Live performances, great!”

The only thing to do now, it seemed, was to kill time the best way I know how. By going on Twitter. Sadly, there was no signal as there were so many media types leeching it, so I had to resort to plan B – eavesdropping.

Leaning discreetly against a wall – minding not to stain the silk wallpaper with my make-up or hair – I tuned in to the TV execs chatting just metres from me.

“So I told them,” snorted one woman wearing an ear-piece and a pair of combats. “If they don’t fly Fozzy over, none of the fucking muppets are coming on the show.”

Jesus, I thought. I slowly turned my face to some music industry types who were chatting obnoxiously.

“Yeah it’s Pixie Lott’s 21st tonight so I’ll go there for a bit, see her mum then fuck off,” said one guy, who had he not worked for Pixie Lott’s label would probably masturbate furiously over the thought of going to her birthday party.

I grew bored of this bullshit, so headed to the toilets to check the top of the cisterns for coke. Nothing. Not a granule of drugs to be found. My Brit Award dreams were unravelling all around me.

Suddenly, the doors to the Savoy’s ballroom were opened and I filtered in with other journalists, record execs, hanger-oners, and the faceless middle aged men who make up the British music industry.

Smartly dressed waiters lined the entrance, one handed me a glass of wine. This was more like it!

The nominations were made. The show’s host James Corden came on. He insulted Peter Blake’s Brit Award design. I wasn’t surprised, he’s hardly renowned for his elegance.

Next star to the stage was Jessie J. She looked cool in a strange spiderweb dress, and chatted lucidly to Rick Edwards, who was doing a good job of holding eveything together.

She presented the Critic’s Choice award to the super-talented Emeli Sande, who performed her new single. But then there was another performance. Ed bloody Sheeran. The irony of how him performing live made me want to kill myself was not ignored.

He loped on to the stage, wearing a sweatshirt and some crap beads. His orange hair stood on end like that of a gurning, rubber bodied troll stuck in a car window as some sort of grotesque mascot.

He then showed off how good he is at using pedals AND a guitar. This combo might impress teenage girls with such unruly hormones that they don’t know fit from freak, or crowds of slack-jawed pedestrians in the one horse town he made his name busking in, but it didn’t impress me.

I gripped my wineglass, my knuckles turning white. “I wonder if I could snap this with rage?” I wondered, before deciding against it as there’s no way I could afford to pay for the Savoy’s silk carpets to be cleaned of my thick, furious blood. Luckily Ed stopped singing and my will to live returned.

I tried to swig down what was left of my sweet, crisp white wine. A hot blob of wine hit my tongue and oozed down my throat, angering me more and making me want to beg one of those smartly dressed waiters for a top-up.

After what seemed like an hour of whimpering and stomping around, he was coaxed in to telling everyone that he’ll be performing at the actual ceremony.


I turned to some guys to my left, my face a rictus of pure horror.

“Thank fuck that’s over,” sneered one wearing a padded bodywarmer.

“I wish it had been JLS,” I muttered, my throat still stinging, my fists still clenched.

Then it was said that Chase and Status are nominated in the Best British Group category – which is sponsored by RADIO 2.


Was it like this in the 90s?!

- Kara Simsek

Leave a Reply