IF Star Wars had featured a Jedi cookery scene, then I reckon the pizza cutters would have looked a lot like the awards being dished out at the Brits.
Forget lightsabers, they were handing out light pizza cutters, weren’t they?
I’ve now reached the age where I’m very comfortable with my ignorance of this modern music.
And take great delight in referring to the ‘sounds’ our boys play as “this modern music”.
Just as pop music is a kind of rite of passage for youngsters like my eldest, Bradley, 13, so it is for us parents.
There comes a point when music becomes, to parents, “just noise” while, clearly, it means the world to our teens.
On a personal level, I take great delight in winding up my children with my loud ignorance of their favourite acts.
The Brits, this week, had a line-up of performers that sounded more like a spelling test than a who’s who of musical talent: Disclosure; Rudimental; Lorde; Bastille ...
The awards were spoiled, however, by David Bowie. And when I say spoiled, I mean, spoiled for me by being one of the few acts I had actually heard of.
“So which one’s Rudi Mental then?” I’d say. “Is that her in the catsuit?”
“Dad, man,” our Bradley moaned, “Don’t you know anything?”
I can remember saying pretty much the same to my mother in 1978 when she tried to bin my copy of The Stranglers’ 7” single Nice ‘N’ Sleazy because she found the sleeve “disgusting.”
(For any teenagers who may accidentally be reading this column, a 7” single was a flat plastic disc which you placed on a rotating turntable, applied a needle to it, and songs miraculously burst from attached speakers. A sleeve was what we called the protective cover the disc was stored in. The Stranglers were a pop group. I don’t think they ever won anything at the Brits).
While the pop acts were different at the Brits, some things never change.
It was heartening to see that the rock bands were as disdainful as ever.
I saw the Arctic Monkeys pick up the Most Truculent British Band Award, and thoroughly deserved it was too.
They shuffled up to collect their pizza cutter with the same enthusiasm our Bradley musters when told to go upstairs and pick his underpants up from the bathroom floor.
At one point during the Arctic Monkeys frontman’s rambling acceptance drawl, he seemed to be praising his band’s ability to smash through “the glass ceiling.”
Equal pay for women? Great. But they had no women in their band! Ah, well, all the more for them I suppose.
There was a time when rock stars drove Rollers into swimming pools and bit the heads off live bats.
This fella, well, he dropped his microphone on the floor and asked the organisers to invoice him for any damage.
Not what I’d call very rock n roll but then, to coin a phrase, “you don’t know anything, do you, dad?”