Atomic Bombs and Beauty Queens: The Civil Defence Personality Girl Contest, 1962

It's not often that the phrases 'nuclear war' and 'beauty pageants' are uttered in the same sentence. Victims of an atomic blast – burned beyond recognition, eyeballs melted, limbs charred – would hardly be up for strutting their stuff in evening wear or bikinis before an ogling crowd. With that in mind, one would be forgiven for thinking that organising a beauty parade would be far from the minds of Civil Defence planners, whose usual day to day tasks included delights such as learning how to treat third degree burns, rather than how to apply makeup and beauty products. 

Then again, the Cold War we know and love wouldn't be the same without a little lunacy, so of course a Civil Defence beauty pageant was held!

1962 saw the launch of the first Civil Defence Personality Girl Contest, organised by the North West Regional Division of the voluntary nuclear preparedness group. 23 local corps held heats at their local headquarters, with the victorious ladies heading to the the grand final, which was to be held in a truly glamorous location. Was it London? New York? Paris? No, it was Bury. Fabulous, darling.

The origins of the Personality Girl contest can be traced back to the earliest days of Civil Defence. When the voluntary corps was reinstated in 1948, a mere three years following the end of the Second World War, recruitment officials wrestled with how to attract women to join their very scanty ranks, while also ensuring that traditionally 'feminine' attributes were maintained. During WW2, women had proved themselves as intellectually, militarily and physically adept as men, and so many were understandably reluctant to return to traditional gender roles. Newspapers extolled the virtues of patriotic women who returned to the home in order to let a deserving man take her job, while she returned to the world supposedly more suited to her:

'It is a significant sign of the times that though many men wish to return to civilian life, a great proportion of women prefer to remain in jobs which take them outside the home, competing with men on equal terms. We would urge them to remember that there is one job in which they have no competitors; ie, making a home.' (Morecambe Guardian, 5 January 1946)

Needless to say, many women were somewhat peeved with this return to stereotypical norms, missing the recognition, equality and sense of camaraderie that national service brought to their lives. The restoration of the Civil Defence corps, then, must have seemed a dream come true for many. Here was a group that looked to recapture the wartime spirit, albeit this time with bigger and more exhilarating dangers to face. Meetings promised fascinating lectures, military style drills and instruction in battle preparedness. There was even a snazzy uniform to wear, with shiny buttons to  polish. No wonder that women of all ages flocked in their droves to join the CDC, eager as they were to feel valued again, even if that did mean enduring cheery talks on atomic warfare on a weekly basis. 

Putting ourselves in the shoes of a lady arriving at her local community centre for her first CD meeting in the 1950s, we can imagine a sense of stinking disappointment setting in as she realised the reality of the roles that would be open to her in the corps. Fighting fires? Out of the question. Scaling burning buildings to rescue trapped casualties? It's a no. Measuring radiation levels on a smouldering battleground? Don't even think about it.

The truth is that CD tasks assigned to women were, in the main, no more exhilarating that the domestic chores they were already doing at home. Posters from the time conform to archaic gender norms, appealing to 'women of sympathy' who could 'comfort and look after people, help run a canteen or help with billeting arrangements', in doing so utilising their in-built skills of motherliness, cooking and housekeeping. Such posters often provided handy visual references for any woman who might have been confused as to what her status in a post-apocalyptic world would be. The poster below provides three roles to choose from: there's the caring matron guiding victims to places of safety, the hysterical woman bawling into a handkerchief while leaning on her husband for support, or the doting mother nursing her baby. Naturally, the imagined nuclear attack has not ruffled the appearance of these ladies. Fallout dust or no fallout dust, they still have curled hair, lipstick and high heeled shoes with which to ride out the apocalypse. 

Compare this with recruitment posters aimed at men, which were frequently printed in alarming, radioactive yellow and populated by stern-faced and heroic gentlemen, who are covered in grime and sweat as they get stuck into the thick of the atomic action. Ladies need not have bothered applying for such exciting roles within the Rescue Section. If their equivalent, angelic blue poster were to be believed, these perfectly permed angels of mercy would simply spend the end of the world gazing wistfully into the distance, occasionally making the odd bed and serving a few cups of radioactive tea... It's little wonder that many women grew discontented with the CDC's insistence on casting them as nuclear Cinderellas in the pantomime that was Civil Defence. After the initial surge in membership, female recruitment slumped as women found more fulfilling  – and less terrifying – clubs to attend. 

Oblivious to the real reason that women had chosen to abandon the CDC, the powers that be scratched their heads and came up with a multitude of laughable explanations for female absence, once again latching onto any well-worn stereotype they could to support their theories. Women were too easily distracted by gaiety and frivolity to take CD seriously, claimed a local councillor from Morecambe in 1953: 'In a seaside town like Morecambe there are so many entertainments, like dance halls and pictures, that it's no wonder there's so much apathy.' In Fleetwood, an Auxiliary Fire Service chief recognised that women were likely too bogged down with domestic chores to be able to attend social clubs, and suggested - very reasonably, in all fairness  -  that more 'attempt should be made to schedule training sessions more flexibly, so that they didn't upset women's homes and other commitments.'

It wasn't until the early 1960s, however, that the Minister for Home Affairs, D.W. Hudson, believed that he'd hit the nail on the head when it came to why 'female recruits were not coming forward': the uniform simply wasn't glamorous enough. Convinced that dreary dresses and practical shoes were deterring hip young things from answering the call to nuclear service, Hudson consulted several 'fashion conscious young women' who were already enrolled in his local CD group for their opinion on 'that awful uniform'. 

'My main objection is the regulation shoe,' said one woman, 'as it is terribly ugly. The beret has a crown which is too big and too flat.  A beanie type would be more becoming'. Another lady chipped in: 'I know we have to look workmanlike, but there's no need for us to actually look like workmen!'

This was a crisis state. Even these longstanding women members of CD were threatening to revolt and jump ship unless the glamour stakes were upped. Something had to be done. 

The answer to the defection crisis came in the form of the Civil Defence Personality Girl Contest. The glittering contest aspired to whittle all the women in the North West region down to 23 lucky ladies, who would then head to the grand final in exotic Bury. The victorious Personality Girl's prize would be to 'act as hostess at all Civil Defence functions for the following year'. So, if she hadn't served enough tea and sandwiches during nuclear war exercises, she could always look forward to serving Champagne at parties, and this time in a sparkly dress, rather than an ugly old uniform!

While organisers of the competition may have genuinely felt that they were giving women members of the CD corps what they wanted by allowing them to flaunt their femininity and sex appeal, we have to wonder if there was an ulterior motive behind the plan. Namely, a chance to see their usually dowdy colleagues dolled up to the nines and strutting their stuff on a stage. 

It's safe to say that the men chosen to act as judges in the competition were very excited about their upcoming task of ogling some ladies. Bury's Assistant Civil Defence Officer, Mr Gordon Sweeney, judged both his local heat and the grand final, and told his local newspaper in gleeful anticipation that 'we've got some really attractive girls in the division and the other girls will have to be pretty good to beat them!' Such a lust-laden statement conjures images of the judges chasing the CD ladies around their local HQ to the accompaniment of the Benny Hill theme tune. 

Much to the disappointment of the excited judges, it was decided early on in the competition planning that the swimsuit round ubiquitous to 1960s beauty pageants would not appear in the Civil Defence contest schedule. The Liverpool Echo of 12 April 1962 reported a 'bikini ban', with sexy two-pieces and other swimsuits out of bounds. Ironically enough, the original bikini was named after Bikini Atoll, the site of a series of US nuclear tests, in light of the new beachwear's devastating sex appeal and dangerously explosive power. Despite the bikini's links to nuclear weaponry, contest planners decided - reluctantly, we can assume - to insist upon all competitors being fully clothed if the competition was to retain a shred of credibility. After all, even they would have to admit that it would be very difficult for a CD volunteer to tackle a raging firestorm while dressed like Barbara Windsor in Carry on Camping. 

Each of the competition heats followed the same format, being held during a Civil Defence social night and no doubt fuelled by copious amounts of beer. 'The girls', the Liverpool Echo explained, 'will parade in evening dress and Civil Defence uniform, followed by a short' – only short, mind you – 'conversation with the judges to assess personality.' With judges 'awarding marks for each girl's appearance and deportment', and only a short chance to speak with the contestants, it's easy to see that aesthetic qualities were solely being rewarded, as opposed to bestowing the title to the woman with the greatest aptitude for Civil Defence and voluntary service. At no point were contestants quizzed on safe doses of radiation, the equipping of a fallout room or on emergency first aid. The only attribute needed to secure victory was a perfect figure and fashionable clothes. 

Evidence to support this can be found in the story of 19 year old Marjorie Hulme, who, 'as the only blonde among six competitors', won the Chester heat of Personality Girl in August 1962. Marjorie, a wireless operator within the corps, scored highly on 'charm and poise', with the judges describing her as 'a very pleasant girl' gifted with great deportment in evening clothes. If Marjorie's commitment to Civil Defence training and dedication to her additional role as an instructor in the Junior Air Corps were taken into account during judging, it certainly wasn't mentioned in the press reports of her victory. The judges thought Marjorie looked saucy in her neatly-pressed uniform, and that was enough to send her strutting her stuff into the grand final. 

Alas, the road to victory is often a rocky one, as Marjorie was to discover to her peril two days after she won her heat...

As torrential rain fell on Chester that typically grey August day in 1962, Marjorie's CD group were taking part in an elaborate exercise mocking a nuclear attack on the city. Marjorie was acting in her role as a wireless operator, sending communications from one rescue team to another. Unfortunately, the high winds and driving rain that day meant that Marjorie couldn't hear the umpire's announcements, meaning she didn't have a clue what instructions she was supposed to be broadcasting to her teammates. While 'rushing to hear the umpire's announcements' more closely, the Personality Girl 'fell on slippery cobbles and tumbled over', cutting her face, hands and legs.

Immediately, her colleagues in the first aid section leapt into action with plasters and germolene, thrilled to have some genuine blood and gore to deal with for once and an opportunity to put their skills into practice. When faced with actual wounds for the first time, however, it seems that the first aid posse found themselves overwhelmed and out of their depth. Commandeering a Civil Defence vehicle being used during the exercise as a makeshift ambulance, the first aid team packed their charge off to Chester Royal Infirmary to have her relatively minor injuries 'fully treated' by professionals. It was probably at this point that Chester's chief CD officers realised that their first aiders would be totally useless if a nuclear bomb actually ever did fall on the city. Some further training required there, methinks. 

With only one week to go until the glittering Personality Girl final at the Princess Ballroom in Bury, Marjorie faced a tense seven days of waiting to see if the wounds she'd acquired in the line of duty, 'at the moment covered by plasters', would heal in time for her big moment. Her group leader, Mr. H. Baxter, who we met earlier, told the Liverpool Echo that 'we're all keeping our fingers crossed that Marjorie's injuries will clear before next Friday. It would be a big disappointment, especially for Marjorie, if she had to miss the final.'

Here we arrive at a truth that is stickier than the plasters on Marjorie's face, hands and knees: skills in nuclear defence barely contributed to ultimate victory in the Civil Defence Personality Girl contest. Appearances were everything, in more ways than one. You'd be forgiven for thinking that, as a contestant covered head to toe in injuries attained during battle practice, Marjorie would have been a sure win, her commitment to the cause having been proved in blood, sweat and tears. Alas not. When she cut her hands and legs during the exercise, Marjorie also scratched away the pretence that Civil Defence was a harmless, frivolous social club with little to no danger involved. Civil Defence women were supposed to be unflappable and ladylike, their makeup un-smudged and hair miraculously unruffled by war, reinforcing the idea that the security and traditions of the country could be maintained thanks to the nuclear deterrent. The sight of a bloodsoaked CD volunteer wrapped in bandages, on the other hand, would serve as a reminder to the public that Civil Defence was in fact a government-sponsored, war-mongering organisation, designed to train volunteers to prepare for war, rather than preserve peace. Volunteers could – and did – get hurt during practices; just as millions could – and would – die if bombs began to fall. 

Perhaps sensing that her presence would not be appreciated at the grand final, it seems that Marjorie decided to give her moment in the spotlight a miss, for she is not mentioned in reports of the event. Instead, we learn that 27 year old Beryl Airey from Wallasey secured victory after a 'brief interview with the judges in evening dress'. Beryl was presented with a sash, which must have been quite sizeable to accommodate the lengthy title of 'North West Regional Civil Defence Personality Girl 1962/3'. In her role as hostess at events over the next year, she would be asked to forgo her military-style uniform, badges and the medals she'd earned, replacing them with her satin sash and party dresses. 

Ultimately, the winner of the Personality Girl contest suffered the biggest loss of all: loss of recognition of her achievements. Together with all the other women who took part in the competition, Beryl's accomplishments were quashed beneath the stereotypical norms of the ideal nuclear family, reducing her to 'just a pretty face' that could be relied upon to be beautiful as the bombs fell and mushroom clouds rose. 

The Civil Defence Personality Girl contest limped on for another three years, with the final event taking place with minimal entrants in 1965. The Corps itself bit the dust in 1968, just as the feminist movement was gaining momentum and women turned their attention to fighting social injustice, rather than imaginary nuclear wars. Soon after, beauty pageants too fell from favour and were attacked by fervent feminists from all sides. The battle for equality was one women would ferociously fight on the frontline, refusing to downplay their victories and duck for cover in the sidelines as they had done in the past.

After all, beauty may be only skin deep, but the scars of injustice run much deeper.

Rebecca Shaw 

Sources 

Belfast Newsletter, 4 August 1964.

Chester Chronicle, 1 September 1962.

Lancaster Guardian, 21 November 1952.

Liverpool Daily Post, 17 August 1962; 30 August 1963; 12 October 1963.

Liverpool Echo, 12 April 1962; 15 June 1962; 16 July 1962; 3 September 1962; 26 October 1962; 10 October 1964. 

Manchester Evening News, 18 January 1965.

Wallasey News and Wirral General Advertiser, 18 August 1962; 15 September 1962; 3 November 1962. 

Primary image adapted from photograph of Miss Great Britain contest 1957, held at Morecambe Super Swimming Stadium, Lancashire. Original photograph below.