Nicola Barker: 'My novel would have been a catastrophic choice for the Booker'

The author on her new novel, why she is a boring letter writer and why she loves England more when she is not there
Nicola Barker
Nicola Barker at her home in Wapping, London, with her Boston terrier, Boots. Photograph: Sophia Evans

You're a great mimic as a writer and the new book involves you taking on the voices of a whole village. How do you manage that?

I'm partially deaf, so when I meet people or watch people I have to concentrate very hard on the rhythm of their speech. If I don't, nothing makes any sense. My skills at mimicry probably aren't particularly to my credit – I'm just like a short-sighted person who has an excellent sense of smell. Evolution can be generous like that, sometimes.

Your new book, Burley Cross Postbox Theft, is an epistolary novel - are you a great letter writer yourself?

I can honestly say that I am a terrible letter writer. Dull as ditchwater. Can't spell for toffee. But I'm great at decorating envelopes. I've made an art form out of it. If you get a letter from me, it'll be a beautiful piece of crap, basically.

It's a comic novel - what prompted the change of direction?

I write light books and dark books. I often interrupt a dark one with a light one, halfway through. It's a myth that my books are all dark. Humour is the engine which drives the Fiat Uno of my creativity.

Aren't you doing yourself a disservice by describing it as "a Fiat Uno"?

When I was in the sixth form at school there was a girl who had passed her test early and her parents had bought her this tiny Fiat. We were all in awe of it. Apparently the entire mechanism of the little engine hinged on a small rubber band. I've always found that deeply admirable.

Is writing a pleasure for you?

Does Beyonce shake her booty?

Which one of your books is your favourite?

Behindlings, because it stars my best character, Wesley, who in a moment of redemptive madness feeds his hand to a giant, caged emu-owl.

Were you a bookish kid?

My family emigrated to South Africa when I was nine. This was the mid-70s and they hadn't discovered TV there, yet. The library was consequently my only recourse.

You seem to have a lot of affection for England - is that fair to say?

Oh yes. I love England with all the passion of someone who grew up abroad. Nobody loves England more than the people who don't actually have to live there. I love our inclusiveness. It's become very fashionable of late for people to witter on about what Englishness is, as if Englishness is in danger of disappearing. The English have always been a mongrel race and proud of it. We are everything and nothing.

Were you disappointed when Darkmans didn't win the Booker?

Disappointed? No! I didn't ever have a hope in hell of winning that prize. I was very lucky to be short-listed. Darkmans would've been a catastrophic choice. As it was, I got to be the plucky loser who avoided the interminable reading tour.

So you're not a fan of the tour then?

I love reading tours, just so long as I'm not on them.

What did you make of Daisy Goodwin's comments about a sense of humour failure among female British novelists?

I respect her opinion – I suppose she's in a position to know – but I get the impression that there's plenty of funny female writing out there, but possibly not so much of it is considered "literary".

Do you think women novelists have a harder time of being thought "literary"?

Maybe. I never really worry about that stuff. Life's too short and I'm still behind on one episode of Jersey Shore.

I've heard you're a keen art collector - what's in your collection?

In the last year of writing Darkmans, I barely left the house – the only thing that kept me going was a deal I made with myself that on completion I would buy an original Robert Crumb serviette drawing. The one I wanted was sold the week I completed the book. I cried for two days and then promptly bought another one, which I love. My most recent acquisition was a gift from Harry Hill. It's a portrait of my Boston terrier, Boots, sitting astride the shoulders of Susan Boyle. On Boots's head is a green canary. On the head of the canary is a spider. On the head of the spider is a fly. They are surrounded by a scattering of dry macaroni.

What do you think of the party leaders?

Clegg and Cameron remind me of two interchangeable models from the Next catalogue. Bland, bland, bland. Gordon's different. He's dark, flawed and chaotic and the more people rail against him, the more craggy and heroic he appears in my eyes. Gordon's a true Brit. If he didn't exist, I'd be duty-bound to make him up.

Burley Cross Postbox Theft is published by Fourth Estate, £18.99

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