Julie Burchill

Julie Burchill

Julie Burchill is a writer living in Brighton. Her Substack is julieburchill.substack.com.

Why musicians can’t stand politicians liking their songs

I was amused to hear that Eminem has sent a cease-and-desist letter to the Republican presidential hopeful Vivek Ramaswamy – who ‘rapped’ in his youth under the name ‘Da Vek’ – warning him not to use the song ‘Lose Yourself’ again.  Ramaswamy sang it onstage at the Iowa State Fair whilst on the campaign trail two weeks ago. Mr Em did allow Joe Biden to use ‘Lose Yourself’ in his 2020 presidential campaign for a television commercial though, and even shared it online with the caption: ‘One opportunity… #Vote.’ Bit of an unfortunate choice there – if any politician doesn’t need encouragement to lose himself, it’s the befuddled, bemused and bewildered Biden.

The terrible triumph of tenderness

When I was a young woman in the 1980s, videotape was the new-fangled entertainment form; on evenings in, my second husband and I liked nothing better than to whack in a VHS and record something off the the telly. We felt like we were in The Jetsons – though seen with a modern eye, we must have looked more like The Flintstones. We were particularly fond of Duran Duran videos – and of a philosophical debate which was first aired in 1986 on the then-sophisticated Channel 4, now most famous for showcasing a transvestite playing the piano with their penis. The debate was part of the Modernity And Its Discontents series, this particular episode being called ‘The Tough And The Tender’ in which Michael Ignatieff interviewed the philosophers Ernest Gellner and Charles Taylor.

It’s time to end the rewilding menace

There’s a ghastly predictability to the news that the University of Sussex – in Brighton, naturally – wants to set aside nearly half of its land for ‘rewilding’. According to our local paper, the Argus :   ‘The University of Sussex will rewild 42 per cent of its campus land in a move which aims to promote more biodiversity, achieved by designating land into areas where the grass will be cut a limited number of times a year as well as other areas where no mowing will take place.

Do the police think ‘lesbian’ is a term of abuse?

Reading that a 16-year-old autistic girl had been dragged from her home by seven cops after reportedly saying a female officer looked like ‘a lesbian like nana’, I had to check that we weren’t back in the 1970s of my girlhood when ‘lezzer’ was the worst thing you could call a woman. Once again we are faced with the proof that wokeness, far from being ‘kind’, is often just a shiny new way to bully people Yet here are the coppers going all Life on Mars on some poor neuro-divergent kiddy – who also suffers from spinal disability scoliosis – in her Leeds home after (irony of ironies) she was driven home by police officers attending a gay pride celebration.

Brighton rock bottom: How the Greens nearly destroyed the city I love

When you’re short-sighted, everyone seems attractive; for this reason, I don’t often wear my glasses, as I think myopia has a felicitous effect on my attitude to life. However, after a whopping 28 years living in Brighton & Hove, it’s dawning on me that this has coloured my view of my adopted hometown too. I love living in Brighton and wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else. But I am privileged to do a thing I love for a living, when and where I want; for people who need to get around it on a daily basis, Brighton is an increasingly unpleasant place to be.

I still dream of my old pool

I felt a flash of affection reading that Boris Johnson’s plan to build an outdoor swimming pool at his second home in Oxfordshire may be stalled by the presence of great crested newts. What a very Bojo situation; seeing the big picture, seeking fun, determined to do things large – but hampered all the way. Carrie will probably have told him that it will be lovely for their three kiddies and that they’ll save a fortune on days out in the school holidays. But, trust me, as someone who was owned by a swimming pool for the best part of a decade, this may well be one folly too far, even for Boris.

Lizzo and the problem with Fat Activism

Remember when we all loved Lizzo? In 2019 ‘Juice’ (the last great party anthem BP – Before Pandemic) was a thrilling throwback groove, variously described as ‘delightfully outrageous’ and ‘a self-esteem boosting anthem’. Having lived in her car at one point during years of rejection from the music industry – partly for not possessing the usual video-vixen hotness required from young black female singers – it was lovely to see Lizzo suffering from neither modesty nor the #BeKind blight. ‘I just took a DNA test/Turns out I’m 100 per cent that b****’ she crowed in the break-up song ‘Truth Hurts’.

The sinister truth about the war on cars

When I was a girl in the 1970s, we didn’t have a car. We always took the train from our home in Bristol to the deep west of Devon and Cornwall. But when I got together with my third husband in 1995, I discovered the joy of driving — or rather, being driven, as I certainly wasn’t going to be the (sober) adult in the room if I could help it.  We acquired a black Mini (‘Geoff’) and most summers we’d motor all the way from Brighton to Portmeirion, in Wales. Not only was Geoff a Mini, but he even had black and white Union Jacks on the back of his mirrors; driving into the heartbreakingly beautiful Prisoner village in him felt very glamorous.

Who killed comedy?

Wading into the Sadiq Khan #HaveAWord brouhaha, Laurence Fox had a pop at Khan’s ally Romesh Ranganathan thus: ‘You are not a “comedian” #Maaate’. The dig came after Ranganathan teamed up with the London mayor in his campaign urging men to challenge their mates on their behaviour towards women. Fox had a point; when is a droll not a droll, but principally a state-sanctioned lapdog with a few lame gags on the side? Far too often in recent times. One of the most striking things about our modern culture is the lack of creativity, even amongst those who work in the actual creative industries. Writers are now routinely sensitivity-read, censored and cancelled by the very people who should be encouraging them to be as bold as possible: their publishers.

Sinéad O’Connor deserved better than the music industry

It started with That Song on the World Service in the early hours, the one I’ve always loathed; for me it symbolises the start of the state we’re in now whereby perfectly good toe-tappers are routinely strung out in slo-mo by interpreters for whom misery passes as creativity. OK, the Prince original wasn’t exactly a laugh a minute, but it wasn’t anywhere near as dragged out as the Sinéad O’Connor cover. So when I heard that the singer had died at the age of 56, my first thought was, selfishly ‘Oh no – they’ll be playing That Song all day!

Sadiq Khan needs to #HaveAWord with himself

When a public figure is in danger of annoying me so much that it risks impinging on my quality of life, there’s an easy trick I play on myself in order to put the irritant back into their box and into perspective. Rather than take them seriously, I simply reframe them as a comic creation in the style of David Brent of The Office fame. This strategy worked a treat with Meghan Markle when I had to watch the Netflix mockumentary for work. With the latest mis-step in Mayor Sadiq Khan’s anti-sexist #HaveAWord campaign, the time has come to view him too through the prism of Ricky Gervais’ supreme buffoon.

The weaponisation of Jane Birkin

Jane Birkin, who died this week at the age of 76, appeared to be a delightful woman – attractive, adventurous and stoic. Nevertheless, I had to look twice at the Daily Mail headline on Monday which screeched 'Jane Birkin, a true style icon who put today's trashy celebs to shame'. Are they talking about the same Jane Birkin, I wonder? The one whose first film role, when still a teenager, was as a naked, nameless model ‘romping’ in a threesome with David Hemmings and Gillian Hills? I mean, talk about nice work if you can get it – but pretty ‘trashy’ if you want to fling around words like that about actual human beings, which I generally don’t.

The cruelty of a trans beauty queen

BeKind is one of the Great Icks – to use the vivid word so beloved of Love Islanders – of our age. It’s a form of brainwashing which is particularly insidious as it’s generally applied to females, starting out in childhood when numerous items of BE KIND clothing can be found in the girls’ section of shops but not in the boys’. (Note to clothing manufacturers and retailers; it’s not girls who need reminding to be kind, judging from the violent crime stats.) As well as a conditioning process for female children, it's a shaming mechanism for adult human females regularly used by the trans lobby to reward women who give up their rights – and to rebuke women who don’t.

Confessions of a tanorexic

In an interesting piece for Air Mail, Linda Wells writes of ‘The secret lives of tanorexics’, asking: ‘What drives these bronze obsessives – and why won’t they ever learn?’ She questions her sun-baked friends about why they are so intent on doing a thing which they are warned will ruin their complexions and make it more likely that they get cancer – and doesn’t get a satisfactory answer from any of them. Reading it, I realised that I too am a tanorexic. It kind of creeps up on you over the years, like any other bad habit: one minute you’re having a harmless half-hour in a sun-trap pub garden in Hove and the next your hair’s falling out in Crete, as happened to me when I failed to wear a sun hat in July some years back.

Andy Murray and the unstoppable rise of the sporting bores

When I was a girl, sportsmen were amiable dolts. If they were old-school, they liked blokes and beer; if switched-on, they liked boogieing with blondes at Tramp and dreamt of opening boutiques. But with both, you could rely on them never to let you know what they were thinking about the three-day week or the situation in Cyprus.  There’s nothing like the sight of men earning £100,000 a week for doing the thing they love lecturing us about colonialism to remind us of our privilege When Andy Murray declared his support for Just Stop Oil this week, he joined that ever-burgeoning brigade of what I think of as the Schlock Jocks, or perhaps the Poppycock Jocks.

Gary Lineker and Andy Murray

Now I’m 64: my tips for a happy old age

On my 20th birthday, I locked myself in the bathroom of my bungalow in­­ Billericay and cried. Having achieved my dream – becoming a published writer – at the tender age of 17, I thought it was all downhill from there. Yes, some of this had to do with marrying the first man I had sex with; the idea that I was only ever meant to do the deed with him alone appalled me beyond words. But there was also a general feeling that my value was in some way intrinsically bound up with my extreme youth. Fast-forward to the day I turned 60, when I woke up in an Art Deco flat with the sea at the bottom of the street, married to a man (third time lucky) who could still make me laugh after a quarter of a century.

The Transmaid’s Tale

It’s generally agreed that sex-selection is a Bad Thing. In India and China, sons are favoured over daughters – but so are they in the USA, where the margin has only moved a few points since the 1940s; 38 per to 24 per cent then, 36 per cent to 28 per cent now.  Not surprisingly this overall preference is driven by men; 43 per cent preferred a son compared to 24 per cent who preferred a daughter while women showed no preference. This may be down to the somewhat doomy male perception that, as Billy Bigelow sang in the musical Carousel ‘You can have fun with a son – but you gotta be a father to a girl!’ This led Bigelow to take to a life of crime and be shot dead by the police before his daughter was born – so that worked out well.

Pornography for the Boden set: The Missus, by E.L. James, reviewed

As an erstwhile fellow peddler of dirty books (Ambition, 1989), I’m in two minds about E.L. James. On the one hand, I’m glad that I never made money writing tosh which led legions of gullible women to collude in their own humiliation. Granted, my heroine had SOLD tattooed on her forehead, but so far as I know no murdering man ever used my book as an alibi, whereas, as Wikipedia puts it: Rough sex murder defence, also known as the Fifty Shades defence, is employed by some people accused of murdering a sexual partner who claim that the death occurred because of injuries sustained during consensual sex. Advocacy group We Can’t Consent To This has identified...

It’s becoming ever clearer that climate change is a class issue

It’s not news that we live in a New Medieval age of Magical Thinking, when the Enlightenment is seen as the start of hate-speech, feelings must always overrule facts and ‘transubstantiation’ has taken on a whole new meaning. Men can become women simply by wishing it so, the BBC instructs its staff that there are 150 genders and teachers call students ‘despicable’ and ‘homophobic’ when they understandably ask a fellow classmate ‘How can you identify as a cat, when you are a girl?

The stupidity of the Oscars’ diversity quotas

Is anyone actually watching the Oscars anymore? Until ‘The Incident’ between Messrs Smith and Rock last year the direction of travel was clear. Between 2014 and 2020 the televised Academy Awards lost almost half their viewers, the number falling from 43 to 23 million. This year, in March, they were at 18 million with punters only tuning in perhaps to see some bitch-slapping between Cate Blanchett and Meryl Streep. As the importance of cinema has dwindled, the po-faced self‑importance of the film industry has grown The first Oscars were presented in front of 270 people with tickets costing five dollars and a ceremony which ran for 15 minutes; now it’s – as the 1979 host Johnny Carson quipped – ‘two hours of sparkling entertainment spread over a four-hour show’.