As British towns ditch their annual "uncool" Carnival Queen processions, Beverley Turner, in her first post for Telegraph Wonder Women, laments the loss of a decidedly asexual event for her daughters’ sakes.
The Carnival Queen, the blank-eyed, tiara-toting, lacy-gloved betrayer of womanhood is dead. No longer can she reign over our little girls in a silk sash, beckoning them from a bed of crepe-paper roses to collude in the mindless pursuit of waving from the bonnet of a Ford Mondeo. As theorganizers of Verwood’s summer parade solemnly announced yesterday, there would be no Carnival Queen this year. I rejoiced, punching a triumphant feminist fist. That defeated Salisbury town could suck-up the pain of another nail in this much-needed coffin: no more beauty pageant balderdash teaching girls to compete on looks alone. This, I thought, was a great day for my two daughters.... And then I remembered sexting.
We’ve come a long way since Verwood’s first Carnival Queen crowning of 1929 at which dozens of women clamoured to hold the coveted title. Evolving from religious celebrations (Whitsuntide) or Pagan holidays (May Day), our Carnivals may not be attracting young women to run for Queen, but they continue to showcase British culture. They epitomise an old-fashioned, often rural identity in Union Jack Tea Stands, galloping carousels, home-made cake stalls and Tombolas.
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