I Knew I Was Right - Julie Burchill

 I KNEW I WAS RIGHT - JULIE BURCHILL

The immediately striking thing about I Knew I Was Right, 'the controversial autobiography' of Julie Burchill is how short it is, clocking in at just 193 pages. All things considered, however, perhaps this might not be too much of a bad thing? I say this in the context of a lot of autobiographies being sprawling, bloated tomes recording every non-event in the writer's life elevated to preposterous heights, where a fall from a tricycle as a toddler for example apparently nudges them toward their sexual orientation in later life. Or how their Great Grandfather's penchant for dressing up in women's clothes in the trenches at Flanders is obviously a genetic thing, thus explaining a career in the theatre for the Great Grandchild. Burchill's autobiography on the other hand, if not exactly rushed, is dictated in a breathless manner, almost as if she's got an eye on it being made into a film one day and she's narrating over an introductory sequence of home movie clips before getting to the main storyline.

Where do you start with Julie Burchill? Well, in her hometown of birth in Bristol, I guess? Being a fellow Bristolian I recognise, of course, the places she talks of such as Southmead Hospital, Barton Hill (pronounced 'Bart Nil' in Bristolian), and Brislington (the area where she's from) although I don't recognise all her descriptions of these places.

'West Country life was so slow, so very, very slow' she writes, and she's half right but also half wrong, depending on your interpretation and perception of 'slow'. Compared to London, for example, Bristol can be argued to be slow but then I'd say London can be frantic. Personally, I think Bristol can be more favourably compared to Jamaica where life in the Mild West as Banksy coined it isn't so much 'slow' but 'easy going'. Bristolian life can be rudely interrupted at times by spasmodic bursts of violence but then even many of the fights I've witnessed appeared to be in slow motion and almost ballet-like, reminiscent of scenes from Sam Peckinpah films when people get shot.

One thing I do recognise is her class consciousness that in a place such as Bristol is pretty pronounced if you but care to look. 'We were thrilled the day the telephone arrived,' Burchill writes 'This was in the Sixties and we were profoundly working class, so it was like a yacht, say, would be to you people out there, whom, just between you, me and the doorpost I'll always, deep down, despise unless you started from prole position too, because that's just the way things are. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly and the smart money says that if you're not from where I'm from I'll never respect you.' And I concur.

There's also her realisation as a child that the life laid out before her was not the one she wanted: 'I knew as surely as I knew my own name that if I stayed (in Bristol) I would get fucked, pregnant, married. And after that I wouldn't get anything but old.' Not that there's anything wrong with such a life if you so choose it, but to the errant working class child it's a problem if like Oliver Twist you want more, or at least something 'other'. Because there is no 'other' presented to you. There is no alternative apart from the vague notion of 'bettering yourself' by moving into the environs of middle class concerns and status symbols. Implying, of course, that working class concerns and even a working class identity is somehow less than that held by the middle class. Which, of course, is nonsense if not insulting.

And then there's the subject of books, of which Burchill says: 'It kills me when middle class kids see Not Reading as some sort of rebellion. If you don't read books, you really have been fucked over in a major way. You have been castrated and conned. To read, voluntarily, is the first step to asserting the fact that you know that there is somewhere else.' That's not necessarily so, of course, but it's pretty close.

Books (and music) saved Burchill's life and led her at the age of 17 to getting a job with the NME and her moving to London. This is where her story moves up a notch but only because it was 1976 and the Nineteen Seventies were about to officially begin with the release of Anarchy In The UK by the Sex Pistols. The NME, though not quite being at the heart of the zeitgeist was still an important and very influential place to be at that time as it latched on to the coattails of Punk Rock and went spinning into the firmament like some mad dust devil. And Burchill was there. Fencing off her NME compartment with barbed wire to keep the 'ippies out, telling Johnny Rotten that at the age of 19 he was too old, spiking Country Joe McDonald's tea with speed so as to get him talking, having sado-masochistic sex with Mick Farren, being stalked by Jane Suck, ligging with The Clash, and being propositioned by Iggy Pop for a bit of anal - and that's just for starters.

So what happened? What went wrong? With all due respect, Burchill very successfully made the leap from the NME to the national newspapers but in the process lost something along the way, or rather, something within her was brought to the fore and nurtured to the point of it being all-consuming. And that 'something' was? Conservatism. Parochial, provincial, small-town conservatism blended with a healthy dose of Stalinism, fermenting into a pretty abstract if not toxic cocktail. What does it profit a man to gain the world but to lose his soul, as they said about Elvis.

On following Burchill's timeline it was on marrying Tony Parsons and moving into a maisonette in Billericay, Essex, that it all started going Pete Tong. Her productivity may have started going up but there was a price to pay and Burchill slowly but surely mutated into the brittle monster we all know and love/loathe in equal proportions to this day. Fueled, tempered and nurtured on a steady diet of speed and snakebites progressing to cocaine binges at the Groucho Club.

'Punk was about a break with consensus', Burchill tells us and that's probably very true as is her modus operandi that she declares at the very start of her book: 'If it ain't broke, break it would seem to be my design for living'. Which just about explains everything about her.

I tend to think that had I ever met Julie Burchill, particularly in her younger days that we'd have got along quite well. Who knows? She instead, however, fell into the clutches of the Tony Parsons and Toby Youngs of this world. Then again perhaps not, maybe we wouldn't have got along at all, especially after reading this bit in her book: 'My gran lives in a modern block of flats in Barton Hill, which sounds posh but actually has a reputation of being extremely rough. Well, like the Shangri-La song said about a boy, it's good but not evil, not like Easton. We Brislington babes lived in fear of Easton; a mean sprawl of council estates and sex pests (allegedly; none of us had ever been there), it was our definite no go area. Even as I grew to be a woman of the world, the word Easton could still strike fear into my sharply shod soul.'

I've got to laugh because even though I didn't actually grow up in Easton, I lived a good number of years there (I'm actually a Meader, from an area called Southmead, renowned for being one of the genuinely most roughest and toughest areas in Bristol). Which means I'm the kind of person Burchill would have done her utmost to avoid. In fact, the combination of my roots in Southmead and my life in Easton would probably have been the stuff of her nightmares. 

What can I say? Que sera, sera. C'est la vie. For the record, however, if Julie Burchill ever does decide to venture into Easton one day I'm quite happy to put in a good word for her. Just so long as she remembers to wipe her feet before entering.

John Serpico

The Guardian Columns 1998-2000 - Julie Burchill

THE GUARDIAN COLUMNS 1998-2000 
JULIE BURCHILL

More huff and puff from everybody's favourite sociopath, Julie Burchill.

I'll tell you what, reading her columns en masse with no seven day gap between each leaves you reeling, as though you've just had a fight in a pub car park with some bloke who's accused you earlier in the evening of giving his pint funny looks ('Are you looking at my pint, mate?'). Your chest is pounding, your shirt is ripped and you've a bloodied lip though you've neither lost nor won because your opponent is one of those who just won't stay down or concede defeat because they've no comprehension of the concept. So you've both had to call it a draw just to bring the fight to an end to enable you both to get home for some sleep as you've got work in the morning...

I remember reading these columns when first published in the Guardian and waiting for the inevitable angry denunciations from irate liberals in the following week's letters page. I always felt these responses from the readers was what Burchill actually thrived on and if it didn't happen then it meant she wasn't doing her job properly. Which was all probably part of her remit as handed down by her employer. The editor of the Guardian at that time was Alan Rusbridger, I believe.

Am I a masochist for reading them all over again in book form? Probably. And how are you meant to read this collection of columns, I wonder? In one big sitting? Are you meant to dip in and out of them? I don't know what lesson it came in at school but I surely missed the one entitled 'How to read a book of Julie Burchill columns'. Perhaps it was in human biology? Or woodwork?

So with trepidation I started reading it (in short bursts on a train, actually) and it didn't turn out too bad. Burchill's reputation goes before her but it's a bit like swimming in the sea here in Exmouth: you dip a toe in and you think it's going to be freezing but when you immerse yourself fully, it's really not too bad.

I'm not sure if Burchill was at the height of her powers when writing for the Guardian but even if running on empty, she's better than most other columnists. Which means that Julie Burchill - The Guardian Columns 1998-2000 is an okay if not dizzying read even if it does come in an atrocious cover.

All human life is here, from the sublime to the ridiculous; from the precise aim of the assassin to the scattershot blasting of the shotgun wielding cider-addled farmer. Burchill's humanity is given a good airing, particularly in such pieces as when she writes about the death of her Dad - killed by capitalism: 'They tell you how many people communism killed, and how many fascism killed. But they don't tell you how many capitalism killed, and is killing, because a) they wouldn't know where to start, and b) it would never end'.

So too is her sense of humour particularly when the spectre of David Baddiel falls under her gaze: 'One of the most embarrassing questions, right up there with 'Are you really going out with David Baddiel?', must be, 'Do you know who I am?'.

Or even certain male poets: 'Ted Hughes. Another pet hate of mine. His poetry is like being slapped around the face with a wet mackerel, and I don't mean that in a sexy way'.

Or even lidos: 'If there's one thing I love, it's lidos. More than parks, more than pubs, more than President Clinton's penis, they seem to me to be the greatest expression of a very public hedonism, attractive and accessible to all, regardless of age, sex or social status'. Interestingly, Burchill was one of the features of Banksy's Dismaland show at the old lido in Weston-super-Mare recently.

It's when she goes out of her way to intentionally cause mischief or controversy for no other reason than for controversy's sake that she's the most annoying, however. No better illustrated than by her attack upon the late, great John Peel who was alive when her column about him was first published, causing him considerable upset. To whose benefit was it to launch such an ugly attack upon him? No-one's, of course, apart from her own. That particular column is included in the book and it's not a pleasant read. Neither are her attacks upon John Lennon, come to think about it, though this is more than made up for by her attacks upon her very much more deserving (middle class) targets.

When reading this book it struck me, actually, that both Burchill and I have ended up living on the coast (though different ones - she now lives in Brighton) having both been born and raised in Bristol. Both members of the West Country working class that she never neglects to mention.

Perhaps I should Facebook her and become her friend? Dare I?

On finishing it I returned it to the charity shop from whence it came for some other masochist to enjoy, which I thought was a good fate to befall it as it means it will continue generating money for some decent cause or other until it one day finds a proper home on someone's bookshelf.

And from there, sadly, it will remain forever more unread simply gathering dust...

John Serpico

Where it all started...

Love It Or Shove It - Julie Burchill

LOVE IT OR SHOVE IT - JULIE BURCHILL

When in 1976 the New Musical Express advertised for two hip young gunslingers to join their staff, what they got was Tony Parsons and Julie Burchill who as legend would have it immediately went to war with the hippy hacks at the paper by surrounding their corner of the office with barbed wire. This was, of course, at the advent of Punk and the reason for them being taken on by the NME was to inject new blood into what was an increasingly moribund state of affairs at the paper.

Being so young (Parsons was 21 and Burchill just 17), so enthused and so willing (or so young, so dumb and so full of come, as Burchill might describe it) they both flung themselves into the Punk maelstrom with Burchill heading straight down to the Roxy and Parsons heading out on tour with The Clash.

From such tiny acorns mighty oaks can grow and as the years passed they both managed to climb the greasy pole of success to become fully-fledged authors and pundits for the national media. Parsons became a columnist for the Daily Mirror and a regular fixture on BBC cultural review programmes where his opinions steadily shrivelled to the point of insignificance, ending up as the UKIP-voting antithesis of his younger self. Burchill became the Queen of the Groucho Club, holding court over a constant stream of coke-blitzed acolytes and fellow media travellers, hopping from one national newspaper to the next as an outspoken, somewhat provocative columnist.

Of the two, Burchill was always the better writer due to her no-holds-barred approach to any subject. Blasting away with a double-barrelled shotgun assault upon anything that fell beneath her expansive gaze; offering praise to things which in media circles were often deemed unworthy; going against the grain without fear of ridicule or condemnation; and just generally speaking her mind and getting things off her chest. To this day, for anyone familiar with her oeuvre she is either loved or despised and in the process has become an unacknowledged national treasure.

Burchill - as she has forever reminded us - was born and raised on a white, working class estate in Bristol and though her readers might be bored to the point of distraction in hearing about it, it is precisely this fact that separates and has caused her to remain separate from all other writers. You can take the girl from her class but you can't take the class from the girl, and Burchill is no exception to this rule. Unlike others in the media (particularly Parsons, for example) she has never turned against her own kind and has always been a staunch defender of her class and the demonisation of it in the form of terms such as 'chav'. In her writings she has criticised the proletariat (and so she should) but it has always been done through a sense of understanding, and this is one of the very things (quite apart from her dexterity with words) that makes her interesting.

When she's in the throes of pummelling something or someone with baseball bat-like prose and you're in agreement with her, she's brilliant and you could be egging her on thinking 'Go on Julie, tell it like it is'. But then the next moment she could be turning around and saying "And what have you got to smile about?", as she makes her way towards you with her baseball bat once again swinging. And then she's doubly brilliant.

One of the annoying things about her, however, is that she'll throw something into her writing in an almost off the cuff manner simply to cause controversy for the sake of it - as Morrissey testifies in his autobiography. Whether any of these off the cuff comments might be true or not doesn't seem to matter because she does it in such a way that it's almost taken as read, or if there's any doubt over what she's written there's no quick way of checking it. The reader simply moves on though the seed has been planted and remains. In Morrissey's case it was her stating in an interview with him that he 'lives with his boyfriend in Santa Monica', to which he took umbrage because according to him the subject of his sexuality or Santa Monica was never broached.

But Burchill is actually a very funny writer and it's this aspect of her that a good many people seem to miss. She's what might be called 'a wind-up merchant' and her comment about Morrissey should probably be taken as a joke. A misplaced joke, perhaps, but a joke all the same. As Morrissey himself writes in his autobiography regarding the incident: 'We suddenly have a picture before us of Burchill alone at midnight, a bottle of Gordon's gin resting against her typewriter... suddenly laughing at the inclusion of fingerlicking fantasy'. And this is the giveaway. Morrissey may have found her comment unpalatable but he can envisage her laughing as she writes it because she finds it funny. After wishing her dead, he even goes on to concede that Burchill 'may very well give genius a bad name, but she can still wow and slay like no other entertainer. Yes, entertainer'.

On reading Love It Or Shove It - seeing as how it was first published in 1985 - it's surprising how much of it has stood the test of time. Much of the reason for this is down to the timeless subjects that Burchill covers as in Hugh Hefner, Graham Greene, classic pop, agony aunts, feminism, class, pop idols and so on but it also has a lot to do with her sense of humour.

In an article entitled Food For Faith, for example, she writes: 'Healthfood really has very little to do with health; America's oldest citizen, Charlie Smith of Florida, aged 136, has two shots of vodka for breakfast and a hamburger dipped in sugar for dinner'. Which is actually pretty funny though not, of course, if you're a dietician.

In another article entitled Old Bores' Almanac she makes her predictions for the year 1984: In May - 'Factory supremo Tony Wilson announces that in future all gigs by Factory artistes will be known as 'rallies'. The Factory package tour plays Nuremberg, the bands appearing in Waffen SS uniforms. Comments Tony Wilson, 'The accusations of crypto-Fascism are simply facile'.

In June - 'Factory Records invade Poland', and 'In a sensational article in the News Of The World, reprinted from Christian Review, Cliff Richard reveals, 'I have not had sex since 1961'.

In July - 'Cliff Richard explodes' and 'Sting's Maserati ploughs into a Right To Work march, injuring dozens of unemployed health workers. 'I am still a Socialist,' insists Sting through his lawyer'. And 'Tony Wilson takes poison in the bunker under his Manchester office'.

In October - 'The BBC bans Julien Temple's video of the new Rolling Stones single, 'Everybody Suck Ma Thang'. Comments a distraught Mick Jagger, 'The song is about Belize. Or is it Grenada? Somewhere out there, man. Julien told me all about it. Now I can see no hope of resolving this issue peacefully'.

Which again is all pretty funny so long as you're not Tony Wilson, Cliff Richard, Sting, or the Rolling Stones, that is. 

And we may all laugh but only up until when she turns her baseball bat prose on us. And then, apparently, it's not so funny. Though still very brilliant.

John Serpico