AS I SAW IT

Beauty and the Flour Bombs

SALLY VINCENT

We saw the banners in Kensington Gore. The constables did their best to wrench them from the frail hands of the militants, a task one might reasonably consider to be child's play, but we saw them just the same. `Mecca', they said, 'is King Pimp'. And 'This is a cattle market' and 'Morley is a pimp.' "

Mr Eric D. Morley, who annually distin- guishes himself with his mastery of the Miss World contest, must have seen them too. Which might or might not account for his testy manner with the microphone as he stands in silver foil chips and warns the con- tents of the Albert Hall that 'British people do not interfere with women or children.' His bully boys are all around, swarthy fellows with sideburns and 1958 hairstyles and ill- fitting tuxedos whose lapels are marked with the word 'Official'. We are expecting trouble and we are prepared for it. Just let anybody try. But the BBC tias prerecorded so there's little to be gained.

First wolf whistle—indeed as it turns out, the only wolf whistle of the evening—then to a gentleman called Lionel who dances about in a white suit with some friends and mouths (more prerecording, very little can go wrong) an enthusiastic little song about who is going to be the most beautiful girl in the world and naming the possibilities in alphabetical order.

The spectacle of all those tight but- tocks straining at brown velvet is arresting enough for us to be unaware that fifty-eight girls have emerged from behind a curtain and are exposing their large shoes and small swimsuits to public scrutiny.

Mr Morley calls out the names of countries with the prefix 'Miss' and we stare up from the press seats to observe the popliteal fossae (inflexible) and fascial dimples (very flexible) on the legs of fifty-eight girl-children. When they are all assembled, their.mentor explains to them that they must now stand in groups of four in front of the judges in order to be judged. To the audience he remarks that although they were able to cut a rehearsal they all look as tired as ever to him. In the melancholy shuffle to the judges' table—they, of course, are such well known aesthetes as His Excellency the High Commissioner of Malawi, Peter Dimmock and Nat Cohen—

the girls forget to smile and remember to pull their elastic over escaping puffs of bottom.

Despite their lacquered heads there is a sweet childishness about them and on an- other, kinder ocassion, they might be an ice ,,cream queue at Ruislip lido on a hot Saturday.

Mr Morley explains again that this isn't a cattle market. To the girls he has a different voice. 'Straight across now. Come on, come on. Now. Back, back, back, would you mind.

Now, move along, move along, move along. In fours now. Now, off you go.' No, we are

assured, this is no cattle market. The girls enjoy it and nobody has forced them to do this.

Furthermore, the television viewers do not see all of the girls in their bathing suits, only the finalists, so there is no qtiestion of exploitation. Mr Morley reminds us of the sums of money involved for the lucky winner. Miss Yugoslavia brings up the rear. For all her five feet eight inches and her nineteen years she might be a third-former waiting to have her sums marked as she stands sway- backed and vulnerable to have her body assessed by the aesthetes. Mr Morley is look- ing at his watch and a pimple on his right . cheek is brimming with the symptoms of his agitation.

He has to get the whole lot across the silver chips all over again, only this time they will be wearing their best frocks. And time is running short. The girls seem to enjoy this part.

One tall, fair girl even manages to get into the spirit of the event. Perhaps she feels beautiful. With something approaching grace she descends the stairs holding her arms away from her body to allow the wide sleeves of her dress to float away prettily and thus create a chatining image. The audience res- ponds and she drifts dreamily around the arena, turning the foil chips to stardust, lost in the fantasies of a million little girls whose mothers tell them they are pretty and there- fore special. This one is taking it seriously. Her outstretched arms beseech the audience; she is beautiful and they must clap their hands and praise her. 'Nothing', comes the voice of Mr Morley through his microphone, `Nothing like taking your time'. The idyll is broken and the little girl treads on her hem as she hurries away.

So we are on schedule for Bob Hope. Reading from a cue card he tells us he is happy to be at the cattle market. `M0000,' he adds, and everybody laughs and loves him. He always takes Miss World to Vietnam with him on his Christmas show, which is a mor- ale booster for him. This, too, is a joke. Yes, he's thrilled to be here. 'I promised the last Miss World a part in a picture'. Pause. 'I'd better -do something about it soon because she's getting tired of all the rehearsals.' Laughter. Halfway through a tired gag.about buying the wife a fur coat, the women's liberation girls decide their time is right and come belting down a gangway screaming screams, whistling whistles, rattling rattles and hurling pamphlets in the air. Mr Hope leaves the stage with the gait of a man in a corset in a hurry.

The brave Mr Morley stands his ground and treats his microphone to the observa- tion that 'this is the way they take advantage of guests in our country.'. We wonder who he means since the invaders are aiming their bags of flour, bottles of ink, tomatoes, stink bombs and other unpleasantnesses directly at the press box, the inhabitants of which leap up and tread on each other. We make an attempt to get out of the line of fire, but it is made a little difficult by the fact that such Mecca officials who are not dragging the militants away by their hair are busying

themselves persuading us all to sit down- in the tomatoes. We have to ask two bully boys to get their hands off us.

Mr Hope returns to his cue card and camera and excels himself with a few ad lib remarks about this being a 'conditioning course for Vietnam'. Anybody, he says, who would do such a thing to such a wonderful affair with such wonderful people and such wonderful girls must be on dope. But never fear, such persons will be paid off. There is Somebody Upstairs who takes care of that sort of thing.

So we sit in the muck and breath the stench of sulphur and watch the final fifteen

females 'turn' . and ... 'turn' and smile at the aesthetes and converse with the man from the BBC about their hobbies, ooh, like reading and 000h, you know, and mummy and daddy are so proud and I'm so proud and really, you know, and 0000h. And what does the little lady in the turquoise bather think of the disturbance? She thinks it's complete nonsense, she really does.

We pick a tomato off a pamphlet and read the message between the pips. We would like, it says, to liberate Miss World from the repressive society of which she is the Centre. But last year's Miss World is dancing with Lionel.

We are here, the message goes on, to represent those millions of other women throughout the country who perform the thousands of debasing and unrewarding tasks that society—that prime gigolo—es. pects of them.

But the new Miss World has her crown on her head and is trailing the golden cape they have given her. She is striding round the arena in her high-heeled shoes and her face is split in an ecstatic smile. 'Help us', says the pamphlet, in capital letters at the bottom. . 'Be with us. We are here. We are with you now'.

But Miss World is sitting on her throne and the runners-up are gasping and weeping and kissing their mothers and aunts who are also gasping and weeping. Gentlemen of the press have burst their Tanks and huddle round the champion five deep, jostling each other and crashing cameras into each others' noses.

Behind the throne a man from Mecca leans wearily on a pillar and tells Miss World what to do. 'Look to your right, Miss World. Look to your left. Now right again. Now a nice wave. Beautiful, beautiful, now left again. No, left dear. Well done. Now right. Beautiful, beautiful'. People of all ages flock around the floury, tomato-pipped trousers of the press scrum, and plead with officials to be allowed a glimpse, just a glimpse, please sir, of Her. They are yanked away and sent packing. Very few recalcitrant arms escape the sweaty grasp of Mecca. Outside- in a corridor a girl in a leather coat approaches a policeman and asks where the women's liberationists are being de* tained. The keeper of the peace takes a hand ful of her coat and sends her reeling UP against a wall. `Do you like pushing women around?' she asks, with very little dignity `Does it make you feel big?"Yes', says the constable, with another push, 'As a Otto of fact it does'.

Outside the street is swarming with rug men, who for reasons best known to them selves, are barging about with collect' boxes for Paddington Children. This furl excites the police, who push and shove any one daring to step off a pavement. M World is still smiling as she steps into b limousine. The young men with collect boxes set upon the women's liberation's those who have stayed, and tear up their maining banners. 'Beauty contests degra women' is the last to go.