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Music

Let's All Argue About the Brit Awards

When Ed Sheeran met RiRi and why James Corden is a snake.

For the last few months, our column Let's All Argue has replicated all the moronic, lazy churnalism you need in your life, without any of the pious seriousness. Now, your new, super-soaraway Let's All Argue is bringing you MORE than you need. MORE morons arguing. MORE journalists thunking out any-old crap three minutes before deadline. MORE celebrities braying endlessly on about their navel lint and "opinions". MORE LIES.

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This week: The Brits! The ceremony literally everyone is talking about. This week, we hear from: made-up fashion correspondent Nancy Fash, made-up unofficial Blur biographer Tony "Peachy" Peach, made-up cultural laureate Phillius Swill, man of the moment Ed Sheeran and celebrity terrorist Abu Qatada.

GET THE MIDDLE FINGER LOOK
by fashion correspondent Nancy Fash

First MIA, now this – it seems like the middle finger is the new must-have accessory for modern women. Twenty-seven years after Geri Halliwell lit the fuse with her Union Jack dress, finally the feminist revolution is here and it's televised, and this time, it's long, it's pink, it's got a painted nail on the end. After the events of the past few weeks, it seems the middle finger is now the one thing no modern woman would be seen dead without. These days, a two-finger gesture is as out of date as a twinset and pearls. Who will ever forget the time Pixie Lott gave a two-finger gesture to the waiting paps as she exited The Ivy, a square of toilet paper still pegged into her shoe?

The genius of a middle finger gesture is that, while raising one finger is a lot of effort, the same effect can be achieved just as easily by lowering all of your other fingers. But mind out where you put the rest of those fingers! They need to be stowed somewhere they can be easily retrieved from, should anyone wish to shake your hand, or put money in it! Also; Avoid unneccesary jewellery, glitz or flash: it's all about austerity chic. The look should be pure.

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CORDEN IS A MORON
by cultural commentator Phillius Swill Last night in Greenwich, one of the biggest conspiracies in British pop culture had its eyes pecked out and was garrotted before a live television audience of millions. No – I'm not talking about the fallacy of the Brits itself. It's no big secret that the awards are merely a puppet show in which rich men with very long and powerful strings jiggle their giggling dolls upon a stage made from lies. I'm talking about James Corden – or rather, his myth. Over the last few years, Corden has grimaced, wept, clowned, beamed and babbled his way into the hearts of the masses by presenting himself to us as a kind of idiot bear-child. But ladies and gentlemen, he is not a bear, or at least he does not possess the soul of one. On the inside, the man's a snake. James Corden is a snake in a bear costume, and would you be so happy to trust him with your fondness and mild mirth if his outer shell wasn't so hairy and cuddly? Would the contrition he displayed on ITV2 last night – after he'd guillotined the acceptance speech of the wonderful Adele – have seemed quite so contrite if James Corden had the eyes of a serpent? Or the nose of concorde? Or the voice of an American CCTV system? Corden would like you to think that he was merely ITV's dancing bear; manacled to his producer's schedule and driven on by the shrieks of the ad men in his earpiece as if they were the maddening whirl of an accordion in some filthy Pyongyang backstreet. But let not this ursine fellow fool you, folks, for if James Corden is a bear, then he is a bear that loves to boogie – and last night, with his snake hips, he took us all for a right bunch of polkas.

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WHAT A WONDERFULLY HYPE NIGHT!
by celebrity columnist Ed Sheeran Last night was, as my close friends in the grime scene say, “A LOT” (shout out to Tinie!). Ya boy Ed was on a wave like I was riding on the crest of a Japanese tsunami (no offence intended to my fans if you or anyone you know has ever been affected by a tsunami). I bagged a couple gongs, sang a little song, wrestled my way through the press throng, went home and smoked a bong – nothing long.
 
The highlight of my night was meeting Rihanna, who was terribly pleasant and extraordinarily choong. She told me she had insomnia issues, I told her if she needed a ghetto guy to come and sing her a sweet lullaby, I was her guy. She didn’t catch the last part and told me to let her know if I knew of someone who fitted the description. That made me feel quite shit.
 
Adele cheered me up, though. She totally owned the past year and last night she absolutely merked it. She raised her gunfingers in a salute to urban Britain and her middle finger to the establishment. Good grief, was that a par-and-a-half when she was cut off at the end, though? I would have been utterly mortified if I'd been in her creps.

ADELE HAS BROUGHT SHAME UPON HER FAMILY
by celebrity columnist Abu Qatada

Adele? Do not talk to me about this woman. This is exactly what I speak of when I say that Britain is a nation that should have a bomb underneath it, or, if a bomb sounds too harsh, should at least be machine gunned to death. Don't get me wrong. I'm a reasonable kind of guy. But even I have my limits.

So there I am last night watching the Brits with my Marks & Spencers Lamb and Raspberry Tagine on my lap. Trust me, you watch a lot of TV if you're under indefinite house arrest. And it gets to the end of the evening. And Noel Gallagher has done his thing with Chris Martin. And James Corden has told many good stories. And Jessie J has been a mercifully low-key presence in the mix, and I'm thinking “Maybe I was wrong about this country. Maybe I shouldn't have judged it so quickly over the past 20 years.” And just as I'm happily contemplating whether or not I should turn over to see if I'm on Newsnight, Adele starts to talk. Whining on in that way of hers, like a little, spoilt baby.

Hmmm. I don't know. Every time she opens her mouth, it's just "oi mate oi mate oi mate oi mate" to me. Then she flips the bird and I just lose it. How can she disrespect the record industry executives who have brought her here? How can she reflect badly on their commercial venture? “They have paid for your dinner, Adele!” I scream at the TV. Long story short, I may have put my foot through the TV and maybe now we need a new TV.

LAST NIGHT BLUR HUMILIATED A DECADE
by unofficial Blur biographer Tony "Peachy" Peach As one of Blur's many unofficial biographers, I know the boys well – and this morning, it's Graham I'm feeling sorriest for. “Get the band back together,” they'll have said to him. “It’ll give you something to think about other than ouzo.” “Honest, Gray, Damon's really changed," Dave will have insisted, his words backed up by the same strong, trusty gaze that's often peered back at me from behind the net curtains at his townhouse down a cul-de-sac near the all-night Esso garage in Hampstead. "He went to Africa and it opened his eyes.” Well I know that Graham doesn't give a shit about Africa. He'll have done it purely for the money. Sure, Glasto was off the hook, but where'd you go after that? I'll tell you where: ouzo. How do I know this? Well let's just say that I'm a confidante of the band. Let's just say that they trust me unreservedly. Let's just say they trust me so much they let me go through their bins, and that I'm such a good guy, I'll do it without even being asked to. 'At least the show will be good,' I think to myself. 'The Brits is always good,' I correct myself, smiling. But then Adele gets cut off, thanks to Damon's death march of a speech, and before you know it the four, old men are up onstage creaking through "Girls & Boys" to a booing audience of children who'd come to see Adele. Louis Spence is dancing in the audience with Alan Carr – "the Chatty Man". Somewhere, Chris Evans is shaking his head and thinking 'Britannia's not as great as it used to be, fella' and for the first time in my life, I'm shaking my head along with him.