World lywise
James Hughes-Onslow
Lord Lichfield, the compere at Thursday's Miss World contest, always keeps a cigar in his sock: this he revealed at the opening of the Havana Cigar Centre, another of his little promotions, not long ago—because it IS the only safe place to put one in, so to Speak, if you don't want to carry one of those tiresome metal cylinders. I would strongly recommend, if he reads the Spectator before Thursday night (as many people in London do) that he stuffs some cigarettes, Mostly American varieties, in the other sock, because if there is one thing that really bugs Miss World contestants about parading in swimsuits for five days (photo-calls and rehearsals from Sunday until Thursday) it is that they have nowhere to put their fags.
I learned this at Mecca's Empire Ballroom in Leicester Square last Sunday lunchtime (`I usually have better things to do on a Sunday morning,' Miss Canada told me) When they were all lined up to be photographed together. I think it was Miss Bahamas who started the rush for a quick drag when they came down off the podium. But I was unable to identify all the labelled left frontages and international variations of You have cigarette?' and 'Can you give me a light ?' which immediately presented themselves. It was the old story, only much worse: I hadn't got any. I would of course have gone out and looked for some, even on a Sunday, but the heavily-built Mecca employee at the door had already expressed doubts about letting me in.
It is worth remembering to carry a packet of Chesterfields, what with the language Problem, the chaperones and the Bingo hall bouncers from the North who manage this event and all its delicate political undertones. 'I've learned a hell of a lot about geography,' said Bill Pye, a hall manager from Birmingham who was at the microPhone on Sunday. My own attempt at chatting up Miss New Zealand was brought to an abrupt end by a chaperone when we were discussing sheep farmers of our mutual 4cquainta0ce. But this was nothing comPared to the way they stopped Miss Africa South explaining the Transkei situation to an Indian journalist. There is a catalogue, as thick as a Miss World thumbnail, which gives a rough idea what they are prepared to talk about when their conversational abilities are being tested by Lord Lichfield at the Albert Hall. A, long with name, home town, age, occupatili°h, ambition, hobbies, height, statistics, ,air• eyes and languages, it lists 'interesting 'acts.' Miss UK was the youngest person ever to turn on the Blackpool illuminations, Miss Italy wants to visit Westminster Abbey and buy jeans, Miss America hopes to
acquire a Mercedes Benz 450 SL, Miss Korea would like to meet the Queen, and Miss Jersey has similar hopes of seeing Richard O'Sullivan the actor. Miss Africa South once planned to become a nun, Miss Bermuda has a twin sister, Miss El Salvador hopes to visit London pubs (absolutely no chance with a chaperone and a security man accompanying her even when she goes to buy a postcard in her hotel), Miss New Zealand is a law student interested in divorce cases, and Miss Gibraltar was once lost for a whole day in the Casbah district of Morocco. Of Miss Turkey it says simply: 'She writes poems. She doesn't talk very much and she hates liars.' In fact Miss Turkey hasn't been able to communicate with anyone since she's been in London, because no one speaks her language.
If the contestants gradually become more circumspect and non-committal in their answers, listing hypocrisy, insincerity and liars as their biggest fears, it is hardly surprising. On one fairly typical day last week they had to endure a river boat ride down to Greenwich and back sponsored by Watney Mann, followed by a mock mediaeval banquet lunch at the Beefeater restaurant. They had to dance with ageing Watney's sales representatives and civic dignitaries before lunch and after lunch. Later that evening they went to a men's dining club where the members, according to one of the chaperones, admittedly a hard-liner, were 'a bunch of lechers.'
All this, and the rehearsals which kill any possibility of spontaneity, is a build-up to that crowning moment at the Albert Hall when the winner is in a state of shock and all the losers are in tears. The reason, I understand from various girls who seemed to think the whole charade had gone on far too long already for their liking, is that the losers are all very relieved and Miss World herself is trying to absorb the appalling prospect ahead of her. One easy way out is to be seen smoking in public.
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