London. Some arena. BritBrit gets make-up done backstage, warming up her voice. Why? It's not like she's going to sing anything tonight. Girl needs a bra. She sings. Asian make-up guy wants to stab her in the eye with the mascara brush. BritBrit gets into the elevator on the way to the stage. She annoys everyone with her camera and her singing. The crowd is cheering. BritBrit tells us that they're all there for her. Good for you. Remember that because in a year or two, it's over. Good thing you're taping this. Boobney tells us that the audiences overseas are crazy and more uninhibited. Yes: they have terrible taste. Have you ever listened to Robbie Williams or Kylie Minogue? Seriously. Or French pop music, god forbid? It's heinous. No wonder they like your ass-y, atonal, overproduced shit. Boobney talks about enjoying performing as we see her "singing" "Slave," replete with uber-stiff high school choreography. Jazz-hands-a-palooza!

After. BritBrit gives us a nausea-inducing tour of her bus. Wow. Seriously. NYPD Blue has more steady camera-work. The Blair Witch guys are like, "Dude. Get a tripod." What always interests me about shows like this is if this shit is what made it onto the air, I'd love to see what got cut out. And the best part is that to prove my point about the shaky-cam, my cat just vomited. Ha. I told her not to watch.

Manchester. BritBrit films the paparazzi shooting her down below from her hotel balcony. The poor captioning person wrote, "Paup Rattsey" instead of paparazzi. Aw. That's cute. Nice try, though. For someone who is all, "Leave me alone let me have a life!" BritBrit sure does like to hang out on hotel balconies a lot. While getting make-up and hair done, BritBrit spits out, "People can take away everything from you but they can never take away your truth. But the question is, can you handle my truth? Can you?" More children playing with a videocamera stuff. I refuse to recap utter nonsense.