A dark-haired youth in minute leopard-skin briefs bounced on from the wings and took up a pose centre stage: Paul Nash, the rising young Birmingham bodybuilder, all white teeth and doe eyes. Three thousand pairs of eyes devoured every detail of his body as he turned, stopped, posed and flexed. If mere will-power could destroy fabric, those pants would have had it.

But Nash, for all his charms, could not stop a distracted murmur from passing through the crowd. The air was full of whispering, as heads turned towards a box at stage left where a giant of a man in a black suit stood nodding and waving. It was Mickey Hargitay, the Hungarian Mr Universe and former Mae West muscleman … and if Mickey was there, then surely …

The compere strode on, microphone in hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a special Mr Universe welcome to …’

She stepped into the box, her hair radioactively white, her breasts bursting out of a tight floral dress.

‘Miss Jayne Mansfield!’

The audience rose and cheered. Jayne blew kisses, leaned forward and threatened to spill over into the stalls. Mickey loomed behind her.

After nearly two minutes of adulation, Jayne took her seat and the show went on. Paul Nash – whose pectoral development almost rivalled Miss Mansfield’s – blew a kiss back to the box.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘She’s here! She’s fucking here!’

‘She certainly is.’ I reloaded my camera. ‘In person.’

‘Christ, Michael, she’s going to see me in my knickers.’

‘Lucky girl.’

‘Look what she’s fucking done to me!’ He pulled my hand down to the front of his trunks.

‘You’d better get rid of that before you go on, or there will be riots in the front rows.’

‘There’s plenty back there that would like to help me out, too. Don’t worry, I’m saving it for later.’

The show continued with light relief from Margaret Stannett, ‘the Super-strong Housewife’, a sturdy young woman with Betty Grable hair and silver boots who wowed the audience with a display of dumbbell swinging. Next up were the professionals, giants of men who had been training for so long that they no longer resembled human beings. I lost interest, and scanned the audience instead. Row upon row of pale faces turned up towards the footlights, hands clasped as if in prayer.

It was time for the results. The popular American, Bruce Randall, took the honours in Class 1, and Paul Wynter, ‘famed for his dusky muscular excellence’ according to the programme, was the winner among the shorter men. I was so busy with my camera I barely heard the next announcement.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, with a singular display of muscle control, please give a big Universe welcome to London’s very own Mr Mervyn Wright!’

There were screams as the lights went down. The stage was dark. I heard the thump, thump of bare feet on the boards, but could see nothing.

A single spotlight lit Mervyn from above, casting deep shadows under his brows, his cheekbones, his lips. Every muscle stood out in sharp relief, catching the spot in dazzling highlights. Framed by the darkness, isolated in the spotlight, he seemed distant, unattainable, as if he was being taken away from me.