The Brit Awards (ITV1, Tuesday, 16 February, 8pm) are pretty pointless aren’t they? Not that I begrudge musicians for accepting awards of any kind… it’s like getting a gold star from a teacher. It doesn’t mean anything as such but no-one can resist praise, even when it’s as sycophantic as an showbusiness awards show.

As this past couple of years has been glorious for pop music, the 2010 Brits should have been a barmstormer. In the case of Lily Allen (in Dorian From Birds Of A Feather Wig), Lady GaGa (Space Nympho From The Year 3018) and Jay-Z (feat. Alicia Keys), it actually provided some jaw-dropping television.

However, elsewhere, it was a complete disaster. Peter Kay’s turn as master of ceremonies saw the Bolton comic looking like Toad of Toad Hall and about as funny as a doctor reading you a list of fatal diseases you’ve contracted… the punch line being “you’ve got until the end of this sentence to live.” The only decent moment came when he branded Liam Gallagher as a “nob’ead” after the Manc pillock’s baby rant.

Seemingly constant appearances from Geri and Mel B of the Spice Girls were initially baffling and eventually irritating. Cheryl Cole, whom I quite like as a tragic pop wastrel who sang on a couple of good songs and is married to a prick, gave a performance that belied her charm. Watching her last night was like talking to someone on a webcam when the sound comes first and the movement jerks in later. Disappointing.

Robbie Williams aptly closed the show with a turn so poor that you wonder why anyone bought into him in the first place. His gurning Norman Wisdom schtick, coupled with ‘The Robbie Smarm Nod’ nervously tic(k)ed through a medley that reduced his average back-catalogue into a bad Jive Bunny release. Instead of a glowing, shimmering superstar deserving of a Lifetime Achievement Award, we got the human equivalent to a mildly warm cheese pastie.

Essentially, a lot of what went on in general was a waste of everyone’s time, saved only by the endless stream of amusing bile from Twitter. TV events like this make Twitter worth its weight in gold.

Once upon a time, we’d have to watch people like the hideous Fearne Cotton, who last night was dressed like a genetic accident between a deck chair and a cheap sausage, alone. We would have hurled futile insults at the TV, thumping our fists against our heads and demanding to know which idiot keeps giving her jobs. One can only assume that she gives an incredible blow-job.

That all said, it was pretty much the perfect Brit Awards.

Really, all you can ever ask for is a couple of things to keep you from going mad and the rest… well… all you want is something to hate. The Brit Awards had that and more. Twitter was creaking under constant praise and criticism for the show and provided a brilliant alternative – and painfully real – commentary on events, leaving me occasionally not bothering to listen to what was spewing out of my TV in favour of reading real wit in the feed.

Wonderful. Same again next year please.