Julie Burchill

I'll never forget seeing a fellow in Las Vegas - a veritable man-mountain - wearing a T-shirt which bore the legend 'NO FAT CHICKS'. I thought at first that it might be a joke, but when other men gave him a high-five, he glowed with porky pleasure. Not a ‘Yeah, ironic, right?’ or a cupping of his manly breasts to be seen. Though extreme, it was just the ultimate and logical version of one of the last double standards: ugly men judging female pulchritude in a way ugly women never rate male good looks - or the lack of such. It was recently exemplified by the ‘DAVID BLUNKETT!’ response beloved by social media wags in the wake of Laura Kuenssberg’s recent teasing (preceding her forthcoming memoir) that a politician had once perhaps proffered an unwanted threesome.

What a difference a month makes. From September 28 to October 6, Paris thrilled to the spectacle of their annual fashion week showing clothes for Spring/Summer 2027. Many stars were there; even the ‘radical’ ones, such as Dua Lipa at Chanel. Naomi Campbell got around on a Lime bike - followed by a bodyguard minding her £85,000 handbag on a second one, an image which sums up the hypocritical elitism of the occasion beautifully.   Paris Fashion Week overlapped slightly with the first peaceful protests in the French capital about such issues as teacher shortages.

One sweltering summer many moons ago, I spent a deliriously drunken day on Brighton Pier with my new, young, posh friend down from London for the weekend. I woke up the next morning, stretched happily at the thought of another day of doing nothing much in the sun - and shrieked in horror as I saw my friend’s name tattooed in what looked like - to add insult to injury - Comic Sans font across my knuckles.   My shriek brought my mate rushing in - and we were now united in woe, as it appeared that she had done the same with my name. We went out to my swimming pool to wash away our sorrows - and were delighted when, on drying off, the ‘tattoos’ faded to barely nothing. They were temporary!

In theory, being a wizened old sexagenarian, I should feel resentful of gorgeous young women, particularly those who have monetised their erotic capital in a way I could never have dreamt of, even at my fruitiest. But on the contrary, they make me feel like cheering; I’m particularly keen on Sydney Sweeney and her fantastic rack. There is, however, one famous actress who really gets my goat; I feel an almost physical reaction when I see her photograph. Sometimes, in restaurants, when they say ‘Any allergies?’ I want to reply ‘Yes - Sarah Jessica Parker.’  On paper, I should love SJP. (It pains me to be so familiar with someone I loathe, but I resent the time it takes to type out her full name.

In the interests of complete candour, I should reveal that Dawn French and I have had ‘beef’ (and how suitable that word is, as we were both beefy at the time) for decades. Since 1994, to be precise, when she made a television documentary on ‘Big Women’. She asked me to appear in it; I refused; she put my name repeatedly on the credits. What a way to celebrate porkers - by calling someone a porker!   I was merely chubby at the time, being a good 5’9 in my prime (I’ve shrunk a bit with age and disability) whereas she was only 5 foot and maybe 19 stone at her ‘peak’.

Like a lot of things, it started with Harold Wilson. This deceptively homely politician was the Queen’s first Labour leader and not reckoned to be quite her speed. Yet she developed a relationship with him which was notable for its warmth, to the extent that they had been known to natter while sharing the washing up after Balmoral barbecues.   But it was Wilson’s lust for taxing the highest earning – ‘squeeze them until the pips squeak’ gloated his chancellor Denis Healey – which brought him into conflict with The Beatles.

As one who’s always been keen on putting their hand up and admitting to their faults (a perverse form of boasting, I suspect) I was always suspicious of the medicalisation of character flaws which apparently render us helpless in the clammy hands of Fortuna. It was bad enough when friends who’d generally always seemed highly capable jumped on the ADHD bus in later life, suddenly flinching at loud noises when they’d spent a good deal of their lives dancing to ear-splitting techno. But it was another sort of annoying when ex-friends who were merely awful people started blaming all their past ghastliness first on ADHD and then – still not feeling special enough – on autism, a serious condition which affects a tiny amount of people.