Kathy Burke’s mother, Bridget, died of cancer when Burke was only two years old. Her late father, Pat, was an alcoholic prone to violent rages. As Burke half-jokingly declares in the foreword to her frank, funny and wise autobiography, A Mind of My Own, Pat is the only ghostwriter you’ll find in these pages.
This is no misery memoir by any stretch of the imagination, Burke is far too self-aware for that sort of nonsense, but she does capture the stark reality and tedium of growing up with an alcoholic parent in the house. She and her two older brothers would long for the peace that would descend when he was asleep, away on days-long benders, or those occasional periods of sobriety.
Burke also writes about her own problems with heavy drinking in the 80s and discreetly alludes to
a dark period in the early 90s – “the bad, sad days” – when she was involved in a difficult romantic relationship.
Otherwise, this is an upbeat and enoyable account of a talented working-class woman who only ever wanted to act, write, direct and entertain.
Burke comes across just as you’d expect, a thoroughly decent, kind and non-judgemental person who reserves her ire for those who deserve it, eg she didn’t enjoy working with a pre-Trainspotting Danny Boyle (“He reminded me of a supercilious priest from my childhood.”), and once called Helena Bonham-Carter a “stupid cunt” in a letter to Time Out after HBC complained in all sincerity that it’s harder for attractive posh actors to evade typecasting than it is for “non-pretty, working-class” actors. She has no time at all for patronising luvvies. Seriously, be more like Kathy Burke.
Kathy Burke: A Mind of My Own is out now (Gallery UK, £22).
