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I Must Be Miss Liverpool! is a flash fiction story by Liverpool writer and artist Alison Little, exploring beauty pageants, celebrity culture, social status and the pressure to become somebody in the public eye. First performed at The Athenaeum as part of Liverpool’s LightNight 2019 festival, the story takes us inside the mind of a young woman convinced that winning the Miss Liverpool title is her route to fame, wealth and a glamorous celebrity lifestyle.

Through her increasingly obsessive thoughts, Alison Little explores the darker side of beauty culture, celebrity aspirations and the idea that appearance and social status determine a person’s worth. With humour, satire and an increasingly uncomfortable narrator, I Must Be Miss Liverpool! asks what it really means to “be somebody” – and who gets to decide what success looks like.

I Must Be Miss Liverpool!

We are seated now, lined up at last for the final of Miss Liverpool. The chairs curve around the room in neat rows, facing the judges’ desks. The judges have disappeared into a side room. They have everything they need to make their final, ultimate, life-changing decision.

I must be Miss Liverpool!

It has taken me four years to get here.

I’m twenty-two now. I first applied when I was eighteen. Every year I’ve got a little further. This year, I’m in the final.

I’ve borrowed extra money this time. Botox wasn’t cheap, but you have to invest if you want to get ahead.

Four years of casual work to pay for hair, make-up, nails, extensions, tanning, designer clothes and now Botox. You can’t expect to become somebody without spending money becoming somebody first.

I must be Miss Liverpool!

When Danielle Lloyd won, she really became somebody.

Miss Liverpool. Miss Great Britain. Miss World.

She did FHM and Playboy. She became the face of Ladbrokes. She should have won Celebrity Big Brother too, if it hadn’t been for that Shilpa Shetty business.

And then she had three kids with Jamie O’Hara.

Three kids.

Imagine the divorce settlement.

That’s what I want.

A line of footballers. A few WAG relationships. The ultimate lifestyle.

I don’t want to be famous for doing something. I want to be famous for being famous.

I must be Miss Liverpool!

Then there was Christine.

She married Paddy McGuinness when she was only eighteen and he was in his forties. I wouldn’t mind an older man if there was enough money and a celebrity lifestyle attached.

She got on The Real Housewives of Cheshire.

That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about.

I must be Miss Liverpool!

Lots of the winners get signed by Impact.

They’re the best glamour agency around.

Your page has your photographs, your measurements, everything. Men can look at you. Men can want you. Women can look at you and want to be you.

That’s power.

Isn’t it?

The judges are coming back.

I sit up straighter.

I smooth my dress.

I look around at the other girls.

I must be Miss Liverpool!

I repeat it silently.

Miss Liverpool.

Miss Liverpool.

Miss Liverpool.

The third place is announced.

Not me.

Then second.

Not me.

There is only one name left.

My heart is hammering.

This is it.

My last chance.

Next year I’ll be twenty-three.

Too old.

The winner is announced.

And then everything inside me drops.

No.

Not her.

Her?

She’s barely eighteen.

A college girl.

A bookworm.

A bore.

She doesn’t even look like she’s tried properly.

Her hair looks natural. Not straightened. Not dyed. Natural.

Her heels are barely three inches.

Three inches!

And that dress isn’t even designer.

I stare at her as she smiles, crying, holding the flowers and the sash.

She talks about what she wants to do with the title.

She wants to visit Alder Hey.

The children’s cancer ward.

Apparently she promised her aunt, who’s a nurse there.

Ridiculous.

What good is that going to do for her?

There won’t be nightclub openings.

No Botox sponsorships.

No boob job.

No footballer.

No glamorous photoshoots.

Just sick children.

Boring sick children.

I could have been somebody.

I could have been a leading WAG.

I could have had my own product line.

I could have gone on Celebrity Love Island.

I could have married a footballer.

I could have had another boob job.

I could have had the maximum divorce settlement.

I could have been famous.

I could have been somebody.

Instead, I’ll go back to my casual job.

Back to my borrowed money.

Back to being twenty-two.

And nobody.

I will never be anyone.

All characters, events, and situations depicted in this work are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and unintentional.

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