(Opinionated Media Canker)
The Saturday Guardian is a wonderful thing, offering not only TV listings and soap gossip but a wide selection of impressive-looking broadsheet supplements to leave lying around the house and intend to read well into the next week. There is, however, one singularly rancid turd in this punchbowl of weekend morning newspapery magnificence, and that turd's name is Julie Burchill. The continued publication of her weekly column with its absurdly well-worn formula of calculated outrage and devastatingly 'ironic' provocation, is one of the great mysteries of modern life. She's been peddling the exact same 'irritate the wimpy liberals' crap in column after column for years now, and the only reason she's able to get away with it is that the Guardian is, clearly, run by a bunch of self-loathing wimpy liberals. She is dull, self-obsessed to a terrifying degree and almost comically predictable. She is also very fat, and quite likely smells. There are only two things to be said in Ms. Burchill's defense. Firstly, she was once named the 'worst mother in Britain' by the Daily Mail, and as such clearly must have something going for her. And secondly, if you ever see her talk, she has a bizarre squeaky cartoon-mouse voice that's actually really funny. These are scant rewards, clearly. Make the break. Change your life. Spare yourself the pain. Stop reading Julie Burchill.