I wonder, were you impressed by the way my sisters and I took action? That we variously lumpen, big-nosed, gap-toothed women wanted to show that we are all valid members of the human race? Or were you upset that your night of looking at ‘perfect’ women in swimsuits and evening dresses was disrupted? Did it make for even more excitement? Did you imagine yourself wiping away the tears of those poor, frightened ‘beauty’ ‘queens’? In your dreams, did they look at you, pale but still beautiful, and whisper, ‘I’m afraid, John. All I want, really, is a good man to love me. Will you hold me?’

John, we need to talk about beauty contests. We really do. Because they are not, in any way, shape or form, cool.

Whereas women themselves, in any way, shape or form, ARE cool.

It’s not the way we look that matters.

I’d like to think I don’t have to explain this to you, but I’m going to spell it out, just to be on the safe side. Then, next year, if you notice that Miss World is on TV, you can go and do something more useful with your evening. Something a bit less oppressive. Like, have a conversation with a woman you know and like. Maybe go out for a meal. Maybe split the bill, because a lot of us feel a little intimidated at being ‘treated’. Listen as much as you talk. Just general equality in action, you know? (You don’t have to wait until next year to do that, though. Do it tomorrow, if you like.)

Unlike some of my sisters, I don’t think that you are automatically A Bad Thing, John, just because of the testosterone. I think you have been conditioned into thinking that women have a certain role to play in your life. Like: being beautiful. Wearing swimsuits and turning around so you can get a good look at their behind. Tricking, cajoling or nagging you into marrying them. And then doing all they can to not lose their looks, because we all know that if they put on a couple of pounds and realise lipstick is just another tool of oppression, you will be entirely justified in going back to the Royal Albert Hall and picking yourself a better beauty queen, next year. That’s the patriarchy. That’s how it works. If you have something that shape-shifts that you keep in your Y-fronts, you can just cruise on through your life, doing exactly what you like, surrounded by women doing what they’ve been trained to do. Please you, make you comfortable, do all they can so that you never, ever question your entitlement to taking anything you like from the world.