ANOTHER VOICE

The responsibilities of being a judge

MATTHEW PARRIS

Libby Purves has always struck me as more than a good columnist and broadcast- er, more than brave and thoughtful. In her unpompous way she is part of the forces of light. But for one tiny mistake I shall never quite forgive her.

Something needs to be said at the outset. Let us be clear that Libby is not a nudist. Not that she would consider herself libelled if I implied as much, for in her writing Libby has defended naturism from the dis- paraging sneer that seems to be its lot. Nudists respect her. A few years ago a nationwide naturists' organisation invited her to give the opening address at its annu- al conference.

So far as I know there was no stipulation that she deliver her speech in the nude, but Libby would have too strong a sense of occasion to want to appear like a husky at a chihuahuas' ball. It was nude speech or no speech.

I urged her to accept. 'Hell, Libby,' I said, 'think of the glory! What fun! Think of the Times column! Simon Jenkins wouldn't do it. I wouldn't. Mary Kenny would never dare. But, you, a serious writer with nothing to prove . . . well, the world would think the more of you.' She was wavering, but sadly Libby turned the invita- tion down.

And it was with Libby's one mistake branded in my memory that I read an invi- tation addressed to me from the Mr Gay UK competition. Would I be a judge at their finalists' championship in front of 3,000 screaming people at the Dome, in Birmingham, in the small hours of this bank holiday Monday just past? Naturally I accepted.

Not that this was immensely brave. Unlike the 27 contestants, we judges did not have to strip to our underpants or wag- gle our bums. Unkind friends suggested I enter the competition rather than judge it but no, as the lavishly entertained guest of the sponsors, Euroguy, Gay Phoneline, Vir- gin Megastore and Earthtravel, my job, along with Danny La Rue, Scott Neale and Tameka Empson of the film It's a Beautiful Thing, Jonathan Kerrigan (the nurse Sam in Casualty), Bjorn Andersen of the Prow- ler Press, Russell Porter from The Brittas Empire and Mark Oakley from Virgin, was to sit in a little cage suspended above the cat-walk and score the 27 contestants.

Disappointingly, this was the only scoring I did. I have always admired Nina Myskow since, after a tumble with a fellow she'd judged runner-up in a Mr Universe compe- tition, the rat went and spilled the beans to a Sunday newspaper. 'She was like a beached whale,' said the unobservant hunk. Nina was a complete sport and told the newspapers that if she was doing as well as that at 40 she must be doing something right. It did cross my mind that I might get the chance to make my number afterwards with Mr Mansfield by revealing to him that I gave him my top score. But no such luck. Judges and contestants were separated. No sleaze at all. What is happening to our sense of fun these days?

Danny La Rue keeps his. Ever since tak- ing my grandmother to see him at the palace in the Seventies — and noting his talent for reducing respectable old ladies to fits of laughter with the most vulgar double entendres imaginable (but he never quite says the word) — I have wanted to meet him. Over champagne beforehand the vet- eran entertainer reminded me of the vagaries of fortune. 'When I was a youth,' he said (his Irishness, absent from his stage persona, very apparent), 'if someone had said life had in store for me four decades on stage as a female impersonator wearing feather plumes, I'd have keeled over. I'm nearly 70. I'll be needing a zimmer frame soon. I'll see that it's diamante.'

The crowd was getting restive. The Dome is a vast nightclub, and, as each judge was led out on stage to be intro- duced, we must have looked like ants. I felt like one. I received the smallest cheer and am sure I heard someone shout 'Who?' after I had been introduced. I must get a part in Casualty.

I was astonished at the professionalism — and money — which had gone into this. At gay clubs all over Britain the finalists had been selected, and we were now to judge. Some came on in clothes, one in a bow tie, boots and a slip. Another, appro- priately from Brighton, wore a devil suit with horns. The chap from the Oxford Love Shack arrived in feathered black wings (detachable). Aaron Kilkenny from Cur- zon's in Derby wore white underpants only, Alberto Rodriguez from the Brixton Fridge was clad in something like a jockstrap. Shaun McVeigh from Manchester (the win- ner) arrived in a building worker's boiler suit and white safety helmet. None left in more than boxer shorts.

Some danced. Some waved. Some bowed. Alexis Beilich from the Limelight in London just wiggled his bottom. Paul Fretwell from Harrogate (backwards base- ball cap) scattered glitter. Clive Preece from Cardiff did some press-ups and told us he was 'very proud of Cardiff. Cardiff should be very proud of Clive. Middles- brough's Craig Leathley was brave enough to sport a hairy chest. 'Is Middlesbrough a happening place?' asked the compere. 'No,' said Craig. Paul German from Liverpool, in a white silk dressing-gown, told the crowds that his father was a boxer and his mother was a Jack Russell.

Asked whether he was an exhibitionist, Darren Brown, from Blackpool, in his underpants before 3,000 people, replied `Dressed like this? Come on!' When the compere asked Nick Sparham from Manch- ester about his ambitions he replied, 'I'd like to help charities and swim with dol- phins.' Get 'em off!' roared the crowd. `Show us your willy!' they roared at the grinning Richard Curtis, from Nottingham.

The hairless, muscle-bound tendency (I find it curiously androgynous) is still pre- dominant, but thinner men are creeping back on to cat-walks. Slim, dark Stelios Hatzopulos from Newcastle was a pleasant change from the oil-smeared hunks. 'To become a better person' was his ambition. I do hope he does not start trying yet.

And what was so refreshing about the whole good-natured occasion — more rugby club than vice den — was, after two decades of trying not to be chauvinist about women, to be able to relax and be com- pletely chauvinist about men, who did not care. I didn't give a damn about these guys' personalities. They just had to look good.

Do I demean? You bet. Do they mind? I don't think so. We only wanted them for their bodies. They only wanted us for our judging. Truly, I felt . . . well, used.

Matthew Parris is parliamentary sketchwriter and columnist of the Times.