Julie Burchill: Absolute Cult

If you don't know who Julie Burchill is, your life will be none the worse for it, but you may find only limited appeal in this satire of British journalism's only Thatcherite Stalinist. Conversely, if you are familiar with Burchill, you might find her portrayal so brutally accurate that watching it becomes as unpleasant as listening to the woman herself.

The play acts as a sequel to Tim Fountain's Julie Burchill Is Away, an homage to Keith Waterhouse's Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell, another exploration of dissolute hackery. Waterhouse's achievement was to make Bernard more entertaining than he ever was in reality, whilst staying true to his character. Fountain, retreading familiar ground, cannot do the same for Burchill, who sits in her Brighton flat providing embittered commentary on her career, contemplating Celebrity Big Brother and doing cocaine.

Lizzie Roper is excellent as Burchill, replicating her trademark screech faultlessly. Nevertheless, it is difficult to caricature a figure who has been a self-parody for decades. The play's bravery is that it has no illusions about what Burchill is: Fountain characterises her largely as a bore and a bigot. Its weakness is that it cannot bring itself to sit in judgement of her – perhaps that is the audience's role. Instead, Fountain finds her so pathetic as to be deserving of sympathy.

There are effective moments. Near the end, as the world around her turns unfriendly, Burchill retreats into self-pity and wraps herself in the Israeli flag. Not a subtle image, but a potent one, now more than ever.