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 ?
Coming Your Way, Cobbers
For some time now VICKI ASHLEY has been awaiting her emigration papers. She applied to go to Australia and by now should be on her way.
We thought we'd let you know, cobbers. There must be quite a few Down Under who don't want to miss her. These pictures of Vicki were taken in the autumn and we don't honestly think she'll have changed much by the time she lands in all that sunshine. There may be quite a few others who'll land with her, so just for the record she'll be the brown-eyed one measuring 37-23-36. But don't start checking up with your tape measure or big as you are you'll get socked.
Vicki was a manicurist before she became a model, so if any Aussie wants his nails trimmed and his cuticles looking nice, Vicki's your girl. Only bow from the waist down first as she likes all fellers to be gentlemen. Don't try throwing her over your horse and galloping off to the outback with her. She'll conk you silly with a collapsible hammer she carries.
On Stage, Luv
It was ever so friendly when HERTA MICHAELIDES from Cyprus appeared for her first part on the London stage.
She was waiting with nervous trepidation for the curtain to go up, and then this friendly voice called, "On stage, luv." Herta liked that. In Cyprus and Greece, they use a different expression, one which roughly translated means, "Come on, get a Grecian move on."
Herta has spent most of her nineteen years in Cyprus, where she was born of an English mother and a Greek father. Now she is in London, living in Pimlico with her English husband and working in the theatre. She's hoping for utterly dramatic things to happen, although she's willing to wait a while to appear with the great Olivier.
She's nice, is Herta.
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.
I have recently been in contact with Heathers daughter Cherie.
Heather is doing well and now in her early 70’s. She recently celebrated her 50th wedding anniversary. She has had a good life as a home maker raising two children with her accountant husband.
That’s about it for the time being, I have sent her copies of all the books that she appeared in as she was keen to have another look at her fabulous pictures.
Thanks for taking the time to get in contact Cherie, its really great to hear that Heather is happy and well.
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.
