But no. They were authentic homegrown Filipino Pringles, called ‘Jack

and Jill Spuds’, and flavoured with sour cream and chives. Mrs Cheong passed them down the line to my children, who scoffed them in embarrassing quantities.

‘The Filipinos can tell the difference. It makes them proud to eat a Filipino Pringle. About two thirds of my customers are nurses,’ she said, and I reflected that in so far as the NHS functions at all, it is thanks to tens of thousands of Filipina nurses; and that when our time comes to snuff it on the NHS, our respiration suppressed by morphine, it is increasingly likely that a Filipina will lovingly and prayerfully administer the final dose.

Provided, that is, that they do not object on principle. To judge by this pageant, the Filipino community is not just nominally Catholic, but properly devout. The whole bunfight had been organised in aid of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish, Angeles City, and the programme kicked off with a letter from the V. Revd Msgr Antonio T. del Rosario, concluding with the words, ‘To all of us sailing with the power of Christ, welcome to the Bark of Peter amid turbulent waters! Happy Gathering!’ As Esther Cheong put it, ‘Filipino culture is centred around food, family and God.’ No wonder they face such scorn from the race relations industry: for their selfhelp, faith and refusal to become victims.

Carmila, one of Esther’s neighbours chipped in: ‘We say that if you come here and make your home here, then you adopt the rules of this country. It’s a pity the Muslims can’t do the same.’ I agree; but then the ethic of the Filipinos is not just different from that of other minorities, but quite alien to the rest of modern Britain.

Filipino culture is like a motorway pileup in which the Hollywood juggernaut has jumped the central reservation and gone slap into the supertanker of Spanish Roman Catholicism. On the one hand they are addicted to sentimental American pop, like the man now on stage, who was howling ‘I will always lup yoooo’ with an expression of supernatural horror.

On the other hand their attitudes are so Catholic-conservative that if they appeared in the manifesto of a Tory leadership contender, he would be denounced as a loony. We were now coming to the crucial Q&A session, and we Luz-backers had our hearts in our mouths. We felt she was doing brilliantly, but there was no question that some of the others were resorting to low tactics.

‘Some years there have been fights,’ said Carmila, ‘and there have been times when the judges have been bribed.’ I saw no evidence of foul play, but we all felt that no. 11 should have been penalised for the tininess of her skirt, while no. 6 was showing an immodest amount of midriff. We were relying on Luz to show her class in the viva, which was mainly — as you may have guessed — about being a mother. ‘What is a mother?’ asked the compere, a nice portly man in Barong Tagalog, the national dress.

Mother no. 4 hit that smartly back over the net.

‘A mother is a child and a friend and her job is to gip lup to the bebe.’ Great applause.

‘What is your best physical asset?’ the compere asked mother no. 5.

Mother no. 5 had no doubt.

‘My best physical asset ees my arse.’ And how! I said, and nudged my 12year-old. ‘She said her best physical assets were her eyes,’ said my daughter, bleakly. But now mum 5 was leaving the stage to generous acclaim, and mother no. 6 tottered on.

‘Oho,’ said the compere, pulling out the next piece of paper. ‘Here is controversial question! What would you say to Mr Tony Blair?’ Around the room there was an intake of breath, as the mother reflected. ‘I would ask him, when are you going to divorce Cherie and marry a Filipina woman!?’ The crowd was much moved by this, as you can imagine, and so was I. The Muslim community says he is a mass murderer. The blacks say that he is failing their youth. The Irish, the Jews, they all have their gripes. And what is the worst that the Filipino community can throw at the Prime Minister? That he has failed to square himself away with a nice Filipina bride.

Now it was Luz’s turn. We held our breath.

‘What is your position on abortion?’ asked the compere. Cripes, I wheezed.

‘I disagree with abortion because every life is a gift from God,’ said Luz, and I have to say that her point went over big.

Then it was mother no. 11, she of the long legs and the smouldering glances.

‘How should a Filipina woman balance a job and a career?’ asked the compere. Mother no. 11 played her ace.

‘A typical Filipina will always be domesticated whether she is in a job or career.’ ‘Bravo!’ they cried, and for that answer she was rewarded with second place, and though I did my best as Luz’s escort, she had to be content with a sash for being Miss Courageous.

We left feeling we had seen something both strange and endearing. Oh, and I’ll tell you another way in which the Filipinos refuse to conform to the ways of modern Britain. Not only did they sing their own jaunty Tagalog anthem, many of them mouthing the words with their hands on their hearts, but they began with the British national anthem, and stood to attention for both verses, including the bit about frustrating their knavish tricks.

Where can you find that kind of respect for British tradition and symbol? The British Legion? The WI? If you tried to play it at the Tory party conference, you’d be hounded from the stage by a band of yammering ‘modernisers’.