By the time you read this, many of the stars who attended last night’s Brit Awards will be safely tucked up in bed. Some of them may even know the people they’re tucked up with. Ahhh. The heady smell of rock ‘n’ roll.Except, last night’s Brits was remarkably well mannered and genteel.

It would be no surprise if last night’s stars had, in fact, gone home for a cup of Horlicks and a late-night chocolate Bourbon. The evening was epitomised by Take That.

Their performance was something of a highlight but it was sanitised, safe and predictable. It was, in short, nice.

The Brits 2009 will be remembered for two things: Duffy being the best of British and it being ever so slightly dull.

Where was Jarvis shaking his bum at Jacko or Sam Fox fluffing her lines with the bearded guy from Fleetwood Mac?

Who’d stolen the mantle from the Prezza-dousing Chumbawamba and where were the drug casualties?

Oh, for the arrogance of Liam Gallagher or the devil-may-care danger of Amy Winehouse. Oh, for someone to actually do something, or say something.

Rock ‘n’ roll has, through the generations, been a hotbed for insurrection, rebellion and creativity. There was little of that in evidence in last night.

There are wars, recession and social ills. America has its first black president.

And yet the entire evening reeked of smug self-satisfaction. The script seemed to read: “Thanks, I really appreciate it, I can’t tell you how much this means…..”

Kanye West mentioned Barack and we were on the edge of our seats when The Hoff tried to chat up Fern, bless him. But that was about it.

In part, that’s to be expected. The Brits is, ostensibly, a two-hour long advertisement for some of the world’s biggest entertainment companies.

Universal, EMI, SonyBMG et al put their goods in the shop window for a couple of hours and wait for us to pop out to HMV at the weekend.

It’s a jolly for music industry workers who rub shoulders with the people they promote. But last night was like watching the CBI, rather than the BPI.

There were memorable moments. The set was like Glastonbury on acid. Couch potatoes vicariously experienced the horrors of music through the refracted prism of lysergic acid diethylamide.

We were reminded of the Brits’ fallibility as veteran rockers Iron Maiden beat Elbow to best live act.

Florence and The Machine stood out, Kings of Leon rocked and the Ting Tings with Estelle was worth the admission price.

There were the risible awards too, like the celebration of Girls Aloud. One question? Why. They’re a manufactured pop band, as unoriginal and flavourless as Asda beans.

At least Coldplay didn’t sweep the board. Perhaps there is a God.

Tom Jones looked lost, like a man wondering along a corridor in a care home while Neil Tennant’s coat deserved an award in itself.

Success and style never were easy bedfellows.

Duffy was a deserving winner. She looked like Britt Ekland and was humble in triumph.

Just as yesterday’s girl Amy Winehouse reintroduced sounds of soul to the modern consciousness, Duffy has reinvoked our dormant passion for beat-driven girl pop.

She’s no Dusty, of course, and it’ll be interesting to gauge the quality of her next release. But, along with Elbow, she’s stood out during the past 12 months. The night was hers and she deserved it.

By Andy Richardson