If a girl can’t settle down for a quiet read without being bothered by a harvester it could mean sudden death for the insect. JANET GOODMAN is not the sort of girl who won’t fight back.
So round the room they went, the flighty harvester and the pretty girl, and whack whack whack went the girl and zing zing zing went the harvester. And just when Janet thought she’d got it she hadn’t and what a fall there was and what a bump. Oh well, you can’t win all the time.
Very game girl is JACKIE BLAIR. Tennis, hockey, netball—you name it and Jackie’s played it. She looks absolutely delightful on the other side of a tennis net, but don’t get your eye in the way of her backhand volley. She likes mixed hockey better then anything, it gives her a chance to trip up all the six-foot men.
How do you feel just before the croupier spins the roulette wheel and you've got all your fish-and-chip money staked on twenty-one? Do you savage your waistcoat buttons, gnaw your lip, tremble traumatically or what? Look all nonchalant and whistle a sonatal
Be like LIZ HARVEY. Take a chance and take it with a smile. Liz loves a gamble. Loses her shirt regularly but, as she says, it looks better on the croupier, anyway. She took a chance when she went for a film audition. Landed a small part in the Albert Finney classic “Tom Jones." It paid quite lovely lolly. Liz blued it all on mini-dresses and on a horse called Up The Creek.
Laughed her head off when it came out of the starting-gate wrong end first. That's the way to gamble. And, after all, said Liz, the bookies have to eat, don't they ?
ANNE DUKE, Welsh beauty queen, and just the one we’d like to see most of in a Miss World contest ?
THE way is one of those lovely country lanes down in Kent and by the way is one of those lovely Kentish girls, MIRIAM WHEATLEY.
Cherry blossom and apple blossom both look lovely down in Kent and Miriam isn’t entirely undecorative either. There are obviously times when it’s exceptionally nice to be down in Kent.
A = American
The average American glamour girl lives in a woman’s world but doesn’t actually eat men. She is smart, sophisticated, has long and lovely legs but is succumbing only slowly to the mini skirt. Teeth very good. Goes in for bulk-buying of groceries, keeps her man up with the Astors if she can, never mind the Joneses, has large account with dry-cleaners, makes a wonderful all-American mother, believes in tradition for Europe and plumbing for the United States.
Sex rating: Campus-trained.
Example of long-legged American glamour: ARLENE CHARLES.
B = British
The average British glamour girl is bullied by career women who would like her to actually eat men, but the av. B.G.G. would rather be eaten herself—in the nicest way only, of course. Wears droll hats, mini-skirts, and stockings that give you spots before the eyes. Likes the beach, villas in Spain, gondoliers. Accepts man as boss (much to fury of career women), is coveted as perfect secretary and makes imperfect shopper. Develops into nice but worrying mother.
Sex rating: Sweetly confused.
Example of mini-skirted British galmour: PAT SIMPSON.
C = Continental
The average Continental glamour girl is over-glamorised, puts on weight is endearingly feminine, useless at sport, lovely at chemin- de-fer, dark, short-legged, bikini-mad. Looks great in a convertible, not so great on a horse, enchanting on beach, talkative in crowd, loves to be with men, hates other women. Wants to be a James Bond girl—the one he seduces, not the one he bumps off.
Sex rating: Incurable.
Example of Bikini clad glamour: KATHLEEN TRENTINI.
Everytime we omit to include SUSAN DOUGLAS in any of our issues, her fans rise up and write angry letters to us. Many of these letters describe our letdown of their expectations as a despicable campaign in favour of the indescribable dregs, whatever that may mean. This never fails to make trouble— someone has to carry the can. And Susan’s fans are entitled to that much. We do feature her very regularly. We have to. They’d tear the place down brick by brick otherwise.
We’d feel all exposed if we had to carry on with only the rubble around us. You can’t tear a place down and put it up again overnight. And even if you could, what would the unions say?
CAROL BURDETTE, was well caught by the old farm gate and the farmer’s boy was so smitten he went off his sandwiches.
You’ve heard about the London Bobbies. It’s traditional for every visitor to say how wonderful they are. Occasionally they kind of let you down by nicking you for a traffic offence, but you can take it happily when they pat you on the head and see you on your way with their own inimitable cheer—“No hard feelings, sir, see you in court.”
There are other Bobbies in London, of course. There are quite beautiful ones like BOBBY SHAW, who is an absolute dreamboat at creating exquisite floral decorations. The only thing more exquisite is Bobby herself. In a sports car she’s more decorative than a cluster of orchids and as she rides by you go weak at the knees with the magnitude of your appreciation. Old ladies naturally think you’ve been drinking and next thing you know a kindly member of Alcoholics Anonymous is asking in the friendliest way if you’d like to be cured.
Cured?
What, and let all the beautiful Bobbies of London pass by without stirring those unforgettable deep-down pangs of appreciative anguish?
It’s all right, friend, just let me lie here.
This is HELEN WILLIAMS, Chelsea model who’s absolutely with it when it comes to trendy gear.
Long before your time, Christopher, there was once another Helen, and a piece of Trojan beefcake called Paris was so smitten with her blue eyes and her way of walking across a room that he picked her up and carried her off. All the way from Greece to Troy. Her husband, who also liked her blue eyes and her way of walking, nearly did his classical nut. Gathering up Acnilles, Ajax, Ulysses and divers other Grecian muscle men, he sailed for Troy to rescue his fair bride. You know the rest. Ten years of unlimited gore and then the wooden horse. It’s past history now and there are other things to do, like getting home in time to watch “The Avengers.” Or going to Chelsea on a Sunday to watch all the trendy young tilings in mini-skirts as they discuss philosophy and Himalayan cooking under the trees.
Look out for Helen. Now you’ve seen her you can’t miss her. She’s got blue eyes too and the way she walks gets us going all down the side.
