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Judge dread
2/ 6/2006
Reporter PAUL R TAYLOR finds that judging a beauty contest is not as glamorous as might first appear . . .
THERE are 24 girls milling around me in the semi darkness of a
Manchester nightclub.
None of them are married or have children and their goal this
evening is to impress me with their poise, beauty, intelligence,
confidence and, er . . .outrageous club wear. This is not a
situation I've found myself in before or am ever likely to
again.
I've been asked to judge the finals of Miss Trafford and Miss
Stockport 2006 at Bar M Two, on Peter Street, by organiser Lucy
Hyde.
I remember watching this type of thing on TV in the early Eighties,
with the family gathered around the box and the late Eric Morley on
the panel.
But they've always been controversial - never really what you call
a victory for feminism. Perhaps they belong to a time when Love Thy
Neighbour was also acceptable Saturday night viewing and cheeky
Roger Moore was Bond.
Still, judging people is as popular as ever - just look at the
viewing figures for Big Brother and X-Factor. If a couple of dozen
girls want to dress up and let a panel of randoms pick who's "best"
who am I to . . .er, judge?
So I've come with an open mind, albeit half expecting the audience
to consist of hundreds of leery men in bad suits. As it turns out
there's only a few of them in the crowd of about 70.
The majority are women, mainly family and friends of the
contestants and here to cheer them along.
On with the judging! I'm introduced to my fellow judges: Gabrielle,
who works for a fake tan company; Paul, who designs websites for
glamour models; and Vicki, who runs a model agency.
We will be judging Miss Trafford, picking the winner and four other
places from 12 girls. We're given marking sheets, which have
categories including posture, confidence, elegance, interview,
stage presence and overall appearance. It's a serious business.
They've paid £150 to enter, never mind the dress, hair and make-up
and the winner is entered into Miss UK and then, if successful
again, on to Miss World.
My open- mind policy takes a severe buffeting during the first and
second rounds. Paul, an old hand at judging, has told me not to
mark the contestants until the final round, while muttering
"bootiful" like Bernard Matthews, so I'm just watching.
The first round is OK if you like that type of thing.
The girls walk on stage, introduced by Lucy, walk around a bit and
go off. Not exactly taxing, but the second round is
frightening.
Outrageous club wear has replaced swimwear in an ill-conceived
attempt to restore some modesty and the girls come on stage in a
variety of outfits, some verging on the pantomime and begin dancing
in an organised routine. It all goes a bit Eurovision.
It's not really fair, some have quite clearly had dance training,
while others must be dying small deaths up there. It's at this
point I think: I'm 30 years old, I've been going out with my
girlfriend for five years, living with her for one, maybe it's time
- I'm clearly not missing much on the singles' scene.
On to the unintentional hilarity of the simultaneous evening wear
and interview round. Now before you jump to conclusions, beautiful
does not mean airhead. I've checked the profiles and almost all the
girls have more and better GCSE and A-levels than me, although
that's not difficult.
One's training to be a solicitor, one wants to be an accountant.
They should be able to answer three pre-arranged questions without
resorting to clichés about world peace and opening donkey
sanctuaries.
Three or four opt for the world peace option, several said their
ambition was to be successful and the lest said about some answers,
the better - although one contestant wants to speak to Trafford MP
Graham Brady about improving the borough, actually naming him,
which is quite impressive. The marking part is more difficult than
I'd expected.
Despite my reservations, all the girls and their families and friends seem to be having a great time. They're all quite confident and pretty and it's difficult to give someone a mark out of a total 45.
After writing down the scores I feel I've been a bit harsh,
until I spot that judge Vicki has given someone a total of
10.
There's a clear winner though, 17-year-old Grace Addison is crowned
Miss Trafford and the other panel of judges pick Gemma Louise Henry
as Miss Stockport.
At the end everyone seems to enjoy themselves except me, but I
can't decide whether it's me or the contest formula that's seen
better days.
THERE are 24 girls milling around me in the semi darkness of a
Manchester nightclub.
None of them are married or have children and their goal this
evening is to impress me with their poise, beauty, intelligence,
confidence and, er . . .outrageous club wear. This is not a
situation I've found myself in before or am ever likely to
again.
I've been asked to judge the finals of Miss Trafford and Miss
Stockport 2006 at Bar M Two, on Peter Street, by organiser Lucy
Hyde.
I remember watching this type of thing on TV in the early Eighties,
with the family gathered around the box and the late Eric Morley on
the panel.
But they've always been controversial - never really what you call
a victory for feminism. Perhaps they belong to a time when Love Thy
Neighbour was also acceptable Saturday night viewing and cheeky
Roger Moore was Bond.
Still, judging people is as popular as ever - just look at the
viewing figures for Big Brother and X-Factor. If a couple of dozen
girls want to dress up and let a panel of randoms pick who's "best"
who am I to . . .er, judge?
So I've come with an open mind, albeit half expecting the audience
to consist of hundreds of leery men in bad suits. As it turns out
there's only a few of them in the crowd of about 70.
The majority are women, mainly family and friends of the
contestants and here to cheer them along.
On with the judging! I'm introduced to my fellow judges: Gabrielle,
who works for a fake tan company; Paul, who designs websites for
glamour models; and Vicki, who runs a model agency.
We will be judging Miss Trafford, picking the winner and four other
places from 12 girls. We're given marking sheets, which have
categories including posture, confidence, elegance, interview,
stage presence and overall appearance. It's a serious business.
They've paid £150 to enter, never mind the dress, hair and make-up
and the winner is entered into Miss UK and then, if successful
again, on to Miss World.
My open- mind policy takes a severe buffeting during the first and
second rounds. Paul, an old hand at judging, has told me not to
mark the contestants until the final round, while muttering
"bootiful" like Bernard Matthews, so I'm just watching.
The first round is OK if you like that type of thing.
The girls walk on stage, introduced by Lucy, walk around a bit and
go off. Not exactly taxing, but the second round is
frightening.
Outrageous club wear has replaced swimwear in an ill-conceived
attempt to restore some modesty and the girls come on stage in a
variety of outfits, some verging on the pantomime and begin dancing
in an organised routine. It all goes a bit Eurovision.
It's not really fair, some have quite clearly had dance training,
while others must be dying small deaths up there. It's at this
point I think: I'm 30 years old, I've been going out with my
girlfriend for five years, living with her for one, maybe it's time
- I'm clearly not missing much on the singles' scene.
On to the unintentional hilarity of the simultaneous evening wear
and interview round. Now before you jump to conclusions, beautiful
does not mean airhead. I've checked the profiles and almost all the
girls have more and better GCSE and A-levels than me, although
that's not difficult.
One's training to be a solicitor, one wants to be an accountant.
They should be able to answer three pre-arranged questions without
resorting to clichés about world peace and opening donkey
sanctuaries.
Three or four opt for the world peace option, several said their
ambition was to be successful and the lest said about some answers,
the better - although one contestant wants to speak to Trafford MP
Graham Brady about improving the borough, actually naming him,
which is quite impressive. The marking part is more difficult than
I'd expected. Despite my reservations, all the girls and their
families and friends seem to be having a great time. They're all
quite confident and pretty and it's difficult to give someone a
mark out of a total 45. After writing down the scores I feel I've
been a bit harsh, until I spot that judge Vicki has given someone a
total of 10.
There's a clear winner though, 17-year-old Grace Addison is crowned
Miss Trafford and the other panel of judges pick Gemma Louise Henry
as Miss Stockport.
At the end everyone seems to enjoy themselves except me, but I
can't decide whether it's me or the contest formula that's seen
better days.
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