One has a phizog like a warthog, the other has a face considered by some to be among the beautiful in the world, writes the Civic Hall’s Jonn Penney.

One writes lyrics that cover such topics as evil, promiscuous sex, substance abuse and gambling; the other built a career around her virginity.

Ladies and gentlemen, in the red corner, the High Priestess of risqué, R ‘n’ B-infused pop and inspiration behind Darius Danesh; Britney Spears. Hit Me Baby One More Time.

In the blue corner, the grizzled, been-there-seen-it-done-it owner of a T-shirt held together by beer stains, the Crown Prince of Darkness and wearer-of-mutton-chop-sideburns Lemmy.

They’re as different as a balti and string cheese; as a three-day whiskey-soaked bender and a two-month spell in rehab.

Britney plays Birmingham’s LG Arena on Sunday while Motorhead headline Wolves Civic on Monday. Britney will be promoting her seventh studio album, Femme Fatale, Motorhead will be encouraging fans to listen to their 23rd, Kiss of Death.

Seldom has the region welcomed two performers who are so far apart. Comparing the two is like pitching Disney On Ice against Incubus, who, curiously, also line up in the region this week.

Lemmy has a liver the size of Ecuador. He doesn’t have to worry about fashion; jeans and T-shirt are ever-popular. Nor does he have to worry about his fans deserting him, rockers are like football fans: they follow one team until they die. His rider will probably feature a bottle of Wild Turkey and a burger. Lemmy will probably arrive at the Civic for his Monday night gig on the number 125 bus, or screech up on some super-powered motorbike with a chick wearing leather strides.

Motorhead’s latest album is wild, over the top and aggressive. It is dominated by brutal slices of biker-rock with dirty killer-riffs, heavy double bass-drums and a voice you will never forget – ever. It’s the sound of a rock psycho on a highway to hell delivering sick, slick hatred and rusty steel.

In the Ace of Spades, the Lemmeister famously sang: “that’s the way I like it baby – I don’t wanna live forever” but somehow, I think Lemmy will.

Britney, meanwhile, fights a constant war to retain her popularity and is allowed to eat two lettuce leaves per day. Once, she was the heir to Madonna’s pop throne, now she’s been usurped by Lady Gaga.

She needs to pay stylists the equivalent of the GDP of a small African nation to tell her what to wear, how to dance, how to style her hair and what colour nail varnish to use. Her fans will quickly turn onto the delights of other raunchy pop princesses if she doesn’t get the right R ‘n’ B producer to twiddle the knobs on her latest album.

She feels the slings and arrows of fashion as they cruelly penetrate her carefully crafted exterior.

Britney’s latest album is pretty good – but its creator is the least interesting part of it. There’s nothing as good as Toxic or Hit Me Baby. . . it’s a melange of dubstep influences, grinding breakdowns, half-speed rhythms and electronic buzzes and clicks.

While Britney will be welcomed by the roar of 12,000 screaming fans, the unassuming Lemmy will enter stage right to the grizzled roar of Hell’s Angels, who’ll tell him where to go if he hits a duff note.

And you know what, if I had to choose who I had to be, it would be the dude in the boots, jeans and T-shirt. Every time.