The Biggest WTFs from the Brit Awards 2016

This article originally appeared on Noisey UK.

You all know how the Brits went by now. Coldplay were there, but justice was served in the form of Adele winning everything. Annie Lennox and Gary Oldman's David Bowie tribute made us all cry, and then Lorde made us cry even more. Then Rihanna and Drake showed up and gave everyone a boner, and everyone went home. Compared to the unexpected Kanye performance and #CapeGate of yesteryear, the main events were pretty uneventful. Apart from one sound engineer who failed to mute a "fucking" during Adele's speech, everything was exactly how it was supposed to be, which is to say: a colorless vacuum where banter goes to die.

There were a few brief moments of magic, though. Between Ant and Dec's urinal sketches and every single presenter giving fictional man Keith Lemon a shout out for some reason, some things of note happened. Here are some of those things.

I’m pretty sure Father John Misty is just a host body for a spirit that is at least 100 years old. A spirit that has been lingering here on earth since the American Civil War, who appears disinterested at best and disgruntled at worst whenever he isn’t playing music. Father John Misty literally doesn’t give a single toot about anything that isn’t playing music. Father John Misty is here at the Brits because he just released an album called I Love You, Honeybear featuring such songs as “Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Goddamn Thirsty Cow” to critical acclaim. Father John Misty is like a sexy Rooster Cogburn expertly trained to assassinate instruments instead of people. His entire Instagram account is dedicated to pictures of himself using his phone at times where he shouldn’t be using his phone, like standing in the middle of the road and smack bang in the middle of a game of air hockey. It stands to reason that he is probably looking down at his phone in this moment too, but I like to think he’s lost in some deep, ancient trance that none of us could possibly understand. He is a wizened presence in a room full of idiots, an old tree among sprigs. He is totally asleep.

Justin Bieber copped this award anyway, so I guess he Father John Missedout.

There are a perilous few seconds, between 0:14 and 0:19 where James Bay, a man whose hat is such an integral part of his identity that it has its own Twitter account, almost appears hatless. The incident took place just after he and his hat won the award for Best British Male (and not Best British Group, hmm), where his team begin to offer hugs and pats on the back. Then it happens, his manager, Ryan Lofthouse, comes up behind him from an awkward angle, leaving no time to adjust the hat accordingly. They embrace, but with too much vigor, and Lofthouse’s arm comes crushing down on the brim of the hat from behind causing it to tilt dangerously towards the back of James Bay’s head. What happens next is not visible because of the camera angle, but when Bay reappears you can just about catch his hand leaving the vicinity of the top of his head and the hat is once again resting safely in its usual position, almost as if nothing happened. What is it that lurks beneath that dam hat? A bald top? A small bird of paradise? ANOTHER HAT!? We'll never know.

The Brits may have forgotten to invite anybody from UK rap or grime, but it’s ok guys, this two-second appearance from a pair of respectively gobby up and comers smashed on telly at a national event when neither of them are of legal drinking age, should just about have British youth culture covered.

Nobody seems to know anything about this woman apart from the fact that she turned up on the red carpet with fashion designer Pam Hogg. Our editor Ryan Bassil said the genuine spontaneity and Lynchean surrealism of this moment made it the best bit of the whole ceremony and, to be honest, I’m pretty sure everyone on earth agrees with him. Perhaps not for the same reasons, mind.

Don’t quote me on this, I’m not that well versed in matters of the law, but I’m pretty sure wearing sunglasses indoors surpassed being not even remotely cool to become a fully fledged criminal offence sometime around 1996. Judging from his red carpet appearance and the way he delivered the Album of the Year Award to Adele, though, he might not have been entirely sober.

What was that all about?

They beat out U2, Eagles of Death Metal, and Major Lazer for this, which is pretty good, isn’t it. Chalk one on the wall for subculture.

I think Miranda Hart might have ghostwritten this bit.

I could go off on one about the appropriation of Mexican tradition and subsequent voodoo implications going on here, but I won’t. Discounting the David Bowie tribute, which was easily the only meaningful thing that happened the entire night, Little Mix doing “Black Magic” was easily the best live performance. Just look at them, in all their triumph, smashing that choreography with a level of enthusiasm that could kill some people, meanwhile hardly faltering on the vocals. It was the first percentile of pride I’d felt for the UK since 1997 when Geri Halliwell showed up wearing the Union Jack dress.

Follow Emma on Twitter.