Language is an important tool of communication and Julie Burchill's communication skills appear to connect with the chattering classes and provide them with amusement. Burchill gives the impression of believing she's the only person in the world whose opinion matters but fails to understand that her writing provides amusement for the very people she professes to dislike.
For anyone without Burchill's self-indulgent tendencies, fashioned and honed in the equally self indulgent media, her book falls between two stools. It seeks to depict reality but reads like a novel. That too has its advantages but, for outsiders, it's more like the reality of Bleaker Street where, " They call it living but it feels like dying".
Burchill offers polemics instead of argument because she has no substantial argument to offer. One wonders at times if she has ever outgrown the teenage mentality of wanting to shock. It's all music to the ears of the socially dysfunctional and indulgent middle classes but working class origins and bourgeois living make uneasy bedfellows.
In fairness to Burchill I've never been to Brighton and some of what she writes would have more meaning to those familiar with the town. However, I'm left with the impression that had it been Bognor the substance of her tome would have been the same. Only the names would be changed to protect the innocent - or guilty - as the case may be.