Soccer fans are in several different categories these days.
There are the berserk.
There are the faithful.
There are the lovely.
One of the lovely ones is ROZ STUART. And her favourite footballers are fans of hers just as much as she's a fan of theirs. The trouble is, as the centre-forward said, how does a feller keep his mind on football when Roz is sitting in a favoured position on the trainer's bench and wearing a sweater as well?
It's a nice problem.
There’s nothing about a typewriter that isn’t familiar to SYLVIA MARTIN, for Sylvia has seen many of her friends tapping away on one. So, she bought one. She had an idea for the most fabulous novel. All about a girl who finds a formula for turning uranium into gold. So, while the idea was hot she began tapping. And you can see what froze the idea eventually. It was the backache she got. Isn’t she a doll?
Up in the Scottish Highlands they play all those Scottish games, and one of our favourite pin-up girls, RUTH CAVENDISH, is quite good at tossing the caber, providing the caber is scaled down to the size of a walking-stick. "A girl," says Ruth, "should be noted for her charm and subtlety, not her muscles. Who wants muscles?" She was having a grand game doing the Highland Fling not far from the local loch, and then a Scottish terrier joined in and made off with most of her clothes, Ruth having taken them off to give herself more freedom of movement.
It was a new kind of game looking for that terrier, who was finding her terylene skirt tastier than a tin of dog meat. Still, Ruth made a lovely picture while it was all going on.
Hello—yes?
What happened?
What, what?
Where did you get to?
I never went anywhere.
No, I mean last night.
Yes, I do too. I never went anywhere.
Oh, thanks very much, very complimentary I must say. I fix to meet you at Willi's Wunder Bar and you decide not to turn up. Well, at least you're not making excuses, at least you're giving it to me straight.
I am so glad you like it straight. When did we decide to meet at Willi’s?
When we were at Fritzi's.
Who is this I am talking to, please?
Otto. Don't say you've forgotten me already, Helga.
Alas, Otto, this is not Helga, this is Renate. I am sorry you have the wrong number but if you would like to make your request on a postcard I will send you an autographed photograph. Otto who?
Otto Ombert and I am now about to drop dead from mortification.
Have a nice funeral.
(Otto’s wrong number was RENATE USADEL, German model and starlet, and you couldn’t really blame him.)
Just in case you thought it was papier mâché, NANCY COLLINS wants to emphasise her petticoat is genuine nylon, and every frill is guaranteed to billow.
Around the fascinating street markets of London wander the seekers after the old and the ancient.
Among those with a keen eye for the genuine is MOLLY SHANNON. Whenever Molly can spare time from her job as a shorthand-typist she pops into the market throngs. Actually, Molly stands out in a throng. So, do most blue-eyed blondes with vitalistics of 36-24-37.
At seventeen she's already an expert on antique rings. She collects them and has bought the most fascinating ones for a song. So if you're dying to ingratiate yourself with her, and you'd be a hopeless case of fragility if you weren't, you couldn’t do better than give her a ring.
It has to be a ring of antique splendour, of course. Don't try and foist a fake on her. She'll never wear it.
They were waiting for their passports to be stamped, CAROL ANN LEDSAM and SANDRA MORRIS. A woman poked her head out and said, "Get undressed.” The girls thought it a bit odd to get undressed for passport-stamping, but helped each other until they both looked very chic in their undies. And then they found they were on the wrong floor, and they were nearly pulled into a sauna bath instead of receiving their passports.
It was only a small dog, said ELIZABETH GALLACHER, but so adorable and I didn't know he wasn't with me until I got home with an empty lead.
No, it's difficult to describe him, sergeant, and he's hardly got any tail to speak of. And you can’t see his nose. But he does the cutest tricks if you offer him a bowl of redcurrant jelly. Yes, I know it's not the time of the year for fresh red currants but if you’ve got any frozen ones in the station freezer.
Yes, all right, sergeant, you are a dear. We call him Trixie. Well, someone said he was a girl when we first bought him and he was only about as big as a currant bun. So we called him Trixie but he answers to Trix and if you whistle like a squeaky cork coming out of a tight bottle he’ll answer to that as well.
He's black and white. Well, not all over. He’s a bit brown in front. He sits in the window and gets his face tanned.
Thoroughbred What’s that’ He's just a dog. He’s got four legs and all his teeth if that's what you mean. He likes pink slips. No, ladies’. If your wife has got one she doesn't t want.
Thank you, sergeant, you are a pet. You’re a real Trixie.
Dancer ANNABEL LANE has another passion besides choreography.
It's chess.
She's got lots of chess mates and can whack them all by concentrated dedication. One high-domed egghead who rather fancied himself got checkmated in six moves. When asked what it felt like to be annihilated he replied, "Dreamy, my dear—what a brain she's got to go with her measurements."
Annabel's measurements are all curvy.
You can say that about all kinds of things, like the latest detergent that washes frighteningly white—
“Here, watch it, birdbrain, you look like a ghost.” You can say that the ride from Marble Arch to Haywards Heath was pretty good, except that it was a pity about the traffic. You can say that Joe’s Pull-Up for hungry tramps Is pretty good, except watch out for his chips. You can say mum’s pretty good and the job’s pretty good.
And you can really say that SHEILA CAMPBELL is pretty good. Sheila is pretty and good. She’s eighteen, she’s delightful, she’s Scottish, and this Is her first time before the camera as a Highland pin-up. She’s got a thing about pop music—who hasn’t? —and a thing about going to Majorca for holidays. What we like uncommonly well about her, however, is that she thinks men are just super-duper great.
We’re probably not that good.
It was one of those fiesta nights on the Mediterranean island when they had a competition to find out who had the best legs. Freddie Pinkerton was there and entered on the strength of the local wine. They disqualified him as soon as he rolled his trousers up.
“Geddoudavit!” they yelled in Italian and French.
“Well, I dunno,” said Freddie, “they liked it when I did it at Blackpool.” But they took it more seriously in the Med., and they restricted it to girls only. The winner was SANDRA MILLWARD and here she is.
Freddie took one look, and as his glasses cracked he said, “Okay, I quit, I know when I’m licked.”
One day a family moved into the empty house across the street from Percy, and from then on Percy spent his time peeping through his letter-box to see what he could see of the young lady there.
Her name was CRYSTALL DAWSON, and as far as Percy was concerned, she was the cutest-looking girl who’d ever lived opposite, and after five minutes he was nuts about her. Then his mother caught up with him and yanked him into the back room.
“ Aw, mum,” said Percy (who was thirteen and growing fast), “ be a sport, mum. Lemme have another dekko, mum.”
“ Percy,” said his mum, “ I have enough trouble with your father’s weakness for a pretty face. I’m not having the same trouble with you.”
Oblivious of her young admirer opposite, Crystall was getting the house in order and waiting for the rest of her clothes to arrive.
Crystall’s a typist, but would rather be a fashion model. Percy, a deadhead on careers, just thought she was a smasher.
Crystall is 5' 4", and measures 36"-24"-36". Figures to Percy just mean homework. Homework? There’s a clue there somewhere!
Tea is served and even coffee-drinkers can’t resist this!
Finally, of course, there's the afternoon must for every girl, irrespective of age or measurements — a nice cuppa.
Three lumps, please.
In the stockroom of a Manchester cotton mill the girl in charge was STEPHANIE PETERS, and blokes kept coming in to ask her to check what was in the upper bays so that they could see what she looked like in her mini on a ladder.
Such blokes were always milling around in the stockroom and Stevie, as they call her, always seemed to be up the ladder.
So, she thought she'd leave her job and get one in London. Going up and down that ladder was killing her. In London she met some photographers and became a model. Now they're all milling around her in the big city.
Who are?
A bevy of blokes with a long ladder.
Keeping the fireside looking a lot more attractive than if she weren’t there is dark-eyed JEAN BELVIN.
The usual fireside adornment, apart from the tongs and the toasting fork, is a fat cat or a plump Pekinese. While we’re not prepared to make an issue of this with animal-lovers, the preference most people would have would favour Jean, and the cat would have to make do inside the coal-scuttle.
Removal of the plump Pekinese might be a little more difficult. You might even get bitten. But if you want to make room for an adornment as pretty as Jean muzzle the pup before you grab him.
In case you didn’t know, Jean is a receptionist who looks extremely chic in frilly black nylon. We know there's no connection, but we just thought we’d mention it. Ambition is to be a model pin-up!
Jean figures that her measurements of 36"-24"-36" keep her looking slick—and they don't give her any worry about what not to eat.
Speaking of France, secretary VALERIE PETERS was going there for a holiday this year, but what with the currency restrictions and her feeling that the General doesn’t like her, she said “Non,” to the idea in the end. She’s going to Cornwall instead so look out for her skimming the white horses on her surf board.
