Julie Burchill

One of the funniest - and in my opinion, falsest - things women have long said is ‘I’m doing it for myself - not for men’ about improving the way they look. Men have rarely said the same about women, which reflects that men have never been principally valued for their looks, historically, as they generally earned far more money than women. Women had to look as pretty as possible in order for a man to pick them and support them financially, thus my brilliant line ‘Men are judged as the sum of their parts; women are judged as some of their parts.

I almost spat out my toast (smothered with the As Ever, The Raspberry Spread Trio - ‘Made To Keep On Hand And Enjoy Often’ $42 - natch) in pure molten anticipation when I read that my role model in spreading jam to flour, sorry, speaking truth to power, will be hosting a women-only weekend ‘retreat’ in Sydney during her forthcoming Australia jaunt, with tickets ‘a steal' at £1,700. I already had my credit card in my hot little hand until I remembered that though I love to lunch tête-à-tête with one lady, being in the company of many women at once - with not one awful toxic man around - makes me feel like drawing crude approximations of penises on fragrant toilet doors after around half an hour.

What do you think of when you think of Jameela Jamil? (I realise that I may be talking to the wrong demographic here, but bear with me, and I promise I’ll broaden it out.) I think of hair – lots and lots of shiny, black, beautiful hair. Personally – and I thought this long before telogen effluvium, caused by the trauma of spinal surgery, made half of mine fall out and turn the rest grey – I don’t believe I’ve ever seen hair as lovely, not even on the great stars of Hollywood like Veronica Lake. If ever anyone had ‘pretty privilege’ (a term which I find censorious and covetous; attractive people should get prizes, just like brainy ones do) it’s Jamil.

When the ghastly Lynda Snell of The Archers ‘did’ fasting last year at Ramadan to suck up to the new Muslim family in town, I thought this kind of thing had got about as silly as it was possible to be. But reading about what happened last week at London Fashion Week took the gluten-free cake.  Non-Muslims either choosing or being compelled to celebrate Muslim holidays has been going on for some time. Understandably if disagreeably, with its Muslim mayor, London splurges on the celebration of Ramadan, decorating Piccadilly – the heart of the city – with 30,000 (sustainable) lights.

Until around a decade back, most of us either watched the Eurovision Song Contest because it was extremely camp, or for what passed for the ‘politics’ – Greece and Turkey not voting for each other over Cyprus, and that exquisitely rebuking nul points the UK invariably got from Germany and France, for being an uppity little island nation which was still celebrating winning Second World War.   The campness is still there, but it now sits uncomfortably with real politics – that of the culture wars. 'Trans' and Israel are the flashpoints, with the supporters of the first and the opponents of the latter overlapping in a vicious Venn diagram. This was summed up in 2024’s Irish entrant, one Bambie Thug, who offered ‘I’m queer!

Pick the prince who recently said this: ‘I take a long time trying to understand my emotions and why I feel like I do, and I feel like that’s a really important process to do every now and again, to check in with yourself and work out why you’re feeling like you do.’  Prince Harry, right? The baffled bailer across the water with too much time on his hands, who in the past, while doped up, has confessed to having conversations with both a trash can and a toilet. O, that the alumni of the Algonquin could have been around to join in!  No, it was Prince William. I must admit that I felt a vague foreboding when I heard his comments on BBC Radio 1’s Life Hacks on Wednesday – the Mental Elf strikes again!

Two years ago, I wrote an essay here called ‘In praise of Kemi Badenoch’. To say it was admiring is like saying that Abelard quite fancied Heloise. She sent me a nice message on X; I went mildly berserk one evening when drunk and sent her a poem I’d had ChatGPT write, basically saying that she was going to save the world. Our communication understandably dwindled after that, as she probably came to believe I was a crazy person. To be fair, I also became increasingly taken with Reform; the re-nationalisation plan in particular grabbed me. I wrote about my turncoat ways in the i Paper: ‘When I and millions of other former Labour voters choose Reform at the next general election, it’s not because we’re rabid right-wingers.

When I heard that Robbie Williams had written a song called ‘Morrissey', I didn’t know whether to be delighted or irate. It’s no secret that I idolise Moz, and the idea of a somewhat seedy showman attempting glory by association made my hackles rise somewhat.  But on the other hand, Williams has co-written several songs which have caused my toes to tap over the years and has a history of acting gay when it suits him. (Indeed, Take That’s appeal might be crudely summed up as four lads who looked like rent boys and their concerned social worker, Gary Barlow.) Then there was the ‘Shame’ video of 2010 by Robbie and Gary, in which the two principals start by exchanging copious meaningful glances in a shopping mall.

I’ve been fat and I’ve been thin; I’ve been pretty and I’ve been plain – ugly, even. Throughout this, my self-esteem has stayed generally constant, as if you’re going to base it on something as ephemeral as physical beauty, you’re going to run out of road very quickly indeed. This objective attitude to my own appearance reminds me of a funny story from the infant days of the internet. Imagine my surprise one morning to receive a message from an unknown recipient informing me that they had film of me masturbating to online pornography which they would make available to a wider audience should I fail to pay a ransom. (Don’t judge – I was young-ish and frisky and it was all so new – I soon grew out of it.