Tarantino’s new film Inglourious Basterds sees many a Nazi soldier in need of a hair transplant, after Brad Pitt’s band of merry murdering men go around with their scalping blades at the ready.

It’s Tarantino, and you have to expect the unexpected – you have to expect the worst. But happily, this is not the ‘worst’ in terms of his filmmaking, nor indeed in terms of being unnecessarily blood thirsty. The guy has never really hit the heights of Pulp Fiction, but this film makes a very good effort indeed.

You get the feeling Quentin has held back from going completely mental on this film. It certainly takes its cue from films such as Kelly’s Heroes (1970) – where Clint Eastwood gets a band of cheeky, hippy type soldiers and takes them off to Nazi Germany in search of Gold.

In Tarantino’s remake of Enzo Castellari’s 1978 The Inglorious Basterds, the gold sought in Kelly’s Heroes takes the form of Nazi scalps. The mission of the Jewish American squad is to go behind enemy lines and strike fear in the heart of Germans by murdering them in quite a gruesome fashion (think baseball bats if you will) and gouging swastikas into the foreheads of survivors.

Without giving too much of the plot away, the story lines converge on a Parisian cinema where the latest Nazi propaganda film is to be premiered. It transpires that every top brass in the Nazi regime will be present – including everyone’s favourite war-starter – Adolf J. Hitler.

Some stunning cinematography guides us to the thrilling climax, where bullets and blood fly a plenty. It would have been good if the card guessing game scene was a little shorter – and that Fassbender’s British spy has his loose end tied up (he gets shot but we don’t really find out if he was despatched properly until right at the end, when the film concludes without his reappearance). I know Tarantino likes to kill folks off when you least expect it, but I thought Fassbender was going to last a little longer, keeping the (very very) British end up.

At the end of the film, the scene that really stands out is the one at the beginning, where the ‘Jew Hunter’ (the primary Nazi baddie) seeks out a family of Jews being hidden by a French farmer. Tarantino really builds the suspense in this opening scene, as well as offering the viewer some truly beautiful shots and lots of original, thrilling dialogue. The farmer is put in a terrible, no win situation – something that Quentin likes to put into his films.

This is classic Tarantino. Watch it now.

If you’d just had a row with your missus and thought that the fine architecture and well stocked galleries of central London might provide some respite – you’d instead be confronted with Boy George, The Cheeky Girls and burlesque dancers exposing their nipple tassels to Leicester square.

I soon stopped berating myself for not checking the Time Out website though, as it turned out the whole queer atmosphere was actually pretty impressive.

It does seem that London, having experienced these events since the sixties, is extremely comfortable with having drag queens wearing huge union jack ball gowns sauntering around Trafalgar Square – and totally fine with all manner of obscene photo opportunities taking place around nearby Leicester Square.

The normally well guarded fountain pools overlooked by ‘Kiss Me Hardy’ Nelson, were jammed with inebriated lesbians, chock full of battered queers – and sprinkled with a few straights, perhaps trying to absorb some gay credo.

Exasperated security men attempted to remove them, but it took several more hours before the party goers dispersed. The whole pink throbbing gay mass was overlooked by a sensible-looking Big Ben at the other end of Whitehall, the late sun illuminating it’s imperial clock face.

Even St Martin-in-the-Field sported the gay flag, adding to the permissive atmosphere of this rampantly energetic event. Up the road and round the bend Piccadilly Circus told a similar story – with the roads closed there was a vibrant mixture of full-bodied American tourists, aimless drag queens and snap happy Japs.

With deserted cinema foyers and theatre goers wielding cut-price tickets – you got the impression that few folk wanted to be indoors on a day as gay as this.

This year has thrown up some intriguing battles and a few interesting new developments. In years gone by you could pretty much predict who would be in the frame for best female vocalist, Kate Bush was always named and Annie Lennox didn’t even have to make a record, making the bed in the morning seemed to be enough to get her a nomination, but this year both are missing from the list as a new wave of young female Brits led by Duffy and MIA battle it out for the title.

Other notable absentees include Sting, Mick Hucknall and Phil Collins. I’d like to imagine they are going to be spending the evening watching the show on a plasma screen in one of Phil’s many tax havens, crying into their fine wines, unable to understand why the kids are listening to Mike Skinnner’s Brummie tinged blend of pop, rock and rap and not Sting’s lute playing? To paraphrase Louis Armstrong, if you have to ask why, you’ll never know.

There’s always confusion when it comes to best group, with rock, pop and urban awards all being dropped recently leaving simply a Best British Group category. This year the battle has to be between Elbow and Coldplay with the losers probably picking up best live act as a consolation. The BRITS also recognises international acts and the nominees for Best International Group are the strongest in years MGMT should get it but The Killers, Fleet Foxes or Kings of Leon would also be worthy winners.

Although the show is once again going out live after years of being pre recorded I do lament the lack of spontaneity which led to a sense of danger that used to be part of the proceedings. I’m not saying that we should go back to the days when Sam Fox and Mick Fleetwood mumbled incoherently for two hours and appeared not to know where they were or even who they were, but there should be room for a few surprises. Remember Jarvis Cocker mooning as Michael Jackson attempted to prove that he really was the son of God? Or the KLF firing vintage machine guns at the industry insiders in the audience then declaring, ‘ Ladies and gentleman, The KLF have now left the music business’? I can’t imagine anything like that happening this year.

The line up does look good though, Coldplay, Duffy, Pet Shop Boys, Girls Aloud, Kings Of Leon, Take That and U2 are all playing and Kylie will present. So I’ll tune in along with everyone else who’s been starved of quality music on terrestrial TV for the past few years, thanks to dross like X-Factor, to listen to some great music and maybe see a few things that would, in pre-recorded times, be edited out.

I think the best chance of any controversy has to be in the category of Best International Male Solo Artist where Seasick Steve and Neil Diamond (combined age of 134) take on Jay-Z and Kanye West (combined worth $134billion…or pretty close). Beck is also in there but I’m afraid he’s now become the American male equivalent of Annie Lennox and doesn’t stand a chance. I’m hoping Neil Diamond tries to appear hip and cool and does a Noel Gallagher; ‘Jay-Z at the BRITS? No Chance!’