The following is something I’ve hardly ever talked about, because I know that it will stir mixed, strong feelings for many.
But I was reminded of it when I wrote about my ‘man hair’ a couple of weeks back, after a woman with short hair winning a beauty pageant launched an angry panic.
Here goes: I was once a judge at the Miss World Beauty Pageant.
First of all - the year was 2001. So I must stress, as that old chestnut of a saying goes, ‘IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME.’ Ish. It was 23 years ago, which is also why my recollections are on the patchy side. But I’ll try and give you a flavour.
Glamour was riding high as the new little magazine with the big sales figures and I suppose that’s why I was asked by the Channel 5 team tasked with televising it if I’d be a judge for the competition.
I hadn’t even thought about such pageants in decades. I remember watching one - and it probably was Miss World - when I was a kid in the 70s and being bored to the back teeth with the endless parade of women tottering around in heels and a bikini, every single one of them accessorised with a Stepford Wife smile and some soulless platitude about ‘world peace’.
Of course, I knew that having anything to do with this would be viewed as Bad Feminism. But if anyone was angry enough about it to have me cancelled, well… social media was yet to be a thing, so you could only shout about it to your friends in the pub. That also means, annoyingly, I have nothing in the way of photos to show you. I did have a picture taken with our Miss World winner but I cannot find it anywhere.
I did manage to find this website that seems to have documented everything about the 2001 Miss World competition save for everyone’s bowel movements. So go nuts if you fancy that. Contained within was at least some proof that I was there, my biog in the brochure:
Why did I agree to do it? Tons of reasons. For starters, genuine intrigue.
In my days of being a magazine journalist I was offered many unique opportunities and I saw it as my responsibility to grab them. I was bloody terrified about going scuba diving with sharks in Fiji, but they invited me so I had to. I tried not to think about sharks the day I swam out to sea with an Australian surfing pro, as she then tried to teach me how to ride a board back in. Poor woman didn’t know what a mess she was dealing with. And I was curious - but still very nervous - when I had to do firefighting training for a story. (The worst thing that happened that day was, when I couldn’t see a thing in a simulation room filled with smoke, I started reaching around with my hands and found… a fireman’s crotch. ‘Oh baby!’ he yelled laughing.)
The point is, it’s a privileged position to be able to sample such adventures - ‘for the memoirs’ as the old joke goes.
It is of course valid to be horrified by the whole dated concept of beauty pageants. But I did it because I wanted to see for myself what it was like and judge based on my own experiences. Also: Jerry Springer was the host for the show. Come on, who wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to see what that guy was like? And it was all taking place in South Africa - a country I’d never had the chance to visit.
We’d been standing in the parking lot of Johannesburg airport for about 15 minutes, awaiting our late minibus, when my fellow judge, the designer Ben De Lisi said, ‘I don’t want to stand in the parking lot anymore.’ It was an interesting mix of people who’d be deciding on who took that coveted crown. Joining Ben and me were the legendary photographer Terry O’Neill, who would prove to be my favourite drinking and gossiping companion for these next few days. The hugely respected Models One model agent and scout, Ellis. Ashok Amritraj, a pro tennis player who then became a major Hollywood film producer. TV legend Bruce Forsyth - still 10 years away from receiving his Knighthood - who rendered me a bit starstruck if I’m honest. He was accompanied by his wife, Wilnelia Merced - a former Miss World winner, they’d met at the 1980 pageant when they were both judges. Waiting for us at our venue for the week, the Sun City resort, were Zindzi Mandela, daughter of Nelson and Winnie, and renowned music producer Eliot Cohen. Can you spot the muggle in that line-up? *raises hand*
Within half an hour of arriving at the resort, we were being filmed for footage that would play at the beginning of the televised pageant in a few days’ time. I was asked on camera what I was looking for in a Miss World winner and, well… as if I had a clue. I hoped I sounded halfway convincing as I wanged on about looking for that indefinable ‘spark’ that I’d know when I saw it.
It tipped it down raining for almost the entire week we were there, which made it easier to be happy about sitting in a windowless conference room for two straight days, seated at a long table as each of the 93 contestants were paraded before us to be ‘grilled’. What are you supposed to want to know from a prospective Miss World? I still don’t think I know. But I was relieved when, at one point Terry turned to me and said, ‘You can tell you’re a journalist, your questions are really good.’ I was also startled, because I only remember asking things like, ‘What would winning this mean to you?’ And this was years before Simon Cowell would trot that one out every five seconds on The X Factor so I was clearly ahead of my time. Although I couldn't tell you now one answer. I remember Zindzi seemed very keen to know what South African foods everyone had tried since they arrived. I guess it gave each contestant the chance to say something nice about the host country.
I’ll be honest, the interviewing experience left me with more respect for the competition than I was anticipating. Yes, here was a group of women whose ‘pretty privilege’ had given them a platform to represent their country. What struck me was that like me, they’d seen an opportunity for an experience and grabbed it with both hands. They were almost all students, and studying varying disciplines including law and medicine. Was it really such a terrible thing to use a beauty pageant as a ticket to travel, networks and opportunities?
And I think you have to hand it to the organiser Julia Morley CBE on a few counts. Firstly, her husband Eric, the founder of the whole thing, had passed away the year before. She was nursing her own grief alongside keeping the wheels on this thing that had been their lifelong passion. And I could see that she was someone who listened to the critics - she didn’t always agree with them and nor should she. But she took a stand in sacking off the infamous ‘bikini parade’ and introducing educational scholarships as part of the prize package for winners.
The reigning Miss World that year was Priyanka Chopra, who is now of course Priyanka Chopra-Jonas, Hollywood actress and wife of pop star Nick. That was a decent springboard for her into worlds beyond smiling whilst wearing a crown. The reigning Miss World becomes a figurehead for the pageant and her country, raises money for charities and has opportunities to coin it with lucrative commercial deals. For the winner, it’s a huge, possibly life-changing event.
We were all given a list of judging criteria which, from memory asked us to score each contestant on things like communication skills and whether or not we thought they would be a poised ambassador. Is it looks based? To an extent, yes, but they’re all beautiful, so I felt that criteria was sort of nullified from the jump.
I do remember Ben De Lisi’s audible gasps when the eventual winner, Miss Nigeria, entered the room. Agbani Darego, the first black African winner of the title, was 18 at the time and definitely breathtaking. Ben and Ellis were sold: here was an oven-ready supermodel standing before them. Her ambition was to combine modelling with computer science studies. ‘I want to sign her up this second to model my next collection,’ said Ben. Julia Morley cautioned us against crowning a winner on the strength of her modelling potential alone, which I took to heart.
Once we’d met all of the contestants, we handed in our score sheets to Julia. This wasn’t the final decision though. The winner would be crowned, live, at a televised ceremony two days later. We’d continue scoring them through all their interviews and ‘special talents’ performed for us and a global audience of millions. For the first time in its history, pre-empting the way forward for so much TV, there would also be a viewer vote.
We then had two rainy days of having nothing to do, while we just waited for our call time for the show. I bought useless shit in the various resort shops. I had a blowdry in the salon for absolutely no reason other than to pass some time. And I watched Miss Congeniality - to get into the pageant mood - on repeat. I was so bored that I mentioned to the hairdresser that I might get a taxi and wander around Johannesburg. He apparently told a concierge about my plan, who sought me out to tell me I was crazy to think that was safe and he would categorically not let that happen. (Blimey). Back to the comforting embrace of Sandra Bullock it was.
It’s wild to think that it had only been eight weeks since the horrifying events of September 11. The fallout from that was still live, raw news and thus dominated dinner conversation every night. I vacillated between feeling so shallow and immoral about being here when the world was in such turmoil, and feeling like the world needed to cling onto its moments of cheery normality.
For the televised ceremony, I wore the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned: my newly purchased black satin tuxedo from Yves Saint Laurent. I was waiting in the hotel reception to be collected with Ellis, who was wearing a stunning, floaty aqua maxi dress. Next to arrive was Ben who gushed so hard over Ellis’s outfit and said nothing about mine so I spent the rest of the night feeling like crap and that I’d really got it wrong. These days I’d be delighted that I was the one woman in the room of hundreds who chose a masculine look. Back then, not so much.
As you can imagine, the show itself was long. There were 93 women to meet, via a mix of interviews and pre-recorded footage of them from the previous week. I found some old clips - thankfully, none of them feature my big jetlagged head that was beamed around the world for about 60 seconds. The irony of someone who looks like me judging a beauty contest is not lost. The only ‘evidence’ of me there is as one of the black blobs of judges sitting at a table right in front of the stage. I wonder if I cringed as much at Jerry Springer’s awkward/pervy commentary at the time as I am when I watch it now. (‘IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME.’)
I voted for Miss Aruba, Zizi Lee, as my winner, Miss Nigeria second. I decided to vote, as much as possible, for my favourite personality. I just found Miss Aruba the most effervescent of the finalists. She was gorgeous, for sure, but also smart and I sensed she was keeping a dry sense of humour on a tight leash for the show. Nevertheless, Miss Nigeria was a worthy, history-making winner.
One of my prevailing memories is of me causing a very awkward scene. During the show, Ellis had told me she had her eye on Miss Portugal for signing up to her model agency. After a couple of sherries, I rewrote the conversation in my head and was convinced she wanted Miss Puerto Rico, who happened to be very chummy with the former Miss Puerto Rico, Wilnelia - Mrs Bruce Forsyth. I told Wilnelia about this, excitedly which sent her on a mission to unite Ellis and Miss Puerto Rico. ‘Oh my god, Jo, what have you done to me?’ groaned Ellis, as she pointed out my mistake. She was last seen running to the loos to hide from Wilnelia and a soon to be very disappointed Miss Puerto Rico.
What none of us knew at the time was that Agbani’s win would go on to be the spark in a dreadful tinderbox. Julia Morley had pledged to host the next Miss World pageant in the winner’s country. The event was controversial in Nigeria from the outset, having been originally slated to happen during Ramadan. They moved it out of respect for that, but the misgivings about it being an immoral event rumbled on, amongst the deeply religious Christian and Muslim populations. When a journalist mentioned the prophet Mohammad in a piece about the contest, it ignited the already simmering tensions between the religious groups. The resulting violence left around 250 people dead. As this piece points out, it wasn’t really about Miss World: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2002/nov/30/jamesastill
But it’s one of the reasons I’ve never felt great when I think about my involvement.
Whenever I think of that time, I remember the fun conversations we had altogether at various lunches and dinners, but I can’t remember exactly what we talked about which makes me sad. Ashok Amritraj was fascinating with his mix of professional sport and Hollywood filmmaking tales. I was wary of asking Zindzi anything about her parents - figuring she must get so sick of that - and she seemed much happier to me to talk about her children. I promised to help her son get some fashion work experience but he never took me up on the offer. I remember Terry making me laugh - a lot - but about what, I don’t know. Most likely we swapped a lot of celebrity battle scar stories. Bruce was the same big, bouncy cheery personality we all remember from Strictly. Though I also enjoyed seeing Wilnelia whisk him off for room service Mac and cheese, sensing a ‘hangry’ moment about to strike. I still have some little shot glasses with tigers etched on them that Wilnelia talked me into buying and I think of the Forsyths every time I look at them. When I ran into them at a party a year later, neither of them remembered me. As for Jerry Springer, I got to shake his hand before the live TV show kicked off and then I never had another moment with him. So I’m still none the wiser about what he was really like.
All things considered, it was an experience. I met some fun people - many of whom are no longer with us - I saw a slice of life I would never have ever dreamt I’d be a part of.
But once was enough.
Great feature Jo. It really was "a different time" I remember when I was Fashion Ed at Take a Break in 2004 we ran a reader competition to find Miss Take a Break who we then sponsored to enter Miss England, our winner was Danielle Lloyd who if I remember rightly was a teenager in an abusive relationship and the competition was her door to a different life. She won (but was then stripped of her title for posing for Playboy!) Not quite as glamorous as your story, the finals were in Hammersmith, but I remember the time with the same mix of nostalgia and discomfort!
Love that story, can’t wait to drink from those shot glasses…