7 Days 17 November 1971 PHOTO—FEATURE

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The Flashing Nipple Street Theatre from Women's Liberation. They flashed at cops and audience

PHOTO-FEATURE7 Days 17 November 1971

So Miss World finally received her crown for the 21st time last week at the Albert Hall. There were no bangs and no bombs (though the police raided the Women’s Liberation offices just in case), but a thousand demonstrators, with street theatre, and shouts of “Down With the Meccapimps” saw to it that the police and Mecca X’s private force of heavies had something to do.

Inside and outside the Hall, spectacle on both sides. The guests arrive in their charabancs and Rolls-Royces all dressed up for the occasion. Most of them seem to be coupled with a financial interest in Grand Metropolitan Hotels or lucky Mecca Bingo prizewinners. 2,000 of them come from Birmingham, starting a five day trip to London with a visit to the great exhibition. In their Sunday best they dodge through the line of demonstrators who seal off the Hall in a moving circle.

“Disgusting”, cries one fur-clad matron,” You all ought to be out at work”. Night-cleaning, perhaps. Nearby the young liberals give the annual performance of their “cattle market” street theatre — the only group who manage regularly to produce a protest nearly as offensive to the Women’s Liberationists as the Miss World Contest itself.

Here They ComeHanging around the pavements in groups, the

police look bemused. Then the Miss Worlds arrive. Sequined and perfumed visions, they gaze at the demonstrators, and vanish round the back of the hall.

Meanwhile the Womens Liberation Street theatre bring us their latest “Flashing Nipples” routine: lights on each breast and one on the crotch, they flash at the Mecca men, but aren’t appreciated.

GLF present their view of the proceedings, with Miss Laid, Miss Used, and others up for judgment. Miss Used wins.

Guests and demonstrators go off to their various entertainments, the former to a boring parade, the others to the watch women’s liberation films in the Royal College of Art. Only the police remain, awaiting reinforcements and the final confronta­tion. The Met’s heavy squad, from the Com­missioner’s office (with CO on their shoulders) were there in force. As the demonstrators gatheredtwo Special Branch men in their regulation police raincoats are spotted. “Excuse me, are you from the Special Branch?” and cameras whirring and lights flashing they face the media. But they spurn the lime-light and creep off.

The guests come out and the chants begin “Free our sisters, free ourselves.” The police begin to flex their muscles. In between pushing demon­

strators down the Albert Hall steps, they search the canvas bags of the more scruffy photographers, hopefully looking for bombs.

You Can’t Hit Rolls RoycesRolls Royces, chauffeur-driven, re-appear. In­

different to the crowd they drive forward, not caring if they hit or miss. One girl, trying to stop them, is seized by an irate policemen. “You can’t hit Rolls Royces” he screams. Saved by her friends she sinks back into the crowd. The driver leaps out armed with a starting handle shouting “I’ll get you little bastards”.

Hand in hand, demonstrators have again cor­doned off the Hall, and the police move in, clearing a space for the important guests to get out. The rest remain inside until such time as things quieten down. They don’t.

Little Red RoosterWhen they do emerge they are furious. A man

lashes out at a demonstrator. A fight breaks out. One middle-aged woman belts a young girl with her handbag. Elderly ladies faint when they see the opposition.

A gross Texan keeps saying that a rooster in your bedroom is the answer to sexual problems. “It’s not unnatural, and its better than mastur­bation.”

The police, who have come prepared to wade into Womens and Gay Liberation, don’t know what to do. Casualities lie on the pavements for some minutes before being carted back into the Albert Hall. Up on the steps a woman says that she can’t understand why people are demonstrating. Quick as a flash, a policeman grabs her, and she is shoved into the mêlée, protesting loudly that she works for Mecca.

The unlucky contestants emerge at the back, and climb into their coaches near the heavily guarded BBC vans. Whether they are more disappointed in their defeat, or in the absence of a demonstration inside to relieve the monotony is hard to tell. Miss India waves hopefully though the window at the demonstrators.

Demonstrators dance in the street in front of the Miss World bus. Up runs a police sergeant: “Get out of the way, you cunts.”

The police surge forward and push the crowd down the steps. They collapse in an untidy heap. Three people are arrested. Six policeman grab one man, lifting him off the ground, with one constable grabbing him round the throat.

The first coach pulls away, the Miss Worlds wave, the crowd heave and grapple with the police cordon. The second coach moves off. The next batch wave again. “Sisterhood is powerful” the sisters shout back.

Fifteen minutes later, a sleek white Rolls Royce glides through the dispersing mass. Bearing Miss World and Eric Morley to their celebration ball.

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Keith Bailey