Funny girl

Review by New York Times Review

THE UNASSUMING TITLE of Nick Hornby's regular column about books for The Believer magazine perfectly matches its author's conversational style: "Stuff I've Been Reading." At a literary festival last October, Hornby spoke, not for the first time, in defense of taking the pain out of literature. Struggling through a book out of a sense of duty, he argued, is "reinforcing the notion that reading is something you should do but telly is something you want to do. It shouldn't be like that. Novels should be like TV. It shouldn't be hard work." As a writer, Hornby not only wants to be companionable, he admits it: two strikes in the eyes of the literati who are the equivalent of the elitist record-store clerks in his novel "High Fidelity." Hornby doesn't test his outer limits, but he manages nearly always to be guilt-free good company on the page. Work like that isn't easy to write, even if it's easy to read. His new novel, "Funny Girl," is about the telly, and about the larger question of whether culture should move to meet its audience, and if so, how far. It differs from his previous books - it's set several decades in the past, for one thing - while retaining their eagerness to please. It starts in 1964, in northern England, where Barbara Parker is just about to win the Miss Blackpool pageant. The opening scene of wholesome poolside banter between Barbara and her father sets the tone. This isn't (quite yet) the 1960s of upheaval, but instead the decade that, aided by the book's mod cover, can be imagined as saturated in the canary yellows and bubble-gum pinks of "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg," the sentimental Catherine Deneuve musical released the same year Barbara won her crown. Realizing her title's attendant duties would trap her in Blackpool for another year, Barbara immediately flees to London. She's an aspiring actress whose love for Lucille Ball has "turned her into some kind of martyr to ambition," and she considers her desire to make people laugh an advantage over the other pretty young women she finds in London. An agent sees advantage in her more obvious assets (she's compared to Sabrina, a conspicuously curvy British model and actress from the 1950s) and advises her that Lucille Ball "had to start making funny faces" because she aged out of being cast as the romantic lead. "You've got years before we have to start thinking about that," he tells her. "Decades, probably. Look at you." Barbara doesn't want to wait decades, so she auditions for - and lands a starring role in - a new BBC marital sitcom called "Wedded Bliss?" Hornby has fun with whether the title needs the question mark. The name is changed to "Barbara (and Jim)," and he then has fun with those parentheses and their dispiriting effect on Barbara's male co-star, Clive (Jim). Barbara, who adopts the stage name Sophie Straw, is not an especially dynamic character. Her path to popular and critical success is almost absurdly rapid and drama-free. And most of what she does best is wisely left off the page. (Try transcribing why an episode of "I Love Lucy" is funny.) She comes across as less fierce than Hornby suggests we take her. When she thinks of herself as "a burning blue flame and nothing else, and the flame would burn her up unless it could find its way out," the description sounds far too severe. Sophie actually bears a closer resemblance to the typical smart small-towner who dreams of a more glamorous and challenging environment. Her progress through the phases of urban living and disillusionment is well executed. Settling into a shared apartment, she realizes: "All you had to do, it seemed, was ask for an inferior version of the life you'd had before and London would give it to you." During a later visit from her father and aunt, she notices she has "become used to a lot of things that she once would have imagined to be a permanent source of wonder." Her education is completed by a brief and disappointing run-in with her redheaded idol. Sophie provides the book its title and some of its charm, but not its engine. That can be found in the show's lead writers, Bill Gardiner and Tony Holmes, who represent the debate at the heart of "Funny Girl" about the relative value of light entertainment versus darker, thornier fare. Given Hornby's aforementioned advocacy for avoiding the overly difficult, one might suspect the debate is rigged, but he allows the other side a few square punches before sending it to the mat. Bill and Tony are friends who met in 1959 when both spent a night in jail for "importuning in a men's lavatory." The way they handle their desires is parallel to the way they approach their work. Bill accepts his attraction to men, and wants to be as subversive as possible within TV's limits. "Why doesn't he hate anything we write?" Bill asks Tony about their boss. "Is that what you'd prefer?" he replies. "That our boss hated what we do?" "Yes," Bill says. "Of course." Tony is cautious in art and in life. He has open and poignant conversations with his wife about his feelings for her and his uncertain sexual identity. By traveling back to 1964, Hornby gets to seem simultaneously progressive and nostalgic. When it comes to the 1950s and earlier, he's game for anything. Like his TV writers, he applauds the fact that "Barbara (and Jim)," which reflects the changing mores of the decade and displays the conflicts in love and marriage, is "fast, funny and real," and "said things about England that Tony and Bill had never heard on the BBC." But he also trumpets his belief that reliable, broadly appealing entertainment is a noble calling, and that we denigrate it at our peril. Discussing the singer Ben Folds in "Songbook," his 2002 collection of essays on pop music, Hornby wrote: "There is an argument that says pop music, like the novel, has found its ideal form, and in the case of pop music it's the three- or four-minute verse/chorus/verse song. And if this is the case, then we must learn the critical language that allows us to sort out the good from the bad, the banal from the clever, the fresh from the stale; if we simply sit around waiting for the next punk movement to come along, then we will be telling our best songwriters that what they do is worthless, and they will become marginalized." Hornby, who's now in his late 50s, hasn't been within shouting distance of the Zeitgeist since "High Fidelity" perfectly captured music snobs and heartbroken not-quite-young men 20 years ago. His verse/chorus/verse novels certainly aren't marginalized, but they aren't fashionable either. He appears content to write competent, humane entertainments, and he's competent and humane in "Funny Girl." Hornby may be sticking to familiar songs, but he can still carry a tune. A novel about the telly and whether culture should move to meet its audience. JOHN WILLIAMS is a senior staff editor at The Times.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [February 8, 2015]

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Review by Booklist Review

Barbara Parker is crowned Miss Blackpool in 1964 and promptly returns the tiara. She doesn't want to be a beauty queen; she wants to be Britain's answer to Lucille Ball. In short order, she moves to London and auditions for a BBC television program, where she meets a creative, witty production team. Taken with her good lucks and impeccable comic timing, they fashion the program around her, and Barbara (and Jim) becomes a huge hit, emblematic of the shifting mores of a more modern Britain as the titular couple bicker about politics, class distinctions, and sex. In his seventh novel (and the first in five years), Hornby pens a homage to light entertainment, sending up the stodgier side of the BBC via snobby critic Vernon Whitfield. He also delivers a winning example of the form, crafting fast-paced, witty dialogue and lovable characters set against a time of creative breakthroughs, both in the culture and in the media. And the final chapters, in which the team must deal with the infirmities of age and illness, highlight Hornby's great gift for effortlessly moving from humor to heartbreak.--Wilkinson, Joanne Copyright 2014 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Barbara Parker of 1960s Blackpool is a big fish in a small pond-beautiful, astute, and with aspirations of making it in television like her idol Lucille Ball. Upon moving to London, Barbara changes her name to Sophie and gets her big break. She walks in to an audition she's not suited for and leaves with the writers excited to pen a show specifically for her. The majority of Hornby's clever novel follows Sophie and her creative circle of friends through the success of the subsequent program on BBC. There's Clive, Barbara's foppish costar, Tony and Bill, the bantering and bickering writing partners who pen each episode, and Dennis, the producer who alternately fights for their program's creative direction and struggles to hide his growing fondness for Sophie, a woman he believes is completely out of his league. Hornby wonderfully captures the voice and rhythms of broadcast television of the time, and seems to delight in endless inversions of art imitating life imitating art, his characters inspiring and feeding upon the storylines they produce. The result is a delightful collection of characters that care as much as they harm, each struggling to determine who they want to be. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

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Review by Library Journal Review

Barbara is a blonde bombshell who flees the Miss Blackpool pageant for London, intent on stardom as a comedienne like her idol Lucille Ball. A talent agent mistakes Barbara for a minor celebrity and has designs on transforming her into a glamour girl but realizes her broad northern accent is best suited for comedy after all. Hence, Sophie Straw is born. It's the early days of television and Sophie shows up for an audition in which she charms writers Bill and Tony (both closeted homosexuals, this is the 1960s) into writing a sitcom expressly for her. Producer Dennis is similarly smitten. They bring in Clive as Sophie's handsome, square conservative husband, Jim. Sophie plays a "beautiful, chippy, Labour-voting northerner," named Barbara. Their unlikely pairing becomes an instant hit for the BBC's light entertainment division. Chapters follow each successive season ("series," in British parlance), the show's eventual descent, and each of the main character's lives post-prime time. While the fictionalized historical parts are compelling, the overall tone is flat, and the characters lack dimension. VERDICT For a novel about comedy, the humor is off camera, implied but not evident. Hornby's (High Fidelity; About a Boy) usual spark is missing. A readable but melancholy and definitely not funny book. [See Prepub Alert, 9/15/14.]-Christine Perkins, Whatcom Cty. Lib. Syst., Bellingham, WA (c) Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Art and life are intertwined in a novel about TV sitcoms set during the cultural sea change of the 1960s.Hornby's (Juliet, Naked, 2009, etc.) most ambitious novel to date extends his passion for pop culture and empathy for flawed characters in to the world of television comedy. From her girlhood days in working-class Blackpool, Barbara Parker idolizes Lucille Ball and dreams of emulating her. Yet such a career seems impossible to a young woman whose closest brush with upward mobility comes when she wins a local beauty contestthen quickly abdicates her crown, realizing it would tie her closer to home rather than provide a ticket out. She realizes she has to go to London, a city where she has no connections or realistic prospects and where she discovers "that she wasn't as lovely as she had been in Blackpool; or, rather, her beauty was much less remarkable here." There's one thing that makes her stand out from the other lovely girls, though: "She was pretty sure...that none of [them] wanted to make people laugh." Through a series of chance encounters that seem like destiny, she does achieve her dreams, getting cast on a popular BBC comedy and even meeting Lucy, who "looked old, though, in the way that a ghost looks old." It's the supporting characters who really enrich this novelthe producer/director whose devotion to his star is more than professional; the gay writers who are initially semicloseted and whose paths will diverge; the male star whom this newcomernow dubbed Sophie Strawquickly eclipses. Hornby makes the reader care for his characters as much as he does and retains a light touch with the deeper social implications, as women, gays, popular entertainment and the culture in general experience social upheaval. Years later, Sophie is getting ready to star in a play that's intended to revive her career. "The play is much better than I thought it was going to be," she thinks. "It's funny, and sadlike life." And like this novel. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2015 Nick Hornby 1 She didn't want to be a beauty queen, but as luck would have it, she was about to become one. There were a few aimless minutes between the parade and the announcement, so friends and family gathered round the girls to offer congratulations and crossed fingers. The little groups that formed reminded Barbara of licorice Catherine wheels: a girl in a sugary bright pink or blue bathing suit at the center, a swirl of dark brown or black raincoats around the outside. It was a cold, wet July day at the South Shore Baths, and the contestants had mottled, bumpy arms and legs. They looked like turkeys hanging in a butcher's window. Only in Blackpool, Barbara thought, could you win a beauty competition looking like this. Barbara hadn't invited any friends, and her father was refusing to come over and join her, so she was stuck on her own. He just sat there in a deck chair, pretending to read the Daily Express . The two of them would have made a tatty, half-eaten Catherine wheel, but even so, she would have appreciated the company. In the end, she went over to him. Leaving the rest of the girls behind made her feel half naked and awkward, rather than glamorous and poised, and she had to walk past a lot of wolf-whistling spectators. When she reached her father's spot at the shallow end, she was probably fiercer than she wanted to be. "What are you doing, Dad?" she hissed. The people sitting near him, bored, mostly elderly holidaymakers, suddenly went rigid with excitement. One of the girls! Right in front of them! Telling her father off ! "Oh, hello, love." "Why wouldn't you come and see me?" He stared at her as if she'd asked him to name the mayor of Timbuktu. "Didn't you see whateveryone else was doing?" "I did. But it didn't seem right. Not for me." "What makes you so different?" "A single man, running . . . amok in the middle of a lot of pretty girls wearing not very much. I'd get locked up." George Parker was forty-seven, fat, and old before he had any right to be. He had been single for over ten years, ever since Barbara's mother had left him for her manager at the tax office, and she could see that if he went anywhere near the other girls he'd feel all of these states acutely. "Well, would you have to run amok?" Barbara asked. "Couldn't you just stand there, talking to your daughter?" "You're going to win, aren't you?" he said. She tried not to blush, and failed. The holidaymakers within earshot had given up all pretense of knitting and reading the papers now. They were just gawping at her. "Oh, I don't know. I shouldn't think so," she said. The truth was that she did know. The mayor had come over to her, whispered "Well done" in her ear, and patted her discreetly on the bottom. "Come off it. You're miles prettier than all the others. Tons." For some reason, and even though this was a beauty contest, her superior beauty seemed to irritate him. He never liked her showing off, even when she was making her friends and family laugh with some kind of routine in which she portrayed herself as dim or dizzy or clumsy. It was still showing off. Today, though, when showing off was everything, the whole point, she'd have thought he might forgive her, but no such luck. If you had to go and enter a beauty pageant, he seemed to be saying, you might at least have the good manners to look uglier than everyone else. She pretended to hear parental pride, so as not to confuse her audience. "It's a wonderful thing, a blind dad," she said to the gawpers. "Every girl should have one." It wasn't the best line, but she'd delivered it with a completely straight face, and she got a bigger laugh than she deserved. Sometimes surprise worked and sometimes people laughed because they were expecting to. She understood both kinds, she thought, but it was probably confusing to people who didn't take laughter seriously. "I'm not blind," said George flatly. "Look." He turned around and widened his eyes at anyone showing any interest. "Dad, you've got to stop doing that," said Barbara. "It frightens people, a blind man goggling away." "You . . ." Her father pointed rudely at a woman wearing a green mac. "You've got a green mac on." The old lady in the next deckchair along began to clap, uncertainly, as if George had just that second been cured of a lifelong affliction, or was performing some kind of clever magic trick. "How would I know that, if I was blind?" Barbara could see that he was beginning to enjoy himself. Very occasionally he could be persuaded to play the straight man in a double act, and he might have gone on describing what he could see forever, if the mayor hadn't stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat. It was Auntie Marie, her father's sister, who suggested that she should go in for Miss Blackpool. Marie came round for tea one Saturday afternoon, because she happened to be passing, and casually dropped the competition into the conversation, and--a sudden thought--asked her why she'd never had a go, while her dad sat there nodding his head and pretending to be thunderstruck by the brilliance of the idea. Barbara was puzzled for the first minute or two, before she realized that the two of them had cooked up a plan. The plan, as far as she could work out, was this: Barbara entered the pageant, won it and then forgot all about moving to London, because there'd be no need. She'd be famous in her own hometown, and who could want for more? And then she could have a go at Miss UK, and if that didn't work out she could just think about getting married, when there would be another coronation, of sorts. (And that was a part of the beauty pageant plan too, Barbara was sure. Marie was quite sniffy about Aidan, thought she could do much better, or much richer, anyway, and beauty queens could take their pick. Dotty Harrison had married a man who owned seven carpet shops, and she'd only come third.) Barbara knew she didn't want to be queen for a day, or even for a year. She didn't want to be a queen at all. She just wanted to go on television and make people laugh. Queens were never funny, not the ones in Blackpool anyway, or the ones in Buckingham Palace either. She'd gone along with Auntie Marie's scheme, though, because Dorothy Lamour had been Miss New Orleans and Sophia Loren had been a Miss Italy runner-up. (Barbara had always wanted to see a photograph of the girl who had beaten Sophia Loren.) And she'd gone along with it because she was bursting to get on with her life, and she needed something, anything, to happen. She knew she was going to break her father's heart, but first she wanted to show him that she'd at least tried to be happy in the place she'd lived all her life. She'd done what she could. She'd auditioned for school plays, and had been given tiny parts, and watched from the wings while the talentless girls that the teachers loved forgot their lines and turned the ones they remembered into nonsense. She'd been in the chorus line at the Winter Gardens, and she'd gone to talk to a man at the local amateur dramatic society who'd told her that their next production was The Cherry Orchard , which "probably wouldn't be her cup of tea." He asked whether she'd like to start off selling tickets and making posters. None of it was what she wanted. She wanted to be given a funny script so that she could make it funnier. She wished that she could be happy, of course she did; she wished she wasn't different. Her school friends and her colleagues in the cosmetics department at R. H. O. Hills didn't seem to want to claw, dig, wriggle and kick their way out of the town like she did, and sometimes she ached to be the same as them. And wasn't there something a bit childish about wanting to go on television? Wasn't she just shouting, "Look at me! Look at me!" like a two-year-old? All right, yes, some people, men of all ages, did look at her, but not in the way that she wanted them to look. They looked at her blonde hair and her bust and her legs, but they never saw anything else. So she'd enter the competition, and she'd win it, and she was dreading the look in her father's eyes when he saw that it wasn't going to make any difference to anything. The mayor didn't get around to it straight away, because he wasn't that sort of man. He thanked everyone for coming, and he made a pointless joke about Preston losing the Cup Final, and a cruel joke about his wife not entering this year because of her bunions. He said that the bevy of beauties in front of him--and he was just the sort of man who'd use the expression "bevy of beauties"--made him even prouder of the town than he already was. Everyone knew that most of the girls were holidaymakers from Leeds and Manchester and Oldham, but he got an enthusiastic round of applause at that point anyway. He went on for so long that she began to try and estimate the size of the crowd by counting the heads in one row of deckchairs and then multiplying by the number of rows, but she never finished because she got lost in the face of an old woman with a rain hat and no teeth, grinding a piece of sandwich over and over again. That was another ambition Barbara wanted to add to the already teetering heap: she wanted to keep her teeth, unlike just about every one of her relatives over the age of fifty. She woke up just in time to hear her name, and to see the other girls pretending to smile at her. She didn't feel anything. Or rather, she noted her absence of feeling and then felt a little sick. It would have been nice to think that she'd been wrong, that she didn't need to leave her father and her town, that this was a dream come true and she could live inside it for the rest of her life. She didn't dare dwell on her numbness in case she came to the conclusion that she was a hard and hateful bitch. She beamed when the mayor's wife came over to put the sash on her, and she even managed a smile when the mayor kissed her on the lips, but when her father came over and hugged her she burst into tears, which was her way of telling him that she was as good as gone, that winning Miss Blackpool didn't even come close to scratching the itch that plagued her like chickenpox. She'd never cried in a bathing suit before, not as a grown woman anyway. Bathing suits weren't for crying in, what with the sun and the sand and the shrieking and the boys with their eyes out on stalks. The feeling of wind-chilled tears running down her neck and into her cleavage was peculiar. The mayor's wife put her arms around her. "I'm all right," said Barbara. "Really. I'm just being silly." "Believe it or believe it not, I know how you're feeling," said the mayor's wife. "This is how we met. Before the war. He were only a councilor then." "You were Miss Blackpool?" said Barbara. She tried to say it in a way that didn't suggest amazement, but she wasn't sure she'd managed. The mayor and his wife were both large, but his size seemed intentional somehow, an indication of his importance, whereas hers seemed like a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was just that he didn't care and she did. "Believe it or believe it not." The two women looked at each other. These things happened. There was no need to say anything else, but then the mayor came over to them and said something else anyway. "You wouldn't think so to look at her," said the mayor, who was not a man to let the unspoken stay that way. His wife rolled her eyes at him. "I've already said 'believe it or believe it not' twice. I've already admitted that I'm no Miss Blackpool anymore. But you have to come clomping in anyway." "I didn't hear you say 'believe it or believe it not.'" "Well I did. Twice. Didn't I, love?" Barbara nodded. She didn't really want to be drawn in, but she thought she could offer the poor woman that much at least. "Kiddies and cream buns, kiddies and cream buns," said the mayor. "Well, you're no oil painting," his wife said. "No, but you didn't marry me because I was an oil painting." His wife thought about this and conceded the point with silence. "Whereas that was the whole point of you," said the mayor. "You were an oil painting. Anyways," he said to Barbara. "You know this is the biggest open-air baths in the world, don't you? And this is one of the biggest days here, so you've every right to feel overcome." Barbara nodded and snuffled and smiled. She wouldn't have known how to begin to tell him that the problem was exactly the opposite of the one he'd just described: it was an even smaller day than she feared it would be. "That bloody Lucy woman," her father said. "She's got a lot to answer for." The mayor and his wife looked confused, but Barbara knew who he was talking about. She felt understood, and that made it worse. Barbara had loved Lucille Ball ever since she saw I Love Lucy for the first time: everything she felt or did came from that. The world seemed to stand still for half an hour every Sunday, and her father knew better than to try and talk to her or even to rustle the paper while the program was on, in case she missed something. There were lots of other funny people she loved: Tony Hancock, Sergeant Bilko, Morecambe and Wise. But she couldn't be them even if she'd wanted to. They were all men. Tony, Ernie, Eric, Ernie . . . There was nobody called Lucy or Barbara in that lot. There were no funny girls. "It's just a program," her father would say, before or after but never during. "An American program. It's not what I call British humor." "And British humor . . . That's your special phrase for humor from Britain, is it?" "The BBC and so forth." "I'm with you." She only ever stopped teasing him because she got bored, never because he cottoned on and robbed the teasing of its point. If she had to stay in Blackpool, then one of her plans was to keep a conversation like this going for the rest of his life. "She's not funny, for a start," he said. "She's the funniest woman who's ever been on television," said Barbara. "But you don't laugh at her," said her father. It was true that she didn't laugh, but that was because she'd usually seen the shows before. Now she was too busy trying to slow it all down so she could remember it. If there was a way of watching Lucy every single day of the week, then she would, but there wasn't, so she just had to concentrate harder than she'd ever concentrated on anything, and hope that some of it sank in. "Anyway, you make me shut up when they're reading out the football results on the wireless," she said. "Yes, because of the pools," he said. "One of those football results might change our life." What she couldn't explain without sounding batty was that I Love Lucy was exactly the same as the pools. One day, one of Lucy's expressions or lines was going to change her life, and maybe even his too. Lucy had already changed her life, although not in a good way: the show had separated her from everyone else--friends, family, the other girls at work. It was, she sometimes felt, a bit like being religious. She was so serious about watching comedy on the television that people thought she was a bit odd, so she'd stopped talking about it. The photographer from the Evening Gazette introduced himself and ushered Barbara toward the diving boards. "You're Len Phillips?" her father said. "You're not pulling my leg?" He recognized Len Phillips's name from the paper, so he was starstruck. Dear God, Barbara thought. And he wonders why I want to get out of here. "Can you believe that, Barbara? Mr. Phillips has come to the baths personally." "Call me Len." "Really? Thank you very much." George looked a little uncomfortable, though, as if the honor had not yet been earned. "Yes, well, he probably hasn't got a staff of thousands," said Barbara. "It's just me, and a lad sometimes," said Len. "And today's a big day for Blackpool. I'd be daft to let the lad do it." He gestured at Barbara to move back a little. "Say cheese," her father said. "Or is it only amateurs who do that?" "No, we do it too. Although sometimes I shout 'Knickers!' just for a change." George laughed and shook his head in wonder. He was having the time of his life, Barbara could tell. "No boyfriend?" Len asked. "He couldn't get the day off, Len," George said. He paused for a moment, clearly wondering whether he'd got too familiar, too soon. "They're short-staffed, apparently, because of the holidays. Her Auntie Marie couldn't come either, because she's gone to the Isle of Man for a fortnight. Her first holiday for seven years. Only a caravan, but, you know. A change is as good as a rest." "You should be writing all this down, Len," said Barbara. "Caravan. Isle of Man. A change is as good as a rest. Is it just her and Uncle Jack, Dad? Or have the boys gone too?" "He doesn't want to know all that," said her father. "Where does she work?" Len asked, nodding his head toward Barbara. "I don't know. We could ask her," said Barbara. "She's in the cosmetics department at R. H. O. Hills," her father said. "And Aidan's in Menswear. That's how they met." "Well, she won't be there much now, will she?" said the photographer. "Won't she?" said George. "I'm always taking photographs of Miss Blackpool. Hospitals, shows, charity galas . . . She's got a lot of responsibilities. It'll be a busy year. We'll be seeing each other a lot, Barbara, so you'll have to get used to my ugly mug." "Oh, Lord," said her father. "Did you hear that, Barbara?" Hospitals? Charity galas? An entire year? What had she been thinking? Auntie Marie had told her about the shop openings and the Christmas lights, but she hadn't thought about how she'd be letting people down if she just disappeared, and she hadn't thought about how she'd still be Miss Blackpool in three hundred and sixty-four days' time. She knew then that she didn't want to be Miss Blackpool in an hour's time. "Where's she going?" said Len. "Where are you going?" said her father. Fifteen minutes later, the runner-up, Sheila Jenkinson, a tall, dopey redhead from Skelmersdale, was wearing the tiara, and Barbara and her father were in a taxi on their way back home. She left for London the following week. Excerpted from Funny Girl by Nick Hornby All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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