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Home > Media

Write like Julie Burchill for pleasure and profit

27 August 2004

One of the better things about Britain is our fine old tradition of deliberately offending the easily offended. The true masters of the craft were the Sex Pistols, who managed to offend not just cringing Royalists but lots more people besides, with their hilariously unsavoury songs about Belsen, abortion and the Great Train Robbers.

The easily offended are a pretty pathetic bunch. they're easy prey for controversialists of all flavours, whether it's Phil Redmond, The Prodigy or the producers of Big Brother. You'd have thought they'd have got tired of being offended by now, which is what makes the phenomenon that is Julie Burchill all the more inexplicable.

Professional iconoclast Burchill's latest endeavour is a (yawn) 'controversial' novel about teenage lesbianism, containing lashings of sex, drugs and alcohol. But the really remarkable thing about Burchill is the way she's kept a successful (financially, at least) career ticking over for so long.

Burchill's recent career has been based on flimsy stuff: contrivedly un-PC columns for newspapers, 'controversial' opinions, self-promotion (including publicising her slightly chaotic personal life), badly-written books (including a nothing-to-add Princess Di tome and the ironic 'bonkbuster' Ambition) and the odd TV appearance.

Yet she's fabulously rich. So at TFT we began to wonder if we couldn't emulate Burchill's success in her various fields. So we got writing...


'I wish we didn't have to keep experimenting with homosexuality,' said Billy, as he gave Kevin a blow-job. 'I'm pretty sure I'm not gay.'

'I don't like it any more than you,' said Kevin. 'I'm sick of experimenting with sex, drugs and alcohol, but we're teenagers so that's what we do. you're not the only one who'd prefer to sit at home and talk to your parents or read a good book. Anyway, hurry up and suck me off. We've still got to get pissed and stoned.'

Billy sighed and returned to his fellatio, dreaming hopeless dreams of moderate drinking, not having sex until he'd met the right girl and revising for his GCSEs. Who'd be a teenager in a crap exploitation novel?

The Friday Thing



The Nazis were right.

They just were.

And that's a fact.

The middle-class PC Guardianista brigade won't admit it, but invading Poland was the best thing that ever happened - even better than the last Christina Aguilera album. La Aguilera is a young woman who's in control of her sexuality - she's so in control she's not afraid to dress like a cowboy whore because a multinational record company tells her to. Yup, feminism has come a long way since earnest 1980s lentil-munchers from Greenham Common made us all grow beards. Am I right, or am I right, sisters?

Er... where was I? Oh yes. Poland.

The problem with the Poles is that they only eat turnips. What sort of a mentality is that? The Poles haven't got the sassy working class sass of working class sasses like, er, Cheryl Tweedy. Or the looping beats of classic Chicago house music. Or the luscious long lashes of my hunky boyf, Daniel, who doesn't care a flying fig that I'm an ageing sexual disaster area who shagged his sister. Bless!

The Poles haven't got any of those. All they've got is turnips. When a whole country is so mean-spirited that all they care for is turnips, is it any wonder that go-getting, in-your-face, working class overachievers like the Nazis decided to grind their gotten little province into a bloody paste?

Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is i... Shit, where's the coke? I could have sworn I had another wrap. Has someone stolen my coke? Who's stolen my fucking coke? WHO'S STOLEN MY FUCKING COKE?

The Friday Thing



I grew up in Bristol, a city where 80 per cent of the population worked at the local bubonic plague factory. Night after night I saw my poor old father come home covered in buboes, limbs falling off while he ate his dinner: asbestos pie, as usual.

That's what it was like to be working class in the 1970s. Working class heroes like my father died in their millions to line the pockets of the fat cat bosses who owned the bubonic plague factories. My father's only comfort was reading: the collected works of Marx, Engels and Lenin, with some Mao Tse Tung for light relief.

But I was better than everyone else, so I got a job in London with Sounds. In case you're never heard of it (fat chance!) Sounds was the bible of the music industry. Bands craved that elusive Sounds front cover. Some of the greatest names in rock music graced the cover of Sounds - Saxon, Flying Saucer Attack, Diesel Park West - and I was there, watching the Establishment cower as the New Music tore up the rule book and wrote a new, slightly different, one.

Anyway, while I was a gorgeous, pouting, size 10, 13-year-old speed freak cub reporter on Sounds, I met my first husband, Tony Parshit. One morning he came over to my desk. 'Can I borrow your stapler?' he said. 'I need to staple two pieces of paper together.'

Christ, he had Attitude! It was love at first sight - until he turned out to be full of shit. In fact, he couldn't be more full of shit if he was even fuller of shit than he already is, which is pretty full. He thinks he's so bloody clever, the little weasel. The little rat-faced weasel with his beady little rat-weasel eyes staring out at you from his picture byline in the Daily Mirror. Grow up, Tony, you rat-faced weasel bastard...


The Friday Thing

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