I’ve always had a lot of respect for Julie Burchill. Her uncompromising opinions, stinging criticisms and fantastic use of the English language make for exiting and funny reading.
I stopped reading the Guardian when she stopped writing for it, her hilarious critique of the middle classes seemed like the only thing keeping the paper in check. Since leaving they seemed to have breathed a sigh of relief, given up with free thinking and embraced the tedium that is that particular brand of bedwetting liberality.
I liked her articles sticking up for young people, those that are ignored and the working classes. She was the first to lay into New Labour and dismiss them as little more than an extension of self serving conservatism, and most importantly she did it with humour too. In short, her way of writing has helped me shape the resident lunacy into a more coherent and useful anger.
She’s always had an understandable dislike of the chattering classes, so it came as no surprise when she emerged as the champion of Chav culture. I don’t doubt her honest background or genuine affection for the disaffected, but the thing is, as much as she’d like to be Julie is definitely not a Chav. Chavs simply don’t do the huge house in Hove, six figure salary, interviews in the Independent and column in The Times.
That’s just not the way it works.