I get a rush of gratitude that I was a teenager when we had the mindless proletarian jollity of Slade and Wizzard.
To my horror, I found myself smirking in amusement or “Mmm!”-ing in agreement on damn near every page.
This is not the story of a “bored and sad and lonely” girl, but something much better – a wonderful writer.
Paul Gorman’s book seeks to “track the exciting highs and calamitous lows” of the magazine; frankly, I’ve seen more epic journeys on The X Factor.
There’s a pleasing, utterly unself-pitying sense of anger in this collection of essays.
In this week's diary, Julie Burchill explains why she's returning to the shul – and her secret to good health.
Desire makes us feel fully alive, when even love can’t reach those unsafe spaces that make life worth living.
Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that we were the only souls in attendance at Brighton’s most depressing crematorium.
"Nutcracker", he said, looking back over his shoulder and winking at me.
Reading Abramović's memoir is rather like watching EastEnders: I didn’t learn anything about performance art reading, but I can't deny I had fun.
