Muscular Development, Vol 4, No 2, Page 32, February 1967
In London the weather was perfect and quite unusual for that time of the year. Many remarked about it. Maybe this was the reason for the large, overflowing crowd that jammed the Victoria Palace and the Mr. Universe Dance. The dance is held to give spectators a chance to become better acquainted with the contestants, and is always a success.
After leaving the Victoria Palace we stopped by the hotel for something to drink. Many of the contestants were already there. I greeted several, inquiring about their training. The young Austrian, Arnold Schwarzenegger, the fellow who made such a hit with the crowd told me, through an interpreter, that he trains several hours a day and about five days a week. Other contestants indicated they train almost as much. When all this data is compiled it should make a fine training feature for some future issue of MD magazine. Kurt Saldo, a powerful looking specimen and son of the famous Monte Saldo of muscle control fame, presented me with two rare photos of his father, which I really appreciated and hope to use in MD.
MR. UNIVERSE RESULTS
Winner - Chester Yorton, U.S.A.
Winner - Paul Wynter, Antigua Only Six Men in each class are listed |
The Universe dance was nearly half over by the time Angela and I arrived. We got there before 9 P.M. but this dance starts early and ends before midnight because a lot of these fellows have to catch trains. Many couples were dancing but more appeared to be sitting and standing around just discussing the events of the day. We exchanged greetings with many, then when the band struck up a lively tune, we broke away and joined the dancing couples.
The night was warm and this little exercise caused my pores to "ooze." When the music stopped we headed for the refreshment stand. Apparently others had the same desire because the place was crowded. I wanted something to drink, anything except warm beer which they usually serve. The concoction I got was nameless. All I could say for it . . . it was different! I asked for ice. The bar-maid obliged by putting in a small cube. "Fill it up," I suggested. She gave me one of those "you-must-be-nuts-looks" as she added a couple more cubes to our glasses.
With the drinks we headed outdoors to cool off. The ever-helpful Bill Ball, his wife and others asked Angela to join them. She stopped to chat while I went outside trying to cool off. In minutes a group gathered. Like anywhere else this was a bunch of nice guys and as enthusiastic as one can find anywhere. The discussed topic was, naturally, about training. Now and then, however, someone would push his way through, shake my hand and tell me he saw me on my last visit. Often would feel my arm and remark, "You still got it."
In the ballroom Oscar Heidenstam, who sponsors the show and dance, started things going by getting some of the fellows to take off their shirts and do a few poses. Then someone started a chant for me to pose. The fellows around me told me I was being paged. "They must be great optomists," I replied. "Heck, I came to London to see the show and you fellows, not pose." A few felt my biceps and then I flexed a calf. A surprised few ran into the ballroom and returned with their friends for another look. Jokingly, I insisted, "Only one showing a day," but the pleas continued. By then the music started but our little clique remained intact. . . no one left. My wife came out a couple times to get me back in, I was told later, but she couldn't even get near me because of the crowd. We had almost as many fellows outside as was in the ballroom at times.
After eleven the music stopped and the dance began breaking up but our group got larger. Many had to leave to catch their train. By midnight most of the crowd dispersed, with only Len and Brenda Sell, a former Miss Britain winner, Wag Bennett and his charming wife (mother of six), Gordon Van Sertima plus a few others remained. We wanted something to eat but no one knew of a restaurant that was open at this hour in the area. As we started back towards the hotel, we met Weaver, Roger Servin, and the American doctor from Oregon (whose name escapes me) who is now living in Belfast and came to London with Buster McShane. He suggested our hotel. We wondered why we didn't think of this. We sat there for a couple hours eating sandwiches and drinking tea, breaking up our meeting around 2:30 A.M.
The next morning we got up quite early, had breakfast, then strolled over to the Royal and waited for Oscar Heidenstam. We watched the exodus of the Mr. Universe competitors. By afternoon only a few remained. The big show was over for another year. We talked with many. Everyone appeared satisfied. Vern Weaver, Chet Yorton and several others were flying to Belfast later that day for McShane's show. Vern and the doctor, to kill time, went to the nearby British Museum. I wanted to go but was still waiting for Oscar. Meanwhile, Arax, NABBA's official photographer joined us. He was on his way to visit D. G. Johnson, former H&S editor and one of the men responsible for NABBA.
I'd been entertaining the idea of driving to Paris with Arax and was discussing it with Angela. While thus engaged, Arax left and two very attractive girls stopped nearby, searched through their purses, then came over for me to autograph their Mr. Universe passes. The name of Elizabeth Jackson on the card was familiar but I couldn't place her title. When the other girl presented her card, the name of Norman Walker rang a bell. . . then I remembered them both. Miss Jackson was the current Miss Britain title holder, and Miss Walker won the year before. I apologized and congratulated them both. They both were deserving of the title they'd won. I introduced them to Angela and Buster McShane. The girls, too, were packed and ready to leave. After this we said s'long and returned to our room to phone a few people I had promised to contact.
Earlier I made tentative plans to visit Dr. MacQueen and his family. His phone remained busy. Meanwhile, after some difficulty I managed to contact John Barrs, former publisher and editor of Vigour magazine. We made arrangements to meet later that afternoon and go out for the evening. Eventually I got through to Dr. MacQueen. He explained later that his teen-agers tied up the phone. I knew the score. Our household went through the same seige. Under the circumstances we failed to meet the MacQueen family, and we were sorry.
After completing most of our calls we went back to the Royal lobby, still looking for Oscar. We ordered tea and sandwiches. The Italian contingent of musclemen were still around, plus a few others. Buster McShane was trying to round up the fellows who were flying with him to Belfast. Meanwhile, George Paine, another American entry, saw us and came over. We offered him a sandwich. He had just returned from eating, so wasn't hungry. I discussed getting some articles from this muscular marvel for MD. He agreed. Like some of the others who didn't win, George also was disappointed but was in great spirits. By then Weaver and the doctor returned. They located Chet Yorton, the Mr. Universe winner, and when the group was assembled, Buster got a taxi and headed for the airport. After they'd gone I left Arax a note saying that we would accept the ride to Paris with him. Later he called to tell us he planned to leave early and asked us to be ready. We agreed.
We awaited the arrival of the Barrs. When they arrived we sat and talked for over an hour in our room. We had seen John Barrs a couple years before when he was on his way home from Tokyo, he stopped in York for a visit. . . but the women had not met until this meeting, so there was much to talk about. Later we drove to the restaurant where John Barrs made our reservations. It was still early, so we had cocktails before dinner. Barrs selected this place because of the fine entertainment, which was very good. We saw Joe Louis, the former heavyweight boxing champ there. We didn't get to see his part of the show because he came on rather late, and because we had to get up before six the next morning, we left before he came on. Yet it was close to 2 A.M. when the Barrs left us off at the hotel and we said good-night.
The alarm woke us up with a start. It seemed like only minutes since we retired. We finished our packing and went to meet Arax. He was almost ready. We tried to get a light breakfast, but at this hour nothing was available. Arax called D. G. Johnson for me to say hello. We had quite a chat. I was sorry I missed seeing him during my visit.
By now Arax had all his baggage and camera equipment at the door and went for his car. I wondered where we'd put all this stuff. The late model Puegeot looked even smaller to me compared with the baggage. But Arax packed and repacked until everything fit perfectly. I noticed his tires. They looked low. I suggested getting air. Arax assured me they had ample. We got in and started on our way. Just then Arax confessed that he still wasn't sure of the way and had to "feel his way around London." Now I understood the reason for the early start. The hit-and-miss way always takes longer.
In England the cars drive on the left side, but France and other European countries use the right side of the road as we do. The Peugeot's steering wheel was on the left making driving in England tricky when you're behind a bus or truck and want to pass. We had a "few close ones" and then I volunteered to advise him when to pass. Even this co-pilot system was not safe around turns and unforeseen curves. To top that Arax doesn't believe in slowing up but gunned the motor right up to, the stop light. More than once we missed the road signs. He asked me to watch for them. I tried. But the English seem to have a knack of "hiding their signs" or putting them in the most inconspicuous places. Guess it's to keep the motorist on the alert--or something like that. Anyway, after several misses and some back-tracking we arrived at Brighton-by-the-sea. It had a familiar look. Similar to our resort towns along the Eastern coast.
Arax already had his return ticket for the channel crossing. I purchased tickets for Angela and myself. The trip across the English Channel would take over three hours. The channel looked rough to me but Arax assured me it was calm compared to his other trips. During this boat trip he phoned his wife, via wireless, about reserving a room for us. The coming Auto Show made rooms difficult to get.
We disembarked at Dieppe, France, passed customs and began our last lap on to Paris. The countryside from Dieppe to Paris was interesting, much nicer than I remembered a train trip through other parts of France years before. The two-lane road was perfect and Arax pushed that little Peugeot, with its low tires, for all it was worth. There were times when it seemed as if we were in the great Le Mans race, especially when he managed to "straighten out" many of the curves in the road. I glanced at the speedometer. It fluctuated between 145 and 160-kilometers, of course. Along the road were big trees planted 20 to 30 feet apart. I wondered what would happen if our "Sterling Moss" at the wheel lost control and whether we would manage to squeeze between those trees. The trees were formidable and our little Peugeot would hardly ruffle the leaves if we made contact. Suddenly I thought of "hamburger." Was I hungry or was it a passing thought? I looked back at Angela. She looked pale. Either the speed at which we were going drove the blood from her face or she was scared. She admitted nothing and I wondered if she could talk--something unusual for her. Thus we covered the French countryside in another three hours and ran smack into the Paris traffic, which is comparable to California's rush hour.
We arrived at Arax's studio, unloaded our bags, then walked to the Lutetia Hotel nearby. We washed up and the Araxs took us to the cafe Aux Lilas. The place wasn't large but the food was tasty. Mrs. Arax ordered. She said she wanted something exotic for us. It must have been, because the only item I can recall the name of was the shishkebab. I enjoyed the meal. I guess the others did too.
It was around 11 P.M. We decided to retire. We got little sleep the night before. After breakfast next morning, which we almost missed because of the late hour, we returned to our room. A hotel clerk came up and asked whether we were leaving. I said no. He turned and rushed downstairs. Later another man came up, and this time I emphatically repeated NO. "We shall see," he grumbled, and left. I wasn't sure what he meant. We walked over to the Arax Studio, and he explained that our room was only for one night. No wonder those fellows were getting hot under the collar.
Arax went with us to the hotel and asked what else was available. Nothing, and nothing would be available for two weeks. We packed our bags and took them to the studio. Mrs. Arax phoned a number of hotels, and eventually located one at Palacio de Republic. We piled our luggage into a taxi, and Arax came along just to see that we were comfortable. It wasn't any Hilton hotel but for what it was it was alright, complete with bath. Taking a bath was quite a chore. All my life I've been used to a shower, so this was a different approach. However, we both managed.
Paris, too, had beautiful weather. Actually, I was waiting for the pictures of the Mr. Universe contest, intending to leave as soon as I got them. Arax had taken many, many pictures, and between his studio appointments, developed and printed them. Meanwhile, Angela and I roamed around Paris on our own. I tried calling Jean Dame, who is on the lifting committee and whom I've known for years, but couldn't reach him. Also, our next door neighbors were in Paris and were supposed to be staying at the Grand hotel. I consulted the phone book to learn of the location. I was flabbergasted. Literally hundreds of "Grand Hotels" were listed. I wouldn't have enough francs to call all those hotels. I abandoned the idea, thinking we may run into them along one of the boulevards. . . but never did.
On Wednesday we made reservations to fly back on the coming Saturday. We hopped a bus to the Opera Square, and from there walked to other places or back to the hotel. Since this was Angela's first trip, we went to the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Notre Dame, Victory Monument, etc. One day we visited a large department store during a sale. Whatta madhouse! Macy's in New York was nothing compared to this bargain-seeking crowd. We got out and headed for Paul Ang's Chinese restaurant. Ang is a former Mr. Universe competitor. I wanted to see him. But search as we did, we were unable to find it. The night before, however, Arax had driven by it and told us where it was located. We never found it. We settled for a sidewalk cafe and a ham sandwich on French bread. French waiters always expressed surprise when they offered us the wine list but we would order tea, coffee or a soft drink. I didn't know the brands and because we got stuck once, I didn't want to get stuck again.
Whenever we lost our way, which was quite often, we would ask directions and ask them to point out, on our map of Paris, where we were. They would always suggest a cab. We insisted on walking. They would shake their heads painfully trying to impress upon us the distance. We thanked them and walked on. We wanted to see Paris and taxi cabs weren't the way. Earlier Angela had bought herself a pair of flats and did remarkably well. . . in fact my feet gave out before hers. But we continued to walk.
Thursday evening the Araxs took us to a cafe where they had entertainment. They featured a man and woman balancing act that was unique. He also brought along a number of pictures of the Mr. U. contest. I selected some. After this he drove us around various places. The Moulin Rouge was no longer a fabulous night spot but only a movie theater. Pigalle strip was the same. It started to drizzle as we walked, the first rain we had since leaving the states. We went back to the car and they dropped us off at the hotel. It was around midnight.
Couple days before Andre Drapp, a former Mr. France, and the man I competed against in the '48 Mr. Universe, called me and asked if I was interested in wrestling. If so he would pick us up at 8 P.M. Friday. We agreed. Friday afternoon on our usual hike around the Boulevard of the Italians I decided to look up James Mathe, another former Mr. France and Mr. Europe title holder. Twice before we tried to find his place, but these Paris streets are tricky and it's hard to find the address you're seeking, even after asking many Parisians. This time I was determined to locate it. Eventually we found the building and went up to the gym, several floors up. We entered. A young man approached and said something. I asked for Mathe. He didn't understand, left and returned with another fellow who understood some English. "I'd like to see Mathe," I told him. Mathe was a short distance away busily engaged with a book or something. Then I added, "I'm John Grimek from York and dropped in to say hello." With that Mathe looked up and came over, exchanging greetings like old friends. We were shown around. The place wasn't large but had lots of training equipment for its size. He had several employees. He gripped my arm. I flexed. His eyebrows raised. "How old are you?" he asked through his interpreter. "Old enough," I replied, "in my mid-fifties." He raised his "Ben Casey" jacket and showed me his hard, muscular midsection. I complimented him on his fine abdomen. Then drew up my trouser leg and flexed the gastrocnemius and the soleus muscles. One of the fellows had to take a closer look. He didn't believe it. With that all laughed. I wished them luck and we started back for the hotel.
By eight we were ready and waiting for Drapp. He was on time and mentioned that Arax and his wife would also come along. Meanwhile we talked. Andre speaks good English compared to the time I met him in London at the Mr. U. contest. Now 18 years later he looked heavier but more impressive; really a fine personality. It was great talking to him after all these years. Then the Araxs arrived, and we all got into his car and drove to the Cirque d'Hiver (Winter Circus). That afternoon a circus performed in this place. We were warned about the smell. As we got in we knew what he meant. There was no mistaking the odor. I wondered how they would wrestle breathing in this atmosphere. They didn't seem to mind it at all . . . I did!
Several matches preceded Drapp. What I didn't know was that Drapp's opponent was another Mr. France title holder, Robert Duranton, also a former S&H coverman. Like the late Gorgeous George, Duranton also has a valet who "gets into the act." The match was hilarious. Once or twice when Duranton was taking a beating he raised his arms overhead shouting Stop, Stop with a French accent. Drapp would pause and then Duranton and his valet would clobber him. It proved to be a very entertaining bout, and Duranton is quite the comedian.
Their match finished, Arax and I went to the dressing room. I hadn't seen Duranton since he visited York a few years ago with Red Berry, so we renewed our friendship. We went to a nearby cafe and waited for Andre. He was detained by autograph seekers. It was now past midnight. Andre couldn't stay longer as he had a long trip the next day for another wrestling bout. The arena being a short ways from our hotel, we walked, stopping at a cafe for a bite. It was well after 1 A.M. when we retired with plans to leave the next day.
When we awoke after nine the next morning the sun shone brightly. Within an hour it was cloudy and before noon it poured! We packed and took our baggage to the airport bus terminal, then started walking to Raspail boulevard where Arax was located. We finally made it. Mrs. Arax insisted that we have lunch. We weren't interested but we went upon her insistence. After lunch we returned to the studio. Arax suggested taking some identification pictures. I refused, although the "bags under my eyes" were less noticeable now. He took some of Angela and did an excellent job. I was sorry I didn't try a few physique poses earlier. But time was now short and we got into his car and drove to the airport bus terminal. We got on a bus, waving goodbye to Arax as we pulled away.
We checked in at the airport. The young lady at the counter somewhat hesitatingly said, "Sir, there's a boarding tax charge." I nodded and produced 25 francs. "For each," came the reply. Each? I blew my top. Why wasn't I told of this when I made our reservations instead of now? I had assumed it was 25 francs for both of us. The young lady apologized saying, "Sir, the airlines have nothing to do with the tax. It's the airport." I grumbled. Five dollars to board a plane out of France. I should have returned to London. I barely had enough francs to cover the cost. We had intended to have a soft drink and, with whatever was left over, buy something. Now I had one franc and 10 centimes left. . . or close to nothing! I still had 20 American dollars and was going to exchange this into francs to get a couple small gifts and a drink. But the line at the exchange counter was long and the call to report at a gate made me change my mind. We reached the area only to be herded into a room and confined for another hour. I continued to growl. I heard others grumbling over this tax. An American from Alabama, who had bought a special ticket, overstayed a day and had to kick-in another hundred dollars plus. He didn't have it so had to wire back home for it. Another couple from Washington, D. C. was loaded down with parcels. They were returning from a visit to Russia. The man kept mumbling about never leaving the states again. His wife poo-poofed the idea. Everyone seemed impatient to get going. When we got on, the plane was packed. . . not a single seat left. Parents held small children on their knees. The plane was stuffy and warm, very warm. I removed my coat.
We got airborne, scheduled to land in New York around seven that evening. Shortly after, the captain informed us we would be flying north because of strong winds, with a stop in Montreal for refueling . . . hours behind schedule. The flight at times was rough. The emergency bags were being "used" by a number of passengers. It took an hour to refuel in Montreal and then we were again bound for Kennedy Airport.
On this flight I noticed a very capable, athletic hostess. Later I asked where she was from. "New Jersey," she replied. "I'm originally from Perth Amboy," I said. "That's right near where I come from," she said. She guessed me to be a "strongman," then added, she knew a lot of fellows from there, including Stanko and Grimek. "I'm Grimek," I said. She looked surprised, then added, "no wonder I thought I knew you when you boarded the plane." During the flight we talked about the "old stomping grounds." It made the trip less monotonous. I promised to look her up on my next trip to Perth Amboy.
It took over an hour to land the plane while in the New York area due to the heavy air traffic. Once on the ground we checked through customs and headed for our plane to Baltimore. But no one knew which plane or where it was. Being hours behind schedule another plane had to be called into service. We boarded one plane only to be ushered out again. This "fooling around" killed another hour or two. Everyone was griping by now. Finally, well past 1 A.M. we left New York and landed in Baltimore around 2:30 A.M. I wondered whether our daughter would be there to meet us. She was. I had called her from New York some hours before. I was surprised she waited.
The drive to York was refreshing and the night air crisp. Somehow all the frustrations of the trip now seemed resolved. Now to get in a little training, I mused, to stir up my sluggish circulation from this long flight. I needed it after this layoff.
- The Junior Mr. and Miss Britain contests, as well as the Miss Bikini event, is part of the Mr. Universe contest and is fast gaining favor with the audience. Here Oscar Heidenstam, the promoter of these shows, gives the Jr. Miss Britain a kiss on the cheek after presenting her a bouquet of flowers. Some very fine figures and physiques are discovered in these junior meets.
- Mr. Cheyenne himself, broad-shouldered Clint Walker. Clint, who was making a picture in London, was on hand and presented the trophies to the Mr. Universe winners. Chet Yorton (center) is shown getting his trophy from Clint, while Paul Wynter, the professional winner, looks on.
- Above: Miss Bikini winner, Elizabeth Lamb, is shown receiving her trophy from John Lees, a former Mr. Unvierse winner and one of the judges this year. John is still in very fine shape and is an excellent professional wrestler. Left and above: John Grimek saying a few words to the jammed-packed Mr. Universe audience. his wife, Angela, also came on stage and was presented a gorgeous bouquet of miniature orchids and rose buds to commemorate here 25th wedding anniversary. Oram photo
- On the boat trip crossing the English Channel, the author photographed his wife, Angela, with Gregor Arax, the official NABBA and famous photographer from Paris who is mentioned in this article. Arax supplies most of the Mr. Universe Pictures.
- A very interesting and hilarious wrestling bout between Andre Drapp and Robert Duranton (kneeling) that delighted the audience. Both men are former Mr. France and Mr. Europe title holders and now wrestle professionally.
- Its been over 18 years since these three first met at the Mr. Universe contest in London in 1948. Here Grimek (center) congratulates Drapp for his bout with Duraton, while Arax looks on.
- The young Austrian, Arnold Schwarzenegger, performed for the large audience that came to the Mr. Universe dance.
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