Nicky Haslam is a man of many parts. He’s best known as an interior designer and author but over the years, in chameleon like fashion, he’s variously styled himself as Liam Gallagher, bought a house in Transylvania on the net and once told Vanity Fair he’d rather meet Kim Jong Il than Nelson Mandela. Whether he’s partying with Paris Hilton or working with a Russian oligarch, Haslam’s character and charm always shine through and for good reason he tops the list of the most invited in the land.
Nicky Haslam’s “Total Control”
Nicky Haslam’s life has been well documented in many a column but his latest move, recording a debut album entitled Midnight Matinée, can certainly be described as a bold departure. Yes, he did cabaret at Bellamy’s in 2009 and The Savoy in 2010 but having heard the first song, this truly does represent something akin to Kevin Spacey’s Beyond the Sea. I must admit that I thought it vastly superior.
Produced by David Ogilvy, who wrote the music for a BBC film about the interior designer, Total Control is the first in the series of songs to be released. It is accompanied by a video by a Canadian filmmaker named Douglas Arrowsmith.
We at The Steeple Times very much like Haslam’s “highly individual” foray into the “contemporary music scene” and for that reason make it our video of the week.
The North Devon countryside that inspired Henry Williamson, R. D. Blackmore and Charles Kingsley
Much of my childhood was spent reading the works of superb authors and amongst the best of them were Arthur Ransome (1884 – 1967), Denys Watkins-Pitchford (1905 – 1990), who wrote many of his works under the pseudonym “B.B.”, and Henry Williamson (1895 – 1977). As a youngster, I was lucky enough to be read to by Ransome’s nephew, a most captivating professional storyteller, and was given first editions of many of the works of all three of these early to mid twentieth century authors.
I had my first sailing lessons on Windermere, where Ransome set many of his works, and went shooting in the Forest of Bowland, a place dear to B.B. Though I also fished in many wonderful locations, until now I’d never been to the land of Henry Williamson and his most famous creation, Tarka the Otter. I currently find myself here enjoying a break from London and yesterday I randomly discovered, I am staying next to the setting of one of Williamson’s lesser known stories, Salar the Salmon, on the River Bray close to Exmoor.
“Salar the Salmon” by Henry Williamson (1935)Henry Williamson (1895 – 1977) photographed by Mark Gerson, cibachrome print from original transparency, August 1970“Tarka the Otter” by Henry Williamson (1927)
Originally published in 1935, Salar the Salmon combines Henry Williamson’s great talent as a writer with his insight as a naturalist. The story tells the tale of a five-year old salmon named Salar, whose name means the “leaper,” and his return to the stream of his birth. Salar’s migration through the riverways of Devon involve him surviving porpoises, seals, nets, fishermen, otters, poachers and weirs and Williamson’s account truly gives the reader an insight into one of nature’s great journeys.
Henry Williamson wrote both Salar the Salmon and The Children of Shallowford (1939) whilst living beside the River Bray in a hamlet named Shallowford, near Lynton in Devon. The river plainly inspired him and whilst he lived there on the Fortescue Estate he also sired four children, joined Oswald Moseley’s British Union of Fascists, was briefly imprisoned for his views and conducted several extra-marital affairs.
“War Horse” author Michael Morpurgo OBE
Salar the Salmon is a story I am not alone in recommending. Another Devon based author and poet, Michael Morpurgo OBE, best known for his acclaimed work, War Horse, speaks very fondly of Williamson and the novel in a dedication he prepared for a recent reprint of it:
“It is a rare gift indeed for a storyteller to be poet as much as a storyteller, to tell a tale so deeply engaging that the reader wants to know what will happen and never want it to end, and yet at the same time tells it in such a way as to leave a reader wide-eyed with amazement at the sheer intensity of feeling that can be induced by the word-magic of a poet. Henry Williamson is just such a story-maker poet.”
Where I am staying, I have a view of the very river on which Salar made his journey and here also a detached barn conversion is currently available to rent at a price of £1,150 per month. Malle’s Barn is a 2-bedroom stone-built property that includes a 25ft by 12ft open plan sitting room with a fully fitted kitchen and a dining area, as well as a study and shower room.
The exterior of Malle’s Barn, Brayford, Near Barnstaple, Devon, EX32 7QBA large open plan reception room includes sitting, dining and kitchen areasThe setting of Malle’s Barn overlooking the valley of the River Bray
Tenants of the house will have access to the owner’s 60-acre estate which includes a mile of salmon and brown trout fishing on both the Rivers Bray and Holewater, ancient woodland and a lake in addition to a private garden and adequate parking for several vehicles.
Malle’s Barn would make a perfect retreat for any author or artist and is just 10 minutes from South Molton, Barnstaple is 9 miles away and Exeter 40 miles. The location is 30 minutes from J27 of the M5 and Tiverton Parkway Station, which provides mainline links to London Paddington within 2 hours.
Close to Malle’s Barn are the prettiest sections of a footpath named the Tarka Trail. Consisting of over 180 miles of footpaths and cycle tracks that take in the Dartmoor and Exmoor National Parks and the North Devon Coast Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. The trail takes in many of the locations described in Williamson’s most famous novel but this area of North Devon also galvanized the pens of a number of other authors.
Richard Doddridge Blackmore (1825 – 1900)Professor Charles Kingsley (1819 – 1875)
Richard Doddridge Blackmore (1825 – 1900) set Lorna Doone: A Romance on Exmoor in the locality in 1869 and Professor Charles Kingsley (1819 – 1875) put pen to paper here when he wrote Westward Ho! in 1855. A village of the same name was subsequently established near Bideford in the 1860s by entrepreneurs, led by Lord Portsmouth, who saw an opportunity to capitalise on the novel’s success. Westward Ho! is the only place in the United Kingdom with an exclamation mark in its name. The only other place in the world that shares such is Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha! in Quebec, Canada.
Aside from literary connections, the locality is famous for its excellent fieldsports. The Earl and Countess of Arran’s Castle Hill and the Molland shoot are considered amongst two of England’s finest high bird pheasant shoots and both the Devon and Somerset Staghounds and Devon and Somerset Foxhounds hunt on Exmoor.
Johnny Kingdom
Johnny Kingdom, who describes himself as having been “a farmer, quarryman, forestry worker, gravedigger and, if truth be told, a poacher” in his youth, also lives in the locality and is well known as a wildlife photographer, filmmaker and television presenter. He sets many of his series on Exmoor because of the vast array of wildlife he comes across here and is, like Williamson before him, often to be found exploring the valley of the River Bray.
In a 1965 BBC interview Henry Williamson was asked: “What influence has this [the Devon] countryside had on you?”:
“Everything, I should say. I came down here as a youth, aged just 18 in 1914, spent a fortnight’s holiday here in the beginning of May, beginning of June. I walked 20 to 25 miles every day. Everything I saw was radiant and beautiful.”
This idyllic part of Devon that Williamson loved so much remains unspoilt to this day. If you haven’t visited yet, it really should be added to your bucketlist.
Georgea Blakey shares her experiences of Miss World 2012
“Welcome to the holly [sic] land of Genghis Khan. The city of green and pleasant cool.”
These are the words written on the side of the car collecting me from Ordos airport. The light summer breeze blowing through this wealthy oil and mineral rich town in the middle of the verdant grasslands of Inner Mongolia is indeed known as the coolest place in China. It now has another reason for the accolade: it is hosting Miss World 2012.
Recreating Abbey Road with Misses Northern Ireland, Scotland, UK, Wales and USAGeorgia Blakey does the Miss World pose with Misses Mexico and Panama
I’m going to be sharing the same itinerary as the contestants during the last week of this month long competition. We are being spoilt rotten at The Crowne Plaza Hotel, a huge swanky palace of a building that wouldn’t be out of place in Dubai. Normally reserved for visiting heads of state and presidents, there is marble everywhere.
The enormous glass dome above the lobby floods sun light onto a throng of beauty contestants. Their chaperones, friends and family are all tapping onto their mobile devices. It is the only place to get the odd burst of WiFi.
The Chinese government has banned Facebook for political reasons, much to the chagrin of these young ladies. Miss Scotland knows that she has 54 messages awaiting her and she can’t wait to open them as soon as she touches down at Gatwick.
The song, Puff the Magic Dragon springs to mind as the air reeks of nicotine, the Chinese are smoking enthusiastically as though it was England pre-2007. Amidst this chaos, I’m trying to have a coffee and a chat with another glamorous brunette, Julia Morley, the irreducible core of Miss World.
In the UK, the media perceived political correctness resulted in the show being yanked off our screens around the same time that the Benny Hill show was pulled. Showing too many scantily clad girls plainly didn’t go down well with the UK’s liberal elite.
In fact, the opposition to the wearing of bikinis led to their replacement with more modest swimwear after only the first contest. In 1959, the BBC started broadcasting Miss World. The pageant’s popularity grew during the 1960s and 1970s and the competition would normally be the highest rated programme of the year, regularly pulling in around 30 million viewers.
I ask Morley how she feels about being exiled from the mainstream channels in her home country: “It does bother me,” she says, “because Britain has a load of old trash on TV nowadays and…. I’m British!”
I nod in agreement, having long been stunned by the hypocrisy. I think of the hapless victims that are lined up in front of Julien MacDonald and Elle Macpherson to be told they can’t get ahead because they are: “Too boring, ordinary, nothing special, cross eyed, have no personality and look average.” This is just some of the charming critique heard on the current series of Britain’s Next Top Model. That is pure and simple exploitation for TV ratings.
Morley goes on to say: “I think the public would like to see it back. We’ve evolved so much. We even have a series of new and interesting features including special awards for talent, charitable projects, media and sporting skills.”
“If it was just girls gyrating on stage in bikinis I wouldn’t be here,” says Morley. “It really is the most fascinating job you can have.’”
“We have such a mixture of entrants; teachers, architects and even a trainee nuclear physicist. It wouldn’t matter if we had a check out assistant from Tesco’s. All are welcome.”
I personally don’t think Julia Morley need worry about Britain’s lack of interest as there is more than enough coverage elsewhere around the globe. Google and Sina (the vast Chinese internet network) are partners and over 100 countries will be broadcasting it live to over a billion. It will be shown on the popular American satellite channel E! entertainment, which also airs in the UK and Ireland. Because of their success, they are engaged for at least the next five years.
Bready, steady, go!
It’s lunchtime and I’m curious to find out what a modern day beauty queen eats.
The girls have been rehearsing in the impressive newly built Dongsheng stadium, a sort of Mongolian O2. This “glossy posse” have been on their feet since 7.30am and are so ravenous that like gazelles in stilettos they leap off the fleet of buses used to ferry them about and then do a Usain like bolt to the hotel restaurant.
Shock horror. Miss England eats carbs. They all do. Chips, pastries, pasta and anything starchy are the favourites. They are all desperate to avoid getting a dodgy stomach so like to stick to plain and filling food and steer well clear of the crispy chicken claws and pig’s willows.
It’s survival of the fittest at the buffet bar. Sporty Charlotte Holmes, representing the UK as Samantha Brick was otherwise engaged in the Celebrity Big Brother house, advises me to use my elbows otherwise I won’t get a look in. They eat like soldiers about to go on manoeuvres.
Miss Paraguay and Miss Israel practice their winning faces
Spontaneous choruses of happy birthday ring out in Cantonese, Chinese, Spanish and English as Miss Colombia is celebrating turning 21. She is presented with a chocolate cake, a Miss World tradition. She is delighted and trills: “It’s not often you get to spend your birthday with 115 other girls and get sung to in four different languages.”
I take a seat next to Sophie Moulds, the jaw-droppingly beautiful Miss Wales. She may be studying for a degree in business management but tells me she has a thing about jam. She likes it on everything: crackers, croissants and even noodles. She’s not fussy. She went as far as to ask for some on her toast this morning. With her very strong lilt it’s no easy task for a Mongolian waitress to understand her. Hardly any of the locals speak English, so an awful lot gets lost in translation.
She had to resort to miming the action of spreading jam onto a slice of bread. She thought she’d had a break through when the perplexed attendant at last nodded vociferously and shot back into the kitchen. Thirty minutes later (it takes a long time to get anything done here), to her chagrin, Miss Wales was presented with a tube of wasabi paste.
I am happy to report that these girls eat well. No stick insects here, just healthy and curvy women. Sorry to disappoint, but there is no artifice, no fake tan, not even a nail or hair extension. Natural is key but there is a more practical reason. Any of these beauty aids would be impossible to maintain over five weeks on the road without access to professional salons.
Yakkety Yak
There are 116 contestants staying here along with their 16 chaperones. Each chaperone has 6-8 girls to look after. There are also the Miss World crew, technicians, cameramen, judges, presenters, production staff, security, translators and volunteers. All in all there are about 500 of us.
When you imagine Mongolia, you think of yaks and yurts but it’s not like that at all. That might be the case in the countryside, but Ordos is a thriving city. The wide tree-lined boulevards, studded with modern apartment blocks look like anything you may see in a big American city. The only yakking going on around here comes from the girls. It’s obvious they all adore one another and chat and gossip happily. I notice no bitchiness. They have genuinely become friends after so long on the road with each other.
We are all at the stadium for another rehearsal. The floor manager, Stickie, has just finished directing a cast of 16,000 at the Olympic opening ceremony and is now directing an equally mesmerising cast of 116 here. The circular stage is shaped like a traditional yurt, the amphitheatre is filled with the sound of Mongolian drums beating like the hooves of galloping horses. It feels like the start of an epic opening music sequence from a Hollywood film or a Mongolian River Dance. A crash of symbols and then a rainbow of girls appear, quickly followed by excited toddlers in traditional embroidered outfits, and balletic warriors pirouette with swords. It is a kaleidoscope of colour. This is Mollywood!
Various international guests have been booked to perform, one of them a renowned black opera star, Rodrick Dixon, fresh from a stint at the New York Met, appears in jeans and a khaki shirt and practices “Somewhere” from West Side Story. It is sung so powerfully that we are all in tears, cheering. He gets a standing ovation and it’s only half past two.
Even though it isn’t even a dress rehearsal these Amazonian young women look like they just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. All the participants agree that Miss Venezuela definitely has the best wardrobe. She arrived with eight suitcases brimming with designer garb and kindly leant some of it to the unfortunate few whose suitcases were lost in transit.
Donna, the choreographer, helps 116 drained damsels learn their steps. She makes sure that when they walk onto the stage they are comfortable and confident. The contest is a 5-week “festival of beauty” that has toured China and Mongolia, visiting all the top attractions. This is a contest where there are photo shoots at sunrise in the singing dunes of the Gobi Desert for which they had to start hair and make up at 3.30am.
A particular highlight was recounted by Miss England, Charlotte Holmes, who if she had won would have been the first ever IVF Miss World. She recalls visiting a nomadic tribe in the midst of a traditional wedding ceremony:
“Basically they got the bride drunk, saddled her with a massive head dress that effectively blinded her, put her on a horse, led her round a field for a bit and then came back to the yurt and drank some more. It was my kind of wedding,” she chirps.
She and her comrades also formed a camel train across the desert, catwalked the silk route, churned yoghurt in a local ger (yurt) and were treated to a front row seat at the archery, wrestling and horse riding competitions that form the basis of the centuries old Nadaam Festival that formally commemorates the 1921 revolution when Mongolia declared itself a free country. Without exception, everyone of these young lovelies has learnt so much from their Mongolian adventure.
The girls always rehearse in their vertiginous pumps as it is paramount to get the correct ambulatory timings from exits left to right. Flats would give a false reading. Agglutinant Cola is liberally spattered across the stage to stop the girls slipping.
Though the girls do have every opportunity to change into trainers when they have finished, that would be unthinkable. Morley states that unless you tell them that they are going to be walking through mud and slush they won’t be separated from their sparkly platforms: “You know young girls love their heels but as far as I’m concerned they can wear what they bloody well like!”
“One world, one dream, let us share our hearts together in a place where we all belong”
The bearded musical director, Mike Dixon, is conducting the candidates as they sing The Miss World song. More usually found working with such acclaimed artists as Dame Shirley Bassey and the team of We Will Rock You, he loves toiling on this: “You have to remember that these women are all essentially amateurs, I enjoy getting the best I can out of them.”
“Hey Brazil, you dropped your phone.”
“Oh thank you Iceland!” The girls all call each other by country names as they’re easier to remember.
Mylene Klass and Miss England
I’m wondering if things could get any more surreal when I bump into a sequin clad, Myleene Klass emerging from her dressing room. Klass has been called upon not only for her mixed race appeal but for her extremely competent presenting skills. Svelte, graceful and smart, she is the epitome of the Miss World philosophy. She has been paired up with an American soap star, Days of Our Lives heartthrob, Jason Cook. The two of them are practicing reading from the autocue machine. There is a lot of jokey banter and Cook is quite the comedian:
“Myleene, I hear you are an internationally famous presenter, or is that just Hear’Say?” Myleene groans and retorts: “Gosh, an American with a British sense of humour.”
Suddenly there is the sound of rapid gunfire. Jason quips: “Are we under attack?!” Thankfully, it’s just some wedding fireworks going off outside. There are certainly no protestors or feminist flour bombers here. The local populace is thrilled to bits to have us and think any mention of sexism or exploitation is a load of old pigs’s willows.
Myleene is wowed by the calibre of the entrants this year. For every girl that enjoys movies, fashion and baking there are another three who are studying economics, medicine and psychology. “These are my kind of ladies,” she states.
Miss Northern Ireland, a sailing champion and budding presenter, approaches her for some advice and Myleene helpfully allows her to listen to her in her earpiece.
Bird Flu
Having been sequestered in the auditorium for four days I get the rare opportunity to take some of the girls out for a much needed break from the Ground Hog Day like slog of rehearsals. We are window (or rather stall) shopping in a busy local market. Rows of little blue tents are adorned with their wares; dangling dead ducks and insects, a myriad of crystals and PVC handbags. I find it rather reminiscent of Portobello Market.
We had intended to visit Genghis Khan’s mausoleum but our head security guard, a very debonair ex-military man, whom the ladies call James Bond, said the schedule was far too tight to risk the 2-hour round trip in case of traffic. “00 Heaven” is accompanying us to stop us getting mobbed. Wherever this “caravan of contestants” travels, it attracts a lot of attention.
Like the Beatles hitting America, everyone goes wild behind their little white facemasks. I presume they wear them as they are worried about catching avian flu. With so many birds around, it’s not an unreasonable precaution. They’re also constantly hacking up what could be fur balls of phlegm and lift up their masks to spit them onto the pavement.
Crouching Lady, Hidden Toilet
I ask someone where the loo is: “Over there, Good Luck!” Why the words of encouragement? It all became horrifyingly clear. I opened the door and climbed tentatively up some wooden steps to the portaloo from hell. There was no actual toilet to speak of. I thought: “Has it been nicked?” I looked down and saw that it was just a shallow hole in an aluminium floor. In the reeking recess was a large stool neatly coiled into the shape of a cinnamon twirl. There was a 3 cm high curved metal edge on one side of the perimeter. Perhaps this was a helpful bum rest should one unwisely decide to actually sit down or perhaps it was a splashguard in case you squatted. There wasn’t any loo paper or a washbasin but there was a handy mirror.
Miss Israel outside the rather lovely portaloos
The camera guys find it a fairly unpleasant experience so imagine how ghastly it is for the girls. It’s rather tricky gathering up their flowing dresses and crouching down in their Jimmy Choo’s. They have taken to crossing their long thoroughbred legs and holding it for as long as they can. They are drinking so much water to avoid getting dehydrated under the heat of the stadium lights, that when they do finally go they pee like racehorses.
Beauty with a Purpose
You cannot talk about Miss World without mentioning the aspect of it that separates it from every other international beauty pageant. The contestants have to be passionate about charitable causes and they work hard to prove themselves.
The premise of this award is simple: Use your talents to help those less fortunate. Comediennes utilise their funny bones to raise money for Comic Relief, well think of this as Beauty Relief.
Chief Mandela and Georgea Blakey
I have been invited to Morley’s hotel suite and am sitting on a sofa between a former Asian Miss World and all 6’4″ of Chief Mandela, here representing his grandfather, Nelson, who is himself a strong supporter of The Miss World Organisation. The Chinese word “Junzi” would describe him well: “A man of noble character or status who is upright and benevolent.”
We are shown gut wrenching videos of each contestant’s chosen cause. There is harrowing footage of disadvantaged children from around the planet. There is a lot more to the modern day beauty queen than meets the eye. I’m astounded as I see Miss Kazakstan, a qualified paediatrician, hold a stethoscope to sick children’s chests. In hers, Miss India campaigns for the education of not only the slum children of Mumbai but also their mothers too. Miss Portugal is shown visiting an old people’s home in a protest against the abandonment of the elderly and Miss Canada is trying to highlight the atrocities of human trafficking.
Miss US Virgin Islands, a reserve in the US army, salutes
Miss US Virgin Islands is a reserve in the US army and is only recently back from a year in Afghanistan where she narrowly missed a shell attack which destroyed the shower block. Miss France is a beauty that helps the beasts. She supports the Gallic version of the Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.
Misses aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty and I watch Nigeria and Kenya mucking in with the inhabitants of rural villages, crusading for clean water and waste disposal systems. The sanitation is so poor that I will never complain about a Mongolian loo again.
These videos are humbling, they put everything in perspective. I hear Chief Mandela sigh heavily, as upset as I am at man’s inhumanity to man.
That’s the emotional factor I have found about Miss World. One minute you are laughing hysterically, the next crying uncontrollably and we haven’t even got to the final yet.
The genuine dedication of these ladies to their causes fills me with awe and shame at my own lack of sisterly love. So often a Beauty Queen is mocked for the moniker: “I want to help heal the world and save the little children.”
I don’t see much difference between the Misses and Bob Geldof. He said he wanted to feed the world and he got knighted for his efforts.
This is Miss World goddammit. What the hell do you think they should look like?! Why are we opposed to beauty? How would Hollywood work if it went all PC on us? Do you think that Halle Berry (a former Miss USA) gets cast for her acting talent alone?
Life is inherently a beauty contest. Good looks open doors, but if they can also open a treasure chest and the spoils be divided amongst the poor, why not?
The Miss World Effect
I am chatting to the financial director, Michael Macario, about some of the other attractive figures involved. Miss World to date has raised over £250 million for charity.
Governments and tourist boards invite Miss World to their countries to promote tourism. When the show was broadcast from Sanya in China, the massive rise in visitors to the area was put down to the Miss World effect. The organisation was credited with changing the face of the industry. Ordos are hoping the same will happen here. Pretty girls make good marketing sense.
Let’s not forget though that the Morley family, (Julia’s son Stephen and grandson Ben are by her side) have run an incredibly successful business with a multi-million pound turnover for 62 years now. The brand is jealously guarded but has never been tarnished. Macario says there could have been loads more opportunities to make money but that is not their primary concern, BWAP is.
An auction held at a charity dinner last night raised enough money to send 30 local students to university. The contestants bring any item of cultural interest with them and supportive local businessmen bid furiously. It got quite competitive with many of the objects fetching over £10,000 each. Even Miss Seychelles’ s coconut shell achieved several hundred Yen. She told me she needed a permit to get it through customs. Craftily she removed the nut so it was lighter. It’s demanding enough lugging your suitcases half way across the world without the weight of a oversized nut adding to your excess baggage.
Dress rehearsal
I’m having a natter in the foyer with Miss Lebanon. In vest, shorts and flip flops with her hair in rollers she tells me how much she will miss her new friends.
Happy that their big day is finally upon them but devastated to be leaving one another the girls do at least have one bonus. Never again will any of them have to pay for a hotel room again, they can now travel the world staying with various members of their recently acquired family.
A very old and obviously myopic old man approaches and asks to have his picture taken with us. He points at my chest quizzically, alluding to my lack of a name badge.
“Wish Miss, Wish Miss?” Hurrah: I’ve just been mistaken for a contestant. I knew slapping on the war paint today was a good idea. “Miss Stake,” I jovially reply.
We board the buses for the stadium. I’m on number one bus, AKA “the party bus,” as the girls are most raucous, containing as it does, Miss England and the other Celts.
Today is the penultimate day of the competition and the girls are pre-recording the “Dances of the World” section in their national costumes.
Miss Equatorial Guinea’s grass skirt and boob tube combo are from a real tribal leader, so she apologises that it whiffs a bit. Her dance is rather vigorous to say the least so she needs tit tape to secure the top half.
Some of the costumes are utterly bizarre. Poor Miss Mexico has a replica of a deer head strapped onto her barnet. Miss Fiji, dressed as an eagle is sweating in her head to toe feather combo and Miss Bermuda could be mistaken for a traffic cop. Only Miss USA bucks the trend and skips out in cowboy boots and a T-shirt.
Miss Mexico and Miss Puerto Rico in national costumesMiss America with local children
It’s now time for the dress rehearsal and the girls can’t wait to rip off their costumes and slither into their more flattering final dresses. I zip up Miss Vietnam and lend Miss Bolivia some lip-gloss.
I shall announce the results in reverse order
It’s the day of the final. The hotel lounge is more packed than usual as a Chinese wedding is taking place. Bemused guests don’t know whether to take photos of the bride or the contestants. If I were the bride, I’d be a bit miffed! Aptly a Chinese cover version of Joe Jackson’s Stepping Out is being piped through the speakers.
It’s the last lunch and the girls aren’t holding back. Locust-like they descend on the feast before them ignoring any concerns about bloating. Perhaps they’ve packed some back up spanx so they can squeeze into their finery?
Andrew, the hair and make up guy, is late for lunch as he’s been bubbling over with adrenaline and nerves. He swears he can’t eat a thing. Just as well as there’s bugger all left.
I’m having some tea in the bar with Roderick and his graceful wife Alfreda, also an operatic name in her own right. We are nervously approached by a local student volunteer and her mother who timidly ask if they could tempt us with some home made noodles and dumplings that they’ve specially made for the singing superstars.
So, already full but not wanting to offend such a sweet gesture we sample some of their delicious offering. With the chances of me wearing my slinky party dress tonight diminishing with each bite I’m going to ask Miss Equatorial Guinea if I can borrow her grass skirt.
On every floor of every corridor hair and make up stations have been set up to process the competitors as they get ready for their big night. Imagine 116 brides fretting before their big day and you have some idea. It’s a flurry of eye shadow, powder and paint. Andrew is in charge of a team of Chinese beauticians wielding brushes and straighteners. Translators are on hand to prevent any jam-wasabi like mix ups. When Miss Israel asks for pink eye shadow, it wouldn’t do to start applying green.
The excited gaggle of girls alight the buses for the last time and toddle into the bowels of the stadium in a phalanx Genghis Khan would have been proud of. Tonight, we are an intimate audience of 6,000 in contrast to the opening ceremony, where there was an image of a jumbo jet projected onto an illuminated backdrop. It was so realistic that an audience of 40,000 ducked.
Apart from a slight mishap when Miss Malawi trod on Miss New Zealand’s dress, the show went smoothly and was a smash hit with the audience. I particularly liked some of the entertainment in particular a performance by an army of Mongolian horse cellists who could make their instruments whinny rhythmically.
The top threeMiss China get crowned Miss World 2012 by Miss World 2011 as Miss Wales looks on
“I shall announce the results, as is customary, in reverse order,” announces the lady in red, a resplendent Mrs Morley. The climax of a 3-hour extravaganza is upon us.
“Miss Australia, Miss Wales and Miss World 2012 is…,” drum roll…, “Miss… China!”
The flag waving home crowd are on their feet, sobbing and cheering. Though not everyone is as thrilled. Some of the foreign contingent are grumbling that the crowning of 23-year old music student, Wenxia Yu, was a political move. I’m not so sure as it’s undeniable that she was a worthy winner. Not only did she raise huge amounts for charity, but in the talent section of the contest, she sang so unbelievably beautifully that she made Katherine Jenkins sound like a strangled cat.
My conclusions
What have I learned from my week at Miss World?
– Never have your picture taken next to a beauty queen unless they’re in bare feet.
Georgea Blakey is a portrait artist, specialising in equestrian and wildlife subjects. Her commissions have taken her from the polo farms of Argentina and Palm Beach to the game reserves of South Africa. She was the art scholar at St Paul’s Girls School in London and went on to study at the prestigious Chelsea College of Art. She is equally at home painting humans and her subjects have included a portrait of His Royal Highness Prince Charles with his polo pony. She has produced numerous commissions, and some of her notable clients include Viscount and Viscountess Cowdray, the Sultan of Pahang, Sir Tim Rice, David Soul, Teddy Sherringham and Miss World.
The deportation of Abu Hamza and the story of Hassan Butt
It’s taken far too long but thankfully the day of Abu Hamza al-Masri’s deportation has arrived. This evil one-eyed Egyptian-born Sunni preacher, best known for his hateful views and involvement in terrorism, has been in prison in Britain since 2004 and is now finally to be extradited to America to face terrorism charges.
Abu Hamza al-MasriHassan Butt when he appeared on the American CBS television magazine news show “60 Minutes”
My only experience of such people involved meeting a young man named Hassan Butt in 2008. Butt, known in the Muslim community as the Al Qaeda supergrass,” was allegedly a former recruiter for the organisation. I met with him after he wrote an article for the Daily Mail in which he stated:
“My plea to fellow Muslims: you must renounce terror… My pleas to fellow Christians: you must renounce racism.”
These words came from a man, born in 1980, who had previously said of Britain:
“I feel absolutely nothing for this country. I have no problem with the British people… but if someone attacks them, I have no problem with that either.”
These words came from the very mouth of a man who had been a member of the now banned radical Islamist group Al-Muhajiroun. Butt claimed to have taken tea with Mohammad Sidique Khan, the leader of the 7 July bombings, recruited upto 200 people to undergo jihadist training in Pakistan and raised between £7,000 and £9,000 a month towards the “cause.” Here was someone who had concluded that:
“I would agree to being called a radical and one day I may even be called a terrorist, if Allah permits me. That is something it would be an honour to be called.”
On the day Butt’s “Damascene conversion” article was printed I was working with an American billionaire vodka tycoon on his various projects in the UK. The man concerned came to London on a periodic basis and always began his day by scouring his favourite right-wing paper for whatever took his fancy. If there were something or someone he liked the look of in it, he’d yell across the room: “Get ‘em round.” More often than not, when I made the call, such people would turn up as many sought funding for their projects. Few of them ever got whatever they were after as this individual was especially careful with his dollars.
On reading Butt’s article, which I admit I also found well written, the Jewish billionaire was thoroughly impressed. He said: “I like the sound of this guy. Get him round.” At the end of the article was a Gmail address so reluctantly, imagining that no doubt MI5 would begin monitoring my own account, I sent off a message. Within minutes, Mr Butt was on the phone.
Butt told me that he’d be in London in the following days to appear on Newsnight with Jeremy Paxman so I invited him to lunch. On the day in question, an extremely well presented 27-year old appeared in a brand new £50,000 Audi Q7. After he’d parked, I said: “That’s a nice car.” His response: “The BBC have loaned it to me.” I was perplexed and thought this unlikely, but let it go.
I introduced Mr Butt to the vodka tycoon and for the next hour, the Muslim and the Jew chatted about the differences and similarities between their religions and ways of life. The utterly charming Butt wanted the billionaire, who happened to own a publishing house, to pay for and print his autobiography. The aggressive billionaire had another agenda. His vision of how to unite the religions was to produce a leaflet. He ranted: “It’ll begin thus: ‘If I want to worship a tree, I’ll worship a tree’.” An impasse was reached.
Over lunch at Choy’s on the Kings Road, the conversation continued hopelessly in the same vein. When it was over and as Butt drove away in the Q7, all I could think of was that the security services would most probably now begin monitoring our business activities.
That night, Butt appeared on Newsnight and beat off all of Jeremy Paxman’s attacks. I suppose all who recruit for terror organisations are probably charm personified but Butt most definitely showed his utter brilliance of mind when put up against the media’s finest.
Butt’s strategy worked as he was subsequently invited by the then Minister of State for Security, Counter-terrorism, Crime and Policing, Tony McNulty, to advise them on how to stop young Muslims being “radicalised.” Butt, whom a government source described as having “understood the terrorist mindset perfectly,” had managed to get to the heart of the British government.
The next move of this man, who was arrested but released without charge on five counter-terrorism charges between 2002 and 2008, was to claim that Greater Manchester Police were harassing him. Many of his allegations, though, were illustrated to be pure fantasy in the transcripts of interviews held with them:
“I actually arranged myself to be stabbed in the shoulder, sorry in my arm and in my back because I knew if I said I had been attacked Shiv ([Malik] a freelance journalist and co-author of Butt’s autobiography, Leaving Al Qaeda: Inside The Life And Mind of A British Jihadist) was going to ask for some proof so basically I stabbed myself… you know it was just part of the whole scam.”
I do not know what has become of Butt now but the last reports of him I have been able to find were published in the Daily Mail in July 2009. Here, the paper reports that he “hurled an onslaught of race abuse at police” during an argument over where his Audi Q7 was parked. How odd that that vehicle, supposedly loaned by the BBC, had surfaced again but equally strange was that this educated man was accused of shouting such things as: “Do you like feeling Pakis up?” and calling police “Gestapo,” “bald dogs” and “members of the BNP.” This portrayal was most certainly at odds with the Butt that I met, but plainly he was the Jekyll and Hyde of Al Qaeda.
Whilst my encounter with the pseudo-terrorist Butt was almost certainly with a young man of fantasist tendencies, Abu Hamza truly is a preacher of hate and a force for evil. This hook-armed “terrorist facilitator with a global reach” claimed tens of thousands in benefits in Britain yet also incited others to blow up our citizens. He solicited murder and stirred up racial hatred yet happily ran up legal costs at this nation’s expense. As such, Abu Hamza’s downfall is very much welcomed and his deportation from the British Isles will be celebrated not just by Her Majesty the Queen but indeed by the whole nation.
Watch a Channel 4 News video clip featuring Hassan Butt at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_t3uw2nZ7kY
Living on a private island would, to many, seem like a dream. The prospect of being able to do what you want, when you want and without having to pander to rules and regulations indeed does sound appealing. Swapping the rat race and daily commute for white sandy beaches, crystal-clear waters and peace and tranquility would undoubtedly tempt huge numbers of us. Taking up the mantle of Robinson Crusoe certainly has it’s merits, but what are the perils of owning an island and what is currently available?
The Greek island of Patroklos
On the leading website for the sale of islands, Private Islands Online, the most expensive undeveloped island on offer is the island of Patroklos in Greece. This relatively flat 643-acre undeveloped island boasts a “mild and pleasant” climate and 275-acres of cultivable land. It has about 150 goats and 5,050 olive trees and the agent suggests now is the perfect opportunity to exploit and develop tourism there. A price of £120 million is sought. So much for Greek austerity as whoever buys it will still have to shell out further to construct at least one residence.
The Frank Lloyd Wright inspired Massaro House on Petra Island
An especially spectacular option, also available through Private Islands Online, is Petra Island, just 15 minutes by helicopter from New York City on Lake Mahopac. The island itself, which is said to have been for sale for a number of years, is 11 acres in size and is currently owned by Joseph Massaro, a sheet metal tycoon. The highlight here is a 1,200 square foot cottage designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and a 5,000 square foot residence, Massaro House, built to the same architect’s designs in 2008. Though the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation state of the latter: ““It’s not a Frank Lloyd Wright house, because it hasn’t been certified by the foundation,” this is a home that would certainly suit any James Bond villain. The agent declines to share the asking price, but it certainly at the higher end of the scale.
At a more modest price is Nautilus Island, off Brooksville in Maine. This 37-acre island was in the ownership of the same family for 130 years until 2004 and is named after the British war sloop “Nautilus,” that engaged the American vessel “Hazard” in battle in it’s waters during the American Revolutionary War.
An aerial view of the island of NautilusThe main residence on Nautilus IslandThe island of Nautilus’s boathouse now serves as a stylish private bar
The island includes a renovated 6-bedroomed main house, a farmhouse and a guest cottage. It also boasts open fields, perennial and kitchen gardens and a seaside vineyard for wine production. There is a protected harbour with a pier and moorings and over one mile of rocky coastline with gravel and shell beaches. A price of approximately £4.9 million is sought prior to auction on the 18th October through John Saint-Amour of LandVest.
Returning to Europe, Knight Frank offer a 65-acre island off Ireland’s west coast named Inishturk Beg at a price of £2.85 million. Sitting in Clew Bay, County Mayo alongside 364 other islands, receivers of an Egyptian-Irish businessman named Nadim Sadek are trying to find a buyer for a property that includes a main 7-bedroom house, 4 smaller properties, various outbuildings and an AstroTurf sports pitch.
An aerial view of Inishturk Beg IslandThe main residence on Inishturk Beg, The Island House, comes complete with extensive leisure facilities
Singing the praises of Insishturk Beg, Harriet Grant of Knight Frank comments:
“It is an easily accessible island and although it’s in the Atlantic it is very sheltered. And the island itself has plenty of natural shelter. It is an extraordinary development in which no expense has been spared. The electricity and water come straight from the mainland and it also has broadband access.”
British TV presenter Ben Fogle, who starred in the BBC reality show Castaway 2000, set on the Scottish island of Taransay, warned of the dangers of island ownership in an article in The Times recently when he commented: “A lot of people get seduced by the island dream without thinking of the realities.” Taransay came up for sale in 2011 and though Fogle put together a consortium that raised £1.5 million, he was beaten off by a landowner from the neighbouring island of Harris.
Television presenter Ben Fogle pictured on Taransay during the filming of the BBC’s “Castaway 2000” reality show
The Barclay brothers, owners of amongst other things The Ritz and The Telegraph Group, have had their fair share of trouble since purchasing the sister island of Sark, Brecqhou, in 1993. They have rowed with Sark’s government over everything from inheritance law to property taxes and whether they should or should not be allowed to use motor vehicles. Their case illustrates the perils of upsetting the locals.
Issues such as electricity provision, sanitation, the delivery of food supplies and how one would cope with an emergency may seem more mundane but also must be considered by those purchasing an island. Sir Richard Branson found this to his cost when the 8-bedroomed Great House on his £60 million Necker Island in the Caribbean burnt to the ground in August 2011. If he’d been on the mainland, his residence would most probably have been saved.
The remains of The Great House on Sir Richard Branson’s Necker Island
On this morning’s Desert Island Discs, Hollywood actress Goldie Hawn requested that the luxury she would like to take would be lip-gloss. Presenter Kirsty Young said she could have two tonnes of the stuff. Frankly, in reality though, anyone buying into island life would have to have a lot more practical things higher up their lists.
After a mixed response to our last picture of the week, taken from the Mail Online and featuring a “whingeing Brit” pensioner named Pamela Burbery, today we have chosen a more positive image from the very same title.
This week’s image is of another typically British sight, a white van. “White Van Man – The scourge of the road” was a description van drivers were christened with in 1997 by Jonathan Leake, the then transport editor of The Sunday Times, who described them as “the most feared driver on the road.”
The white VW van left on a roundabout in County Durham
White Van Man has never been considered a particularly sensitive chap but his image may have changed this week when the Mail Online featured an image of a VW van left on the George Reynolds Industrial Estate in County Durham decorated with the following:
Linda I’m sorry
I’m a fool and an idiot sometimes.
I love you with all my heart!
Please come home and put this right
We miss you!! I miss us.
I want to grow old with you.
Will you marry me?
Here is a White Van Man with a heart but even with their resources, the Mail Online did not manage to find out the identity of the driver prior to publication.
We very much hope Linda and her mystery man are reunited.
The sale of the 1935 Ford used as Lance Corporal Jones’s butcher’s van in “Dad’s Army”
A highlight in Bonhams’s 3rd December sale at Mercedes-Benz World Brooklands in Weybridge, Surrey will be a van used as Lance Corporal Jones’s butcher’s van in the classic television series, Dad’s Army.
The 1935 “Dad’s Army” Ford Box VanThe cast of “Dad’s Army” and the Jones’s 1935 Ford Box VanClive Dunn OBE as Lance Corporal Jones in the 1935 Ford Box Van
Currently part of the Patrick Motor Museum collection, this 1935 Ford Box Van featured in some of the most iconic shots in the series and has a guide of £20,000 to £30,000.
Jones, played by Clive Dunn OBE (born 1920), was best known for his catchphrases: “Permission to speak, sir?”, “You saved my life!” and “They don’t like it up ‘em!” In Dad’s Army he plays the town butcher of Walmington-on-Sea and when his precious delivery van is commandeered by his Home Guard, he is far from amused when modifications are made to it for the platoon’s activities.
In one episode the van is damaged and Jones becomes so upset that he threatens to ban Captain Mainwaring, the Home Guard company commander, from his sausage list. This is met with the reply: “Steady Jones.”
It may not be a case of: “There’s a war on” when this lot comes to auction, but you can bet there’ll be some fierce bidding. As Jones frequently said: “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!”
“Dictatorship tempered with an amount of human decapitation” was his style as Director-General of the BBC. This Presbyterian didn’t get on with Churchill as he felt he could have done a better job himself. John Reith was emancipated by a booze fuelled sailing trip with the governor of the Bank of England without his wife and subsequently encouraged drinking in the offices of the BBC. When he left the corporation, he vented his outrage whenever they played jazz music.
“Thank you for reaching out!”: a phrase that should be banned
“Thank you for reaching out” is a phrase that I’ve noticed is used far too frequently. During the Olympics, BBC presenters used it when medal winners gave a minute or two of their time to conduct an interview after a grueling challenge. If I’d been an Olympian, I’d probably have punched said presenter. “Well done on such a wonderful performance” is what should have instead been said as no “reaching out” had actually occurred.
An example of a “Thank you for reaching out!” message
This tedious quip, usually accompanied by an exclamation mark, is a misuse of the English language that seems to have been accepted in all walks of life with gusto. It’s used by call centre staff trying to flog direct debit mandates for phony charities and it’s used most probably by double glazing salesmen when someone actually bothers to spend five minutes listening to their drivel.
The origin of the phrase, I imagine, probably came from some Scientology or Holy Spirit Association for the Unification of World Christianity type cult. I can just hear a preacher thanking his audience for “reaching out” just as he pockets their substantial donation. On this basis, let’s consign this hideous phrase to where it belongs: Siberia.
Sarah Tucker gives an update on goings on at the resort where Madeleine McCann vanished
Four hundred and thirty euros, one bedroom apartment, one week at the height of season at a luxury family resort in Portugal. And oh yes, it’s the Ocean Club at Praia da Luz. There’s availability with two and three bedroom apartments as well. I asked about apartment 5a where Madeleine disappeared but the PR is coming back to me on that one. That was four days ago.
The Ocean Club entrance and Apartment 5A at the top of the street
I checked this out because having looked at the comments on The Steeple Times McCann roll call entry, I wanted to know what became of the resort where she disappeared. Last year the lady who owned the property itself couldn’t sell it because women buyers were put off by it’s history. I don’t blame them. I would never recommend buying from a divorcing couple, no matter how good the deal, so buying somewhere where a child has been allegedly kidnapped is a no no. Estate agents will say nonsense, but that’s a woman’s superstition for you. Or a mother’s superstition.
I remember writing at the time about Mark Warner, a company synonymous with a reputation for keeping parents who treated parenting as a subject to be studied to A*, not as something to leave to instinct, God forbid. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but having recently vox popped over 500 parents* asking if they would leave their children in their hotel room unsupervised while they ate in a restaurant on site, none of them, not one, said they would do so. I never mentioned the McCann case. The question about childcare was mixed in with other family travel related stuff, but some even mentioned the McCann’s case when they responded. And all claimed they would take advantage of a babysitting service if it was offered or eat earlier and with the kids if it wasn’t.
I was asked at the time if I would ever leave my son alone. I never have. Too risky and having lost him for ten minutes in the salubrious area that is East Sheen high street at five in the afternoon five years ago, because I refused to wait for him to tie up his shoe lace for the nth time, and getting no less than eighteen other men and women, all who had been either waiting for buses, serving or being served in shops, or in several cases drinking in the local pub, to run up and down, shouting his name, I understand the McCann’s need to go to the end of the earth, the prime minister, the Pope, to find their daughter. I completely understand this. What I never understood was their emotional reaction or rather lack of it. In the meantime babysitting services are still offered at the Ocean Club.
* Using social media (parents of three to six year olds).
