OPINION: Men identifying as women? There's nothing new about that

SO the Rose of Tralee committee is to allow married women compete in the festival and has confirmed that anyone who identifies as female can enter the competition. It is about being more inclusive. (Ok, you at the back, this is no laughing matter. Stop now or you’ll be force-fed what’s left of last Saturday’s turkey!)

And, for the first time in the festival’s 62-year history the age limit for contestants has been increased, slightly, from 28 to 29. Under the new rules a contestant this year cannot have turned 30 before September 1st next.

“We’re extending the age up to 29 now, we’re confirming that married women can enter and somebody who identifies as a woman would be very, very welcome to enter it,” Rose of Tralee executive chairman Anthony O’Gara said.

"Trans women had always been eligible to enter the festival, he said, “but we haven’t stated it possibly strongly enough in the past, so we just want to confirm that,” he said.

Well, well, who knew? Not me, though I reported on the Rose of Tralee over many years. Still, why not? “We want to make sure we are diverse and inclusive,” said Mr O’Gara. And so say most of us, myself included. Applications from contestants are being accepted since December 20th, so…?!

But, and at the risk of taking my life in my hands, being misunderstood, and writing something I may regret for the rest of my days, I will must go where angels fear to tread even in this season of goodwill.

When I heard what Mr O’Gara had to say last week, that anyone “who identifies as a woman would be very, very welcome to enter” the Rose of Tralee, I was immediately transported back across the decades to the utterly unique Ms Ballaghaderreen Beauty Contest where I was MC (and scriptwriter). All in the aid of my favourite charity, the Vincent de Paul.

Oh, we were so far ahead of our time! So many of the contestants, all male, identified as women for the occasion. It was the whole point. It brought the house down.

We got 'the lads’ (no age barrier at all) from the town’s various streets to....er….identify as women, dress in their mother’s/sister’s/

girlfriend’s/charity shop’s most outlandish outfits, plaster themselves `tastefully’ in powder and make-up and to, each, represent his/her own street. They did, with a passion which was impressive if not quite as demure as one expects in a beauty contest.

Each of the `girls’, as well as representing his/her street, had a separate name. Ms Stake, for instance represented Convent Road and was dressed as a pregnant nun. `She’ dropped hints about the father and made eyes at the popular local curate down the hall. Ms Cellaneous, from Pound Street, was all over the place. All the `street girls’ had names conjured from words beginning with 'Ms' (mis).

The dressing room for the night was at the far end of the hall, which meant each `lady’ had to march up the centre aisle as the packed crowd roared with laughter (ah, for those pre-Covid days) when they finally recognised who it was –“the cut of his mother, the brat”.

Helped up some steps to the stage by myself, each had a dubious (pre-prepared) history which it was my job to draw out, as MC. They all had a party piece too - a doubtful poem/rhyme, dance, or a song. Ms New Street, for example, sang `I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No’. All that said, the entire evening was smut-less, though we skated close on occasion.

Overseeing it all was one of the town’s most popular personalities, perched on a throne at the back of the stage, dressed like Panti-Bliss - if considerably larger - and going under the name Madame Ninette de Valois. Said Madame would take aside any contestant he/she felt may not have successfully identified as a woman. The relevant examination happened off stage but did mean that certain female undergarments flew across the stage from that direction.

Happy to say, all our `ladies’ passed this embarrassing test.

The jury were three local women and at the end they did actually choose the winner on the night. It was not pre-arranged. The winner was Ms Pound Street, who was then presented with a very special trophy – the Golden Rose of Knock.

On his visit to the shrine in 1979 Pope John Paul presented it with a golden rose. It was stolen some time afterwards. Our Golden Rose, however, was originally red and plastic. I painted it gold and cemented it into a square marble base I found in the house at home.

To cap it all, and as arranged beforehand, none of the other contestants accepted the jury’s decision and there was an unholy scrum onstage as the `ladies’ all piled on the winner to get their hands on what each believed to be rightfully theirs. The curtain closed, on that less than savoury scene.

The Beauty Contest was part of a much bigger show which was filmed and was shown for years at home on a loop by an inventive local man who supplied the town with what was its own TV station for years.

About three years ago someone had the idea of arranging a showing of the Ms Ballaghaderreen Beauty Contest at home and, I’m glad to say, that despite the passing of time it has weathered very well. All that’s sad, and it’s enough, is that so many of the stars on the night have left us since. RIP. It is wonderful to have such happy memories of them.

Of course all performed for free, as was the way with such community efforts in those days. However, I felt participants on the night were deserving of a treat so I had allocated a small amount of the takings to provide drinks for all who took part. The subsequent hooley went until about 7 in the morning. You wouldn’t find that at the Rose of Tralee. I remember most of it too.

You probably wouldn’t get away with such a `beauty contest’ in these politically correct times but, as we bend over backwards to accommodate every minority, which I believe to be a good thing (after all, each of us belongs to the minority of one!) in the interests of tolerance, it would be a great pity if this was done at the expense of humour. We must always be free to laugh.

Some years ago I came across a hilarious politically correct version of Little Red Riding Hood which has her arriving at her Grandma’s house. Grandma has already been eaten by the wolf who is now in bed dressed up as Grandma, the better to trick Little Red Riding Hood into being eaten too.

She goes: “Grandma, what a big nose you have – only relatively, of course, and certainly attractive in its own right......Grandma, what big teeth you have!” The angry wolf goes “I am happy with who I am and what I am”, and jumps out of bed and grabs Red Riding Hood.

She screamed “not out of alarm at the wolf’s apparent tendency toward cross-dressing, but because of his wilful invasion of her personal space.” Enter the woodcutter to rescue the situation. You know the rest.

Happy New Year and may 2022 bring happier tidings for us all.