I knew little about Cilla Black until I saw a television account of her life and realized she was from Liverpool and rose to fame during the height of Beatlemania. And that’s when I purchased her autobiography Cilla Black: What’s It All About? I was truly fascinated by the “insider” information about the Beatles and the other groups of the time, among them Gerry and the Pacemakers and Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas. I loved her descriptions of her close friendships with John, Paul, Ringo and George, especially with Ringo who became a very close friend. She signed with the Beatles’s manager Brian Epstein, and her description of him, their friendship, and her devastation at his death were heartening and entertaining. I loved her telling of how she maintained close friendships with her mates from younger years, especially with her childhood friend Pat Davies and Cynthia Lennon, mother of Julian Lennon and first wife of John Lennon. The book is mostly a seemingly heartfelt tribute, rather than a “dish the dirt” memoir. I, not being British nor having lived in England, was surprised that not only did Black achieve the status of the best-selling female vocalist in her country, but also she became a beloved television personality, hosting several long-term shows. So what just is it that turned me off somewhat to this woman? She wants us to believe she is a still a “hometown girl” Liverpudlian at heart, simple and true to her upbringing. That may very well be true. But today the woman is a multi-millionaire, and while many celebrities seem to not flaunt that and live quiet lives, Black is so proud of it that she writes of her estate in England, her villa in Spain, and her apartment in Barbados as if we all have the opportunity to own such (or at least care deeply about her comfort.) Furthermore, she seems to want to refute every little gaff she made in her career as an “I didn’t mean it that way” moment or “the press misunderstood.” She seems intent, in this book, to whitewash every error she has made in her very public life, when perhaps it would have been best to ignore the tarnish on her silver celebrity status, letting it fade into the history that one forgets. And when she, at the end, lest us know she is on a quest for a perfect pink diamond, one that will cost her well over a million dollars, because she deserves a trinket of that magnitude, I felt like there is no way this boastful wealthy woman has any of her humble Liverpudlian qualities still intact. She just wants us to think that, counting on her adoring fans to say, “Well, we love her and want her to be happy.” She doesn’t dwell on her charitable activities, although she does mention them, but I have to wonder how much that excess-of-a-million dollars would buy if it were channeled into food for the hungry rather than a bauble for her finger.