20 FEBRUARY 1959, Page 11

Roundabout

Ludo

A salesman flung a plastic statuette (Taint your own Queen Elizabeth') to the floor. 'Can't go better than that,' he said. 'Unbreakable.' Three Blind Mice' tinkled from a small ice-cream van; occasional honks and hooters rose above the steady murmur of cost accounting. Occasionally the air was rent by the outraged scream of an over-prodded bath-duck.

One tall alcove was filled with inflatable rubber boats and water-wings : in shiny transparent plastic, they looked like fungus from outer space, and only a pair of plastic leopard-skin water- wings destroyed the illusion. They just looked like a leopard that had been dead in the water long enough to float.

It was noticeable that trains, buses, cars and so on were all labelled Triang Transport, Triang Motors and the like—but the rockets were firmly labelled US Army. There was to be no doubt in the minds of mothers about the peaceful aims of the manufacturers.

The women, and in due time, reluctantly, some of the men, went off to the room where 400 dolls held up their arms to their public, sup- ported by a gruff stag-line of bears. The bears were divided simply : Growl, Squeak, and Squeak Growl. But the dolls were a living demonstration that clothes make the woman. The faces, unless black, were much the same throughout. Yet we had a Canadian teenager in a scarlet coat and white fur mittens, an angry boarding-house madam in a peche satin nightdress, a Calamity Jane in jeans and a girl detective in a tough belted mackintosh.

If the anti-Lolita people are really worried about Sex under sixteen, they could start by doing something about those bridal dolls, none of which looks a day over three. Or perhaps they already have, since this year's novelty is a teenage doll. She is less complicated than the most advanced baby-dolls, being more nubile than mobile : she neither opens her eyes, wets, nor cries 'Mama.' But she has jewels and high heels and advanced underwear, and she comes in two sizes. After a couple of hours or so, the Trade knew what it wanted for next Christmas, and bade the dolls and trains goodbye.

Outside in Park Lane, superbly jointed people in real clothes were hurrying to and fro, and the road was filled with absolutely enormous cars.

Judo

IN THE SQUARE of light in the centre of the Albert Hall, two figures danced a squat, flat-footed ritual. Each gripped the lapel of the other's white cotton pyjamas like a bore in the Drones' Club getting a hold on Bertie Wooster. Warily they moved on their cotton square, their breathing audible in the complete stillness—and then one suddenly flung the other violently on his back.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Judo. 'A sport,' say its supporters. 'A wonderful way of keeping fit,' say the girls. 'A whole philosophy and outlook on life,' say the handouts. And a cheery evening at the Albert Hall for hundreds Men struggled with men. Girls struggled with girls. Two teams of small boys struggled with each other, with a visible effort to maintain the traditional sphinx-like calm. There was a distinctly dummy, not to say parochial, air about the whole gathering : schoolmasterish voices over the micro- phone asked the audience to Get Its Coughing Over Now, Shall We; and all but thanked the Vicar for allowing the use of the hall.

The most spectacular event of the evening was Woman v. Bandit, in which a nonchalant bantam of a girl warded off the most violent attacks of a Brutal Bruiser with (apparently) an effortless twist of the wrist. Peggy O'Sullivan, the girl in question, missed the Women's Police Force by half an inch of height, but once arrested a man in the Vic- toria area for attacking a child. First she threw him to the ground, then she nearly killed itim, then she sat on him for twenty minutes.

Actually the self-defence aspect of Judo is over.

rated. It takes at least six months to become unassailable, and even the most optimistic woman can only hope to be assaulted occasionally. So even those who join to learn self-defence stay on with Judo for other reasons or not at all. And the other reasons are never those implied by the women's magazines when they advise lonely blue- eyes to join a club : men and women practise on different nights. Only an instructor could say, as one did : 'I wonder how that girl is? I cut her lip for her on Wednesday.' Only another 'girl could say of Janet : 'Oh yes, she's back on the mat now—I threw her last week.'

'The mat' is an inch of sorbo under cotton—, but it still feels pretty hard to the touch. The first thing they learn is to breakfall—that is, to fall without hurting themselves. It is done by relaxation—and relaxation and balance are also their form of defence. A completely relaxed man is hard to overthrow, a tensed one easy—just as a heavy, but rigid, piece of wood is less of a transport problem than a sleepy octopus of equal weight.

Except for a certain amount of ceremonial bowing, the Japanese cultural element is not stressed. There is no attempt by the clubs to run, say, a tea-garden on the side. But there was per haps something of an Eastern courtesy about their manners. At least, in the abominably crowded bar, a mere journalist with practised elbows was able to get to the drink well ahead of the field.