Fug File: BRIT Awards

We’ve seen Jessie J in catsuits. We saw it for years. We winced and we cringed and we said, “Why is she doing that to her kick-ass body?” And then she stopped wearing them as much, and that felt right, because really, what could she possibly feel she had left to prove? And yet:

When Jessica and I were in England, we spent a day in Oxford, and noticed the local theater was in the waning days of a three-week Cats revival. We both saw it as kids and loved it, because that was before we cared about anything and we just thought, “Wow, Jellicles CAN! And Jellicles DO!!!” And so we joked about going to see it and then coming home and telling everyone that we’d spent our precious hours and pounds seeing Cats, and actually now I kind of regret not doing that because it would have been worth it. And Jessie J may be feeling nostalgic, too, because this is full-on Grizabella the Glamour Cat in her prime, before she put on a heavy coat and moped and sang about the time she knew what happiness was. If this isn’t ripped from a private Andrew Lloyd Webber diary under the heading Grizabella: Let The Memory Live Again, then I don’t know what is.

And no, you’re not hallucinating; her lipstick is FREEZING DEATH:

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