‘I’ve followed your career with great interest …’

‘Those marvellous pictures in Man’s World …’

‘Well, I must say, Gerald really didn’t do you justice …’

‘Dinner one day, perhaps, or drinks at my place in Albany …’

Hands fluttered above and below, cards were given, promises made. Mervyn’s smile was starting to look strained.

‘For fuck’s sake, Michael,’ he said, ‘get me out of here.’

We ran all the way to Victoria station, whooping and screaming, smoked three cigarettes on the top of the bus home and took full advantage of the fact that Stephen did not return to the flat that night.

The area round Argyll Street was choked. Those with tickets sat in cafés reading their programmes and analysing the competition. Those without set up camp on the pavements, with Thermos flasks and sandwiches, getting pally with the stage door staff in the hope that they might slip in when the show was underway. When we arrived at noon, the area was at a standstill, the crowds spilling out into Regent Street in the west and Oxford Street in the north. Around the Palladium itself they swarmed like bees round a hive full of honey.

We got out of the taxi – we could have walked in less time than it took to find a cab and negotiate the traffic, but Stephen insisted we travel in style – and while I paid, Mervyn signed autographs.

‘Oh my God! It’s Mervyn Wright! Mervyn! Mervyn! Over here, Mervyn!’ Cameras clicked, programmes and pens were thrust in his face. Some of the younger fans actually screamed. Mervyn took it all as his due, kissing the girls, shaking the boys’ hands.

I propelled him gently through the crowd, and we made it to the stage door intact. He turned and waved like a proper movie star before we went inside.

‘Fuck,’ he said, breathless, ‘did you see that? They fucking love me!’

‘They certainly do.’

‘I mean, that’s just from a few appearances in muscle mags. Think what it’ll be like when they’ve seen me in a movie.’

‘One step at a time, Valentino. Let’s get this show on the road.’

The backstage areas were hot and crowded, with fifty-five bodybuilders competing in the amateur and professional contests, not to mention the orchestra, the compere and a host of variety acts, the judges and other officials, the reporters and the photographers. In every dressing room, a naked muscleman stood surrounded by clothed men, some kneeling, some sitting, some standing, scribbling, taking photos. Nervous types hovered on the sidelines, catching what glimpses they could. The bolder ones were allowed to help in the oiling-up process.

I deposited Mervyn in his dressing room and positioned myself in the wings, having secured an official photography permit, and watched the auditorium filling up. Men outnumbered women by twenty to one.

The house lights went down, the band struck up the overture and the compere bounced on stage in his ill-fitting grey suit, slicked-back hair and spivvy moustache. The curtain went up and the audience gasped and the band played on. Ten girls in swimsuits were arranged decoratively on low podia, singly and in pairs, their feet encased in white high-heeled shoes. Behind them, standing against the rear curtain, were thirteen of the world’s best-developed men, in trunks and bare feet. These were the juniors, all under twenty-one; I recognised a couple from parties and magazines, including a blond seventeen-year-old who, they said, was a shoo-in for the junior Mr Universe title. They paraded, the audience applauded, and I snapped away; pictures like these are money in the bank, and we need it.