Splendid Revival

The 27th Chelsea Arts Ball (the first since 1938) was a blockbuster--Britain's noisiest, rowdiest and most splendidly raucous big binge since the war. For the evening, austere Britons removed the pipes from their mouths and dressed themselves as anything, from Roman invaders to the Marx brothers. The ladies favored near-nudity, though a handful of sartorial reactionaries came in 18th Century court dress. One man, recently returned from Washington war chores, just wore a seersucker suit with a red sash and a blinding orange tie he had been given by U.S. Steel President Ben Fairless.

Individual tickets sold for three guineas in early sales. But prices jumped to five guineas during the week. Boxes in the three tiers around the dance floor ranged from 15 to 40 guineas. For weeks in advance everyone talked about getting drunk, and by the time the three bands stopped playing at 5 a.m., most of the 5,000 revelers had succeeded. Twenty-two bars serviced the drinkers with bad champagne at top prices (three guineas), 1,500 chickens, thousands of pates and sausage rolls. A contingent of Burmese Territorials dressed as Tower of London beefeaters, aided by two complete Rugby teams disguised as guests, kept fairly good order. Deftly they eased out over-obstreperous or overtly amorous celebrants of both sexes.

Phoenix to Floats. The principal decoration was a 15-foot phoenix in the middle of the dance floor, contrived out of wood and paper by Royal Academician Frank Dobson. Around it were parked half a dozen floats run up by various groups during the evening. At midnight the lights in the hall went out and blue spots played down dramatically from the four corners of the hall onto the phoenix, whose wings began flapping while its green eyes blazed. As the band played Auld Lang Syne, Big Ben's chimes were piped over the loudspeakers. Onto the crowded floor marched a file of Irish bagpipers, each playing a different tune, and followed cacophonously by a swaying, cheering chain of drunks. Several floats joined the procession, but only one created much impression. It carried, along with half a dozen sylphs in cheesecloth, two hefty, blowzy nudes, obviously an impromptu inspiration.

There were several versions of what happened next. According to one, the nudes simply giggled, waved to friends, acknowledged admiring whistles, and claimed that their drunken friends had forgotten to bring their costumes. In a gesture of respectability the police took their names, but did not bother to turn them in. At the end of the parade, the float was pulled over and the girls grabbed by gallant or lecherous onlookers in the mob.

According to another version, the nudes appeared on a float labeled "For Export Only"--a reference to the fact that Britain's consumer-goods factories produce chiefly for export. A guest, inflamed by politics or alcohol, attacked the float. The crowd surged in. The float was upset. The girls were heaped on the floor. The fights began.

Whatever actually happened, one Valentine Dyall, 38, next day was fined -L-3.108 for hitting a policeman.

Said Dyall, calling the magistrate's attention to his shiner: "I found myself with this. I asked a man if he had done it, and he replied: 'Probably,' with a rather happy look. Then the trouble started . . ."

Everybody agreed that the Ball had been a splendid revival of a splendid institution.

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