It started on a low with the impossibly pompous girl band Little Mix. And went downhill from there. All the way to ridiculous Robbie Williams caterwauling: “I love my life, I am wonderful, I am magical, I am me.” A preposterous racket. But at least he really meant it.

Welcome to The Brits, a hopelessly stale, annual monument to the continuing decline of rock and roll. Thrill to the same old saccharine celebs singing the same old anodyne songs to pour more money into their multi-million pound pots. Come to the O2 and be there for the day the muzak died.

Amid this craven carnival of commerce, tearful Pepsi, Shirley and Andrew Ridgeley’s emotional tribute to their late, great Wham! friend George Michael was genuinely moving. As was Duncan Jones’ unpretentious eulogy to his dad David Bowie.

But apart from these poignant moments of respite, it was dreary dross from start to finish. A dispiriting testament to the desperate depths to which the music business has sunk. Cheered on by undynamic duo Emma Willis and Dermot O’Leary, the dismal hosts from hell who took bland to a whole new level.

“I want to BE Little Mix!” shrieked Emma after their puffed-up curtain raiser involving poor quality shouting, dire dancing and a massive flashy production that failed to disguise the tedious nature of their little hit. “I LOVE Bruno Mars!” squealed Emma after he bored for America. And so on and so forth. You get the picture.

Meanwhile, labouring under the delusion he’s funny, unfunny Dermot ruthlessly killed every joke in a cacophony of silence. The Tumbleweed Kid.

Memo to Simon Cowell: If you don’t prepare for these things you’ll end up looking like a doddering old fool. The stuttering Dark Lord’s criminally unrehearsed presenting slot alongside Nicole Scherzinger was excruciating. Naturally, the award went to another of his life-sapping bands, One Direction. Who despite not actually existing anymore were honoured for some vacuous video they once made. Marvellous.

Shortly before the lights went out and left him spouting disjointed gibberish into the blackness, Cowell turned to Nicole and sighed: “I don’t know what’s happening now. You just talk.” Trouble was… she didn’t know what to say. Highly professional. God, it was SO embarrassing.

That dork from The 1975 who gives the new romantic look a bad name announced that the assembled minor stars shouldn’t stay in their lane because it’s very important for pop people to speak out about social injustice. No matter how much the long-suffering public wish they’d shut their self-important mouths.

Which brings us to renowned activist Katy Perry belting out her tuneless ditty among a load of gyrating goons dressed as the White House. Our sympathy to the loser who toppled off the stage. Not quite Madonna, but hilarious nonetheless. And then two giant skeletons apparently meant to represent Theresa May – boo! – and Donald Trump – double boo! Political protest at its most profound. Thanks Katy, but probably best to stay in your lane eh?

As for the triumphant trophy winners, I have about as much interest as the corporate fat cats who sat at the VIP tables eating dinner with their wives. As in, none. All around them in the cheap seats, thousands of screaming local radio competition winners provided a wall of inane sound that – as always – reduced the entire non-event to a deafening farce.

Hats off to Adele, Drake and Beyoncé who sensibly couldn’t be there. David Bowie didn’t make it either. But even if he was alive he wouldn’t have bothered. Why would he? Bit strange to have the guy who played serial killer Dexter collecting the great man’s Best Album honour. Still, better I suppose than X Factor flops Nick Grimshaw and Rita Ora handing the Breakthrough Artist gong to the disappointingly inarticulate Rag And Bone Man.

Until not so long ago, The Brits ceremony was reliably disastrous. Incompetent hosts, technical hitches, juvenile swearing, a total mess. Worth watching because it was so amusingly shambolic. But the organisers and ITV have finally raised their game and, sadly, these days it’s a much slicker affair. And therefore, much duller.

Only superannuated cheeky chappie Jonathan Ross managed a quick “piss” but other than that it was as squeaky clean as a church service. But not as much fun. Skepta’s profanity-packed number was auto-muted. So he kept going quiet. How spontaneous.

Here come the performerszzzz… Little Mix, Emily Sande, Bruno Mars, Coldplay, Ed Sheeran, Robbie Williams. All of whom turn up virtually every year. Yawn. New blood is urgently required. And by that I don’t mean The 1975, whose lousy turn droned on for so long it seemed like it started in 1975. In order to head the critics off at the pass, these guys flashed up oh so ironic self-mocking messages like “Genuinely laughable.” At least they thought it was ironic. For the rest of us, it was just accurate.

After enduring all of this soul-destroying marathon, that’s two and a half hours I’ll never get back.

Next year I’m planning to skip The Brits and do something more cutting edge. Like listen to my collection of Cliff Richard albums. Okay, I haven’t got any Cliff Richard albums. Can I borrow yours?