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08 Nov 14
16:51
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Date Joined:
27 Jan 02
In today's Guardian
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/nov/07/god-save-jews-from-philosemitism
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/nov/06/how-i-stopped-being-a-jew-shlomo-sand-unchosen-julie-burchill-review
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/nov/07/god-save-jews-from-philosemitism
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/nov/06/how-i-stopped-being-a-jew-shlomo-sand-unchosen-julie-burchill-review
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Stupid, ugly c*nt.
I'm not as as clever as Freeman or Self!
I'm not as as clever as Freeman or Self!
Self :
About 12 years ago I profiled Burchill for the Independent on Sunday. I wrote then that she presented the bizarre spectacle of an intelligent woman who had spent her entire adult life making herself more stupid; this process has now reached its inevitable conclusion, and she has become to all intents and purposes moronic. If I were still a Jew I might have cause to reject her overtures, but thankfully, having resigned from the club, I’m no longer in any danger of being bothered by this particular barroom bore.
About 12 years ago I profiled Burchill for the Independent on Sunday. I wrote then that she presented the bizarre spectacle of an intelligent woman who had spent her entire adult life making herself more stupid; this process has now reached its inevitable conclusion, and she has become to all intents and purposes moronic. If I were still a Jew I might have cause to reject her overtures, but thankfully, having resigned from the club, I’m no longer in any danger of being bothered by this particular barroom bore.
/\ I get the impression that he's turned her down before
A lesbian rock-chick with split-infinitives you could ram a fist up.
was it nick kent or charles shaaar-murray she was doing...no no it was paul morley
I am a child of the NME.
I am a child of the NME.
If I was Kent, Murray or Morley, I'd be suing!
She married Tony Parsons, I believe, and had a dalliance with Mick Farrren.
Think she went off the rails later..
Think she went off the rails later..
post Tony Parsons I thought she became a lesbian ... or was that just a phase ?
Yes, I believe so, can't fault her for any of that, just her writing.
not just post apparently ....
And now my friend Kathy Acker, who I so memorably got off with in front of my husband's whole family one happy Christmas Day in the Eighties, is living in Marine Parade and I cannot help but feel that a new Golden Age of Brighton is nigh upon us.
And now my friend Kathy Acker, who I so memorably got off with in front of my husband's whole family one happy Christmas Day in the Eighties, is living in Marine Parade and I cannot help but feel that a new Golden Age of Brighton is nigh upon us.
Locally Famous ~ Adam Barron
My pen is made me locally famous. I didn’t find out about it until I got to University. Before then my experience of women was nonexistent. I’d been at a boys’ school and anyway I was pretty spotty. I couldn’t believe when, all of a sudden, at the Fresher’s Ball, I was snogging. I was even more amazed when we were in her room. We were both wasted. I didn’t have a clue how to behave, I was terrified, but she knew what to do and in no time we were naked, in bed. She was kissing my mouth. My neck. My chest, my stomach, my….! She stopped.
My God! she said, incredulous. Your coq tastes just like CHOCOLATE!
Melanie (her name) wasn’t a shy girl. She must have told her friend Suzy. I realised this the next day when a very attractive girl, with hip clothes and trainers, approached me in the Union Bar and just started chatting. This had NEVER happened to me before. She asked me if I wanted to hear a new C.D. she’d bought and then we were in her room. Halfway through the second track we were naked. She’d hardly even kissed me before her face disappeared under the duvet.
It does! she exclaimed suddenly. It bloody well does!!
Two weeks into University I was still a virgin. I had, however, received twenty three ****s from twelve different girls and heard words such as ‘incredible’, ‘amazing’, ‘Bournville’, ‘Swiss’ and ‘Belgian’ exclaimed by mops of hair beneath my bedclothes. I had also been requested to immerse myself in a glass of milk and move vigorously to see if any of the flavour rubbed off. It didn’t.
I went to the Doctor. She didn’t believe me. Nor did she try it out, which I thought shockingly unscientific. But she did see the state I was in and give me a salve.
Okay, so I’ll admit it. For the first year it was great. I could have loads of women, any time I wanted. I got cunning and made them sleep with me first. I got fussy. All the guys on campus were jealous. People who didn’t know me looked wide eyed to see one or more stunning girls on the arm of a spotty, pale youth, with lank dark hair and glasses. What’s he got?, they seemed to ask themselves.
But when the second year came I got really tired of it. There was a whole new year of girls who wanted to try me out. I felt like an object. A specimen. And there was something missing from my life, a yearning. I tried to have conversations with girls, in the coffee bar say, but all the time their eyes would be flicking to my crotch. Their tongues would run over their lips, their eyes would glaze over. I would make a hasty excuse and leave. It was about this time I began to get really upset about it. Everyone had started calling me Hob Nob.
I say everyone, it’s not quite true. Some people called me Willy Wonka.
Hey, it is NOT funny! I was a person! I was more than a sexual organ that just happened to be flavoured like confectionery. Everyone stared at me. All the girls laughed when they saw me. I overheard them talking about me. About it! I think I had a bit of a breakdown, I couldn’t take it. All through my third year I stayed in. I saw no one. The only person I even said Hi to was Sally Hughes, a pretty girl with breasts so huge she seemed to look faintly embarrassed all the time. I had overheard a guy bragging to his friend one day, in the sports hall, about what he’d done to them the night before.
Did you shag her? the friend asked.
No, the guy said, but I didn’t care. They were the best breasts I ever came across. Sally Hughes used to smile at me softly whenever we passed each other in the square.
I had given up on my little University world. Everyone knew everything. Because I didn’t have anything to do I studied all the time. I got a First and went to New York, Columbia, for a Masters. I took a deep breath of fresh air. Fantastic! It was great! Nobody knew me! If I hadn’t been for the lousy beer it would have been perfect. I met Laurie a few months later and we started to go out. I’d seen her around in the cafeteria on campus, but it was only when I heard her give a paper on radical feminism that I really noticed her. She wrote about the politics of oral sex. She stood at the lectern in black jeans, white tee shirt, her hair tied back severely, her little fists clenching to emphasise a point.
Oral sex, she concluded, is degrading. The worshipping of the phallus only serves to enforce the enslavement of women. No woman should ever do it, and I certainly won’t do it ever again. Ever. Thankyou.
She stepped down from the platform to rapturous applause from a room mainly filled by women. I was enraptured, entranced. I had to get to know her.
Well, eventually we got it together. Having no chocolate penis to rely on, I had to be myself and for a long time she wasn’t interested. But then it all happened. Nights discussing politics, poetry, walks in the park, old Cocteau movies. Love, smooth and slow, calm as an angel. About a year after we met, she was lying in my bed, naked, her black hair blooming like an impossible rose against my sheets, her flawless skin almost as white as they were. I was so happy. I started to kiss her, to cover her with kisses. I wanted to adore her, to make her feel better than anything; sighs escaped her like wind from a wood across a wheat field…
No! she said.
She took me by the scruff of the neck. Not there!
I stopped.
Why not? I asked.
I knew it, she said firmly. I won’t do it to you. I won’t. Not…
I know, I assured her. I want to do it to you. I don’t want you to do it to me ever.
You will , she said, you will! I knew this would happen…
I didn’t listen to her. I knew. There was no way I’d let her even if she wanted to. Never. I covered the insides of her thighs with my face and rested my hands on the tops of her legs. I pushed them apart slightly. She resisted a little but then she opened her legs wider and I…
I stopped. I lifted my head up.
Guinness, I said, Guinness!!
My pen is made me locally famous. I didn’t find out about it until I got to University. Before then my experience of women was nonexistent. I’d been at a boys’ school and anyway I was pretty spotty. I couldn’t believe when, all of a sudden, at the Fresher’s Ball, I was snogging. I was even more amazed when we were in her room. We were both wasted. I didn’t have a clue how to behave, I was terrified, but she knew what to do and in no time we were naked, in bed. She was kissing my mouth. My neck. My chest, my stomach, my….! She stopped.
My God! she said, incredulous. Your coq tastes just like CHOCOLATE!
Melanie (her name) wasn’t a shy girl. She must have told her friend Suzy. I realised this the next day when a very attractive girl, with hip clothes and trainers, approached me in the Union Bar and just started chatting. This had NEVER happened to me before. She asked me if I wanted to hear a new C.D. she’d bought and then we were in her room. Halfway through the second track we were naked. She’d hardly even kissed me before her face disappeared under the duvet.
It does! she exclaimed suddenly. It bloody well does!!
Two weeks into University I was still a virgin. I had, however, received twenty three ****s from twelve different girls and heard words such as ‘incredible’, ‘amazing’, ‘Bournville’, ‘Swiss’ and ‘Belgian’ exclaimed by mops of hair beneath my bedclothes. I had also been requested to immerse myself in a glass of milk and move vigorously to see if any of the flavour rubbed off. It didn’t.
I went to the Doctor. She didn’t believe me. Nor did she try it out, which I thought shockingly unscientific. But she did see the state I was in and give me a salve.
Okay, so I’ll admit it. For the first year it was great. I could have loads of women, any time I wanted. I got cunning and made them sleep with me first. I got fussy. All the guys on campus were jealous. People who didn’t know me looked wide eyed to see one or more stunning girls on the arm of a spotty, pale youth, with lank dark hair and glasses. What’s he got?, they seemed to ask themselves.
But when the second year came I got really tired of it. There was a whole new year of girls who wanted to try me out. I felt like an object. A specimen. And there was something missing from my life, a yearning. I tried to have conversations with girls, in the coffee bar say, but all the time their eyes would be flicking to my crotch. Their tongues would run over their lips, their eyes would glaze over. I would make a hasty excuse and leave. It was about this time I began to get really upset about it. Everyone had started calling me Hob Nob.
I say everyone, it’s not quite true. Some people called me Willy Wonka.
Hey, it is NOT funny! I was a person! I was more than a sexual organ that just happened to be flavoured like confectionery. Everyone stared at me. All the girls laughed when they saw me. I overheard them talking about me. About it! I think I had a bit of a breakdown, I couldn’t take it. All through my third year I stayed in. I saw no one. The only person I even said Hi to was Sally Hughes, a pretty girl with breasts so huge she seemed to look faintly embarrassed all the time. I had overheard a guy bragging to his friend one day, in the sports hall, about what he’d done to them the night before.
Did you shag her? the friend asked.
No, the guy said, but I didn’t care. They were the best breasts I ever came across. Sally Hughes used to smile at me softly whenever we passed each other in the square.
I had given up on my little University world. Everyone knew everything. Because I didn’t have anything to do I studied all the time. I got a First and went to New York, Columbia, for a Masters. I took a deep breath of fresh air. Fantastic! It was great! Nobody knew me! If I hadn’t been for the lousy beer it would have been perfect. I met Laurie a few months later and we started to go out. I’d seen her around in the cafeteria on campus, but it was only when I heard her give a paper on radical feminism that I really noticed her. She wrote about the politics of oral sex. She stood at the lectern in black jeans, white tee shirt, her hair tied back severely, her little fists clenching to emphasise a point.
Oral sex, she concluded, is degrading. The worshipping of the phallus only serves to enforce the enslavement of women. No woman should ever do it, and I certainly won’t do it ever again. Ever. Thankyou.
She stepped down from the platform to rapturous applause from a room mainly filled by women. I was enraptured, entranced. I had to get to know her.
Well, eventually we got it together. Having no chocolate penis to rely on, I had to be myself and for a long time she wasn’t interested. But then it all happened. Nights discussing politics, poetry, walks in the park, old Cocteau movies. Love, smooth and slow, calm as an angel. About a year after we met, she was lying in my bed, naked, her black hair blooming like an impossible rose against my sheets, her flawless skin almost as white as they were. I was so happy. I started to kiss her, to cover her with kisses. I wanted to adore her, to make her feel better than anything; sighs escaped her like wind from a wood across a wheat field…
No! she said.
She took me by the scruff of the neck. Not there!
I stopped.
Why not? I asked.
I knew it, she said firmly. I won’t do it to you. I won’t. Not…
I know, I assured her. I want to do it to you. I don’t want you to do it to me ever.
You will , she said, you will! I knew this would happen…
I didn’t listen to her. I knew. There was no way I’d let her even if she wanted to. Never. I covered the insides of her thighs with my face and rested my hands on the tops of her legs. I pushed them apart slightly. She resisted a little but then she opened her legs wider and I…
I stopped. I lifted my head up.
Guinness, I said, Guinness!!
You got LYnda Bellingham's name wrong on an RIP thread. Glass houses etc.
Burchill earned a well-deserved reputation on the NME 35 years ago for upsetting pompous gits who needed upsetting (hello, Bryan Ferry).
Having waded through that brace of repetitive, pompous reviews, I'm happy to say that some of the old magic must still be there.
Having waded through that brace of repetitive, pompous reviews, I'm happy to say that some of the old magic must still be there.
With respect, SFBTW, while anyone should be applauded for upsetting Bryan Ferry, Burchill is a ****.
Change the 'has' for 'is' and remove the 'rious Gloster acce'
I wasn't surprised to read the headline but I'm thinking of reporting you to trading standards united. You little tease you.
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