In 2009, I found myself with a nomination for something called the Brits Critics' Choice Award, which meant that my then record label didn’t have much choice but to give up one of the tickets reserved for someone in the marketing department and let me go to the ceremony. 'This is it!', I thought. 'It's what aspiring popstar dreams were made of…' Jarvis! Chumbawumba! Growing up in the ’90s there was always some crazy morning-after anecdotes about the Brit Awards, so it felt like I'd spent most my life fantasising about what I would wear and what celebrity mischief I might get caught up in when I one day actually went…
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the reality fell rather devastatingly short.
Things started well. As an artist who'd scored a top ten single and a top five album, I'd just acquired what the industry calls ‘a glam squad’; a lean, mean transforming machine of stylist, make-up artist, hairdresser, and safety-pinning, clamp-wielding underling, who could be summoned at a snap of the fingers. However, I'd still not yet moved out of my semi-squalid shared house in Tower Hamlets, where we rendezvoused on the big day – much to the surprise of my housemates.
So it began. I borrowed an incredible Alexander McQueen dress for the event, so far so Cinderella. Shoes and bag? Don’t worry, McQueen’s on the case, too. Jewellery? 'Bulgari diamonds, darling!' which were deemed expensive enough to arrive at my trashy terrace accompanied by their own security guard with a briefcase, who supervised the necklace and earrings being applied, then arrived the next day to ensure a swift return. After several painstaking hours glamming, pinning and plucking I was ready; a tottering, giddy, slightly-queasy-from-not-really-eating-for-two-days miniature Jayne Torvill does Star Wars. I triumphantly took what at the time hadn't even been branded 'a selfie' yet (ahead of my time!) in my kitchen and tweeted it. Unfortunately, my iPhone composition failed to realise I'd left my archaic Bosch washing machine in shot, which got picked up and slated in the press the next morning. Awks.
After several painstaking hours glamming, pinning and plucking I was ready; a tottering, giddy, slightly-queasy-from-not-really-eating-for-two-days miniature Jayne Torvill does *Star Wars*
Next, was getting there. Tougher than you may think. My dress – a catwalk show sample designed to be worn only once by a skeletal Eastern European giant – meant any kind of movement was traumatic, let alone anything as extreme as bending, or heaven forbid, sitting. To compound things, the dress had several sheer sections including two long ones down both sides, meaning normal underwear was a no-no. Luckily, the Glam Squad had thought ahead and brought me some squishy stick-on chicken fillets and three pieces of nude-coloured string that had so comedically little in common with real knickers that I have kept them to this day as a souvenir. I debated going commando, but it was the year of the Lohan/Britney/Paris 'intimate shots' and it seemed a bit risky.
There was worse to come. The shoes I’d been lent were also designed with the skeletal giant in mind, making them at least three sizes too big. There were no alternatives. I obviously couldn’t possibly wear normal shoes. But my dedicated safety pin maestro had a genius solution: stuff them! Apparently, this was a common technique, more suited to static studio shoots, but what the hell. So my shoes were stuffed from the front with scrumpled sheets of A4-printer paper until my feet just about fit. Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!
I was booted onto the red carpet in an experience I can only imagine being comparable to an insect having a Dyson set upon you
I was given zero guidance or instruction other than the usual, 'Smile, be yourself…' then essentially booted out of a padded luxury car and onto the red carpet in an experience I can only imagine being comparable to an insect having a Dyson set upon you. Nothing could prepare you for it. The noise was deafening. The lights were blinding. A whirlwind of screaming from every direction. Awkwardly, I managed to encourage my giant shoes and bleeding feet to shuffle forwards and pose for photographs, barely daring to look around me. After all, this was what I’d waited for! This was what being a pop star was surely about!
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Maybe somewhere in Hollywood they give crash courses on how to stand and walk in these situations, but not here. At that moment I really wish someone had. Luckily, I’d spent 10 minutes Googling how to pose, and learnt enough from a brief flick through of carpet shots to do 'The Teapot’ – stand with one hand on your hip, one arm slightly in front of you at a slight angle with one foot a bit in front of the other – but the rest I had to pick up as I went along. I have since learnt there is a whole secret world of photo tricks and cheats to make you look as unattainable as humanly possible, plus a set of 'golden pap rules', which I unfortunately learned the hard way (eg. never EVER speak or open your mouth in their presence, or you will look like a paralytic idiot.)
Looking back at the Getty watermarked red carpet shot of me now feels like looking at a photo of a distant relative, a skinnier, dead-eyed twin I was separated from at birth who was brought up in Siberian training camp to compete in the Sochi ice skating finals on sheer strength of costume alone.
The ceremony itself resembled any overblown corporate Christmas party, with the majority of the crowd made up of backslapping men in suits. I was sat on a table of people I barely knew, quickly engaging the coping strategy of drowning myself in free Champagne. A posh-looking but ultimately very average meal was served and everyone ignored it just slightly less than the events that were actually happening on stage, which revolved around Kylie Minogue and one of Gavin And Stacey, various members of Girls Aloud, possibly Coldplay. The biggest 'scandal' of the night was the fact that Duffy kept appearing every five minutes on the giant LED screens to remind us to drink Diet Coke.
The whole ceremony was fairly awkward, attempting uncomfortable drunken chit-chat with the 40-something execs around me who were more interested in high-fiving the CEO of Tesco
I missed the only performance I actually wanted to see – a bizarre Pet Shop Boys, Lady Gaga and Brandon Flowers mash-up – as the loo was a 15-minute walk from the tables (25 in my shoes). The whole ceremony was fairly awkward, attempting uncomfortable drunken chit-chat with the 40-something execs around me who were more interested in high-fiving the CEO of Tesco (in the hope their under-performing girl band would get better placement on the shelves come Monday morning and save their head). Desperately scanning the room for allies combined with the feeling I was dressed in a straitjacket with Chinese torture instruments strapped to my feet, by this point I was willing the whole thing to end so I could hang out with some people I actually knew. I genuinely can’t remember anyone winning or losing anything – or anyone around me giving a shit.
The only thing anyone cared about is what after-party you were going to. We'd blagged it into Claridges for the Universal party, known as the most lavish at the time being the only label at the time that actually had any money left. Exiting the car we were again accosted by under-skirt hunting paps, but I was getting the hang of this now; head up, mouth closed and legs together at all times.
Inside the party it was clear this was where all the hangers on who couldn’t get tickets had been lying in wait for us. There were drinks everywhere and a mountain of food in a separate room. I vividly remember watching a particular very famous model (who I won’t name) theatrically circling the buffet with a mountainous plate of food exclaiming a little too loudly every five seconds ‘I’m starving!’, then watching as she nibbled half a bite of each canapé before quickly discarding the whole untouched plate. 'Shit', I thought. 'Is this how I have to be now? Can I never enjoy a buffet again?'
My saving grace, I almost made friends with Girls Aloud, who incidentally all looked like they were either getting married or attending each other's wedding that night. Most of the winners and losers were there, depending on your definition of success. By this time I was pretty wasted. The only other photo of the night is me emerging from said party looking bewildered, after which I got back into the car which had been waiting all night on call for me. We were chased by paps on mopeds for a while (you’ve got the wrong girl! Cheryl Cole is still in there you know!). But I think the real highlight of the night was getting home and prying off my shoes off to expose my blistering, bloodied feet and heaving a huge sigh of relief.'
After releasing her second album ‘Nocturnes’ last year, Victoria is working on new material and runs onrepeatrecords.com
Follow Victoria on Twitter @Littleboots
Picture: Getty
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.