Riding the Pullman, getting lost in car parks and knocking back Hennessy with A-listers: Features Editor Ben Tibbits dishes the dirt on this year’s BRIT Awards. 

I am a proud Brummie. For those less educated in British locution, that means an individual from the city of Birmingham, the West Midlands-situated industrial metropolis renowned for Cadbury’s chocolate, having more (mileage of) canals than Venice, curry houses, and one standout football team – Birmingham City FC (Aston Villa who). It is the ‘second city’ of the UK, the biggest in population outside of London, and a multi-cultural web built on hard-edged, working-class, honest people. 

And so you can imagine the pain I endure every time someone talks about Manchester. The next-largest city in England (the fourth in Britain, following Scotland’s Glasgow), the north-western city is a kaleidoscope of progress, culture, creativity, and education. A place that tourists want to visit, a pinnacle stop-off spot on any global music tour. The overachieving younger brother to our perpetually disappointing middlechild.

And now, for the next five years, it will be the home of the biggest music awards in Britain. Did you forget about us, BRITs? Oh well. If you can’t beat them, join them. The bitter pill of Brummie rejection is much easier to swallow with a mouthful of Hennessy Paradis. 

I’m on the famed British Pullman train alongside half of the music industry – a guest of distinguished label Warner Records, and their partner in crime for all things BRITs, the cognac titan, Hennessy. Henny and I are old friends – I visited their HQ sometime last spring, and was overawed by the location in the beautiful town of Cognac in southern France and impressed by the commitment to tradition that the House maintains. And lineage isn’t the brand’s only investment – culture, and specifically music, lies at the apex of their agenda. 

And so, a handful of other journos, scores of execs, and the whole spectrum of Warner artists (I’m pleased to find myself sitting next to another old pal, Wonderland alum cktrl, on the train) are on an adventure to Manchester. It’s the first time ever that the BRITs have left London, and there’s an air of excitement, anticipation and uncertainty bubbling in the air. The Pullman treats guests with quite an incredible amount of care, with a delicious three-course banquet and never an empty glass from the 11am launch time; in fact, at one point, I find myself triple-parked, and it’s barely turned afternoon. Slowing down seems smart – there’s a long day ahead. 

Some three hours later, the Pullman pulls into Manchester Piccadilly, with a coach escorting everyone to Whitworth Locke, our resting place for the evening. Speaking of rest, everyone else has some time to wind down now before the evening antics, but not me. I’m in my hotel room for about seven minutes, desperately pulling on an unironable shirt and throwing a comb through my hair before I’m out the door and flagging a cab. I’ve got a red carpet to get to. 

Whose bright idea was it to put the Manchester City football stadium and Co-Op Live, the major new venue and home to the BRITs, for the next five years, right next to each other? Birmingham would never. I jump out of the taxi, already 20 minutes late, desperately texting apologies to publicists, only to realise that I’m at the completely wrong end of this double-billed architectural colossus. I walk as fast as my Dr Martens allow me, hopping fences and asking several confused passers-by for directions. Eventually, I find my way to the far corner of a car park for my accreditation check and make it just in time for arrivals to kick off. 

The side of the red carpet that you see on TV – which the talent walks – is spacious, immaculately lit, and synonymous with the core idea of celebrity. The other side – packed to the brim with journalists, presenters, videographers, photographers – is a lion’s den of competitive edge and compulsive swearing. I’m rocking it solo, the only team member attending, which proves a challenge in itself. How does one ask questions while also filming? I’ve never been good at multitasking.

Despite my social and technological ineptness, I make do and, over a sprawling three-hour stint, catch up with a melange of talent, including members of the Wonderland family like Wet Leg, kwn, Wolf Alice and CMAT, as well as personal favourites like Loyle Carner and Jacob Alon. Exploding the social team’s Dropbox with videos, I finish up with the carpet and saunter off to find my seat. 

As ever with the Hennessy brand, luxury comes in abundance. We’ve got a suite, kitted out of culinary soupçons, champers galore and Henny-Rita, the House’s twist of everyone’s favourite cocktail, margarita. After some chit-chatting with new journo pals, I find a seat, sit back and watch the BRITs 2026 unfold. 

I won’t bore you with all the logistical details, but here’s my key takeaways…

Love Lola but winning Breakthrough Act for this year when she’s already well broken and Jim Legxacy and EsDeeKid are in the category? Not sure about that. 

Geese winning International Group of the Year is the best award plus the best speech. I punch the air with giddy delight like a proud dad whose kid has just scored in their U9 football game. 

I think I love Geese a bit too much.

I don’t believe Rosalía to be part of the human race – she’s pure angelic. 

Aitch likes Henny almost as much as me.

A reality show about Shaun Ryder and Bez is the only TV show I wanna see.

Doing genre awards during ad breaks sucks – find a better way please BRITs.

Mark Ronson is the goat. 

On second thoughts, I think I love Geese the correct amount.

As Olivia Dean wins her fourth well-deserved award of the night for her stunning record, The Art of Loving, we’re herded out of the suite before anything gets too manic and back out into the massive car park towards a party mini-bus – we’re headed straight to the afters. Warner and Hennessy’s celeb-filled bash is at Cut & Craft, and by the time we arrive, it is already popping. We’ve got special VIP access to a side booth, and spend some time there surveying what’s around and swigging a few Hennessy’d espresso martinis, which unsurprisingly turn out to be pretty lethal. 

There are sets from Kim Turnbull, Groove Armada, Suns of Acid, and Gjin Lipa, Dua’s little brother. The big sister even rocks up to support her sibling and join the festivities, as well as Rosé, Rose Gray and her boyf Harris Dickinson, Kojey Radical, and Ms Banks. Oh, and apparently there are some robots knocking around, although I’m too scared to investigate. It’s lively, a little raucous (the toilets were something to behold), and a hell of a lot of fun. 

The next morning arrives with a pounding head and a missed breakfast. Luckily, though, there’s a return trip on the Pullman to see me back to London. I couldn’t think of drinking again as I quease my way through packing and onto the coach to the train station. But as the kindly waiting staff welcome me onto the train with a Bloody Mary, my sentiments soon change. The journey back down to London feels longer, as ever, than the way up, but it’s made easier by good smatterings of conversation and a wonderful roast, well veg for me. Veggie regret coming in strong though, the chicken looks great. 

And there we have it. I’m back at Euston, stretching my legs and planning a route to my east London hideaway. BRITs 2026 was a wild ride, fuelled by my good friends at Hennessy, with a mostly enjoyable ceremony and a buoyant afterparty. But still, Manchester, you damn lovely bastard. Why can’t you be more like Birmingham? Maybe we’d stand a chance then.

Words – Ben Tibbits