Who is Julie Burchill

Julie Burchill (born 3 July 1959) is an English writer. Beginning as a staff writer at the New Musical Express at the age of 17, she has since contributed to newspapers such as The Daily Telegraph, The Sunday Times and The Guardian. Her writing, which was described by The Observer in 2002 as "outrageously outspoken" and "usually offensive," has been the subject of legal action on several occasions. Burchill is also a novelist, and her 2004 novel Sugar Rush was adapted for television.

Early life and education

Julie Burchill was born in Bristol and educated at Brislington Comprehensive School. Her father was a Communist union activist who worked in a distillery. Her mother had a job in a cardboard box factory. In 2010, Burchill wrote of her parents: "I don't care muc...
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Comments about Julie Burchill

Spectator_life: 'to set out to entertain an audience shows respect – to ‘educate’ shows contempt. i can’t begin to imagine how awful david hare’s musical must have been – yet he sneers at the genius of oklahoma!' ✍️ julie burchill
Spectator: 'to set out to entertain an audience shows respect – to ‘educate’ shows contempt. i can’t begin to imagine how awful david hare’s musical must have been – yet he sneers at the genius of oklahoma!' ✍️ julie burchill
The_fence_mag: with a fantastic julie burchill anecdote within
Lorna_tveditor: trying to recall a time when reporters have "joked" about princes george & louis & princess charlotte in this distasteful manner. i'm failing. from danny baker to julie burchill to robert jobson-the way harry and meghan's kids are dehumanised by members of our media revolts me.
Thequietus: 'reviewing the single for nme, julie burchill described robert smith as ‘trying to stretch a sketchy living out of moaning more meaningfully than man has ever moaned before.’' a is for a forest: simon price on the cure
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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