Even though it happened 30 years ago, I still cringe when I think of it. It was one of the most difficult and terrifying experiences of my life.
I was young, fancy free and on holidays in a remote part of the west of Ireland. It had been a very happy and enjoyable holiday until then. The weather had been lovely and everything seemed fine with the world. It was the time when we used to have real summers (none of this record rainfall-for-June business).
Then, one evening, this tall, well-dressed man got talking to me in a pub. He was very friendly and articulate and we got on quite well. We chatted about the weather, football, politics, films - everything under the sun.
Coming up to closing time, he sprung the trap. "I wonder would you do me a favour?" he asked conspiratorially. I said it would depend on what the favour was. There was something about the way he put the question that worried me. I had known the guy only a couple of hours and here he was asking for favours. I had visions of being asked to participate in a bank robbery or provide a safe home for the IRA. All my instincts told me that whatever this hombre wanted it wasn't going to do me any good.
"Oh, it's no big deal," he explained with a hearty laugh, seeing the worried look on my face. "It's just that I'd like you to judge a women's beauty competition . . ."
I nearly fell off the bar stool. Suddenly, the bank robbery or providing a safe house for the IRA seemed attractive. "You must be joking," I replied, absolutely astounded. "I know nothing about beauty competitions. I know nothing about women; no man does."
Impartial outsider
He said they were holding a dance in a hall in a nearby town on Saturday and the highlight would be the beauty competition. They needed an impartial outsider to do the adjudicating. I was from faraway Dublin, so I fitted the role ideally. In addition, he thought I was a great fellow and had impressed him no end with my brilliant conversation during the night. When he found out I was a journalist on a national newspaper, I was immediately elevated to the status of brain surgeon or nuclear scientist.
When I again politely protested my dismal knowledge of beauty as a competitive sport, he tried a bit of psychology. He began tugging at my heart strings. He proudly revealed that the proceeds of the dance would be going to charity and stressed that the judging would be an easy job. It would be over before I knew it. Simply a doddle. He would get Mrs X, a local woman, to help me in my duties.
Best suit
He was very persuasive and eventually I agreed to take part in the crazy project.
I arrived at the dance hall - the local Ballroom of Romance - at 10 p.m., dressed in my best suit and taking my job very seriously indeed. I was treated like royalty. I smiled nervously and tried to stop my knees from shaking. I was brought around to the back room where there was a little reception for me, the Garda sergeant and three other prominent local businessmen. I remember accepting a brandy, an up-market drink which had eluded my young palate up until then - a bottle of stout being my only man. I barely had time to gulp it down when they pressed me into action.
My job was to look around the hall for attractive girls, then dance with them and adjudicate on their looks, personality, poise, etc. It was a dreadful experience. I hopped, skipped and jumped around every square inch of that dance floor until I nearly dropped from exhaustion. I did slow foxtrots, quicksteps, tangos and sambas. I talked and talked and talked to a never ending number of girls of all ages, sizes and personalities. There I was, Mr Fred Astaire himself, minus the top hat and tails, chatting up girls, none of whom knew that their perspiring Dublin partner held their future in his hands. After all, I could make them a beauty queen, a star . . . Hollywood next stop. This went on for about three hours. It was some of the hardest work I ever did in my life.
My dancing wasn't great and it wasn't helped by the uneven playing of the little band which had very limited ability. Trying to play Latin American sets such as sambas and tangos taxed them to the utmost. Because the dance was for charity they were playing for nothing, and that was as much as they were worth.
Each time I decided on a prospective winner the bold Mrs X would shake her big head and say without fail, almost with glee: "No, we can't pick her." When I would ask why the particular person wasn't suitable, she would explain that the father was in jail or otherwise not in good local standing, or the mother wasn't what you might call virtuous. She had the lowdown on just about everybody. The FBI couldn't hold a candle to her. I was getting really frustrated. Every girl I set eyes on she knocked down. I continued burning up the miles on the dance floor, a throbbing blister developing on my foot, a wintry, glazed smile on my face, talking as though I was being controlled by a ventriloquist, deep in despair, wondering if I would ever get out of this stupid situation.
Winning brunette
Eventually, I broke the deadlock with a blinding touch of genius. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it an hour earlier and saved myself a lot of hard work and embarrassment. I walked up to Mrs X, flattered her by telling her she had a good eye for talent, and asked her who she thought should be the winner.
Delighted, she immediately pointed out a certain brunette, not exactly an oil painting, who met all her criteria. The girl wasn't my cup of tea, but at that stage I didn't give a damn. I just wanted to go home. Even though I had got into the dance free, I would at that stage have paid to get out.
I shook the woman by the hand and said the brunette was an excellent choice and hypocritically asked her why I hadn't been able to spot her. The brunette was crowned the winner to a great fanfare from the little band and to a huge burst of applause from all and sundry.
I rushed out into the night, jumped into my car and roared off into the night. The moral of this little story is never talk to strange men in pubs.