On a humid July night in Newcastle upon Tyne, the launch party for Miss England 2019 is under way. In an unassuming grey-brick hotel, tucked away behind a multi-storey car park, the 52 finalists have gathered in their evening gowns, artificial silk sashes draped over their shoulders to display which region they represent and identifying numbers strapped to their wrists. The atmosphere is not unlike a high-school prom – nervous boyfriends lurk outside the banqueting hall clutching makeup cases, parents roam the hallways eager to catch a glimpse of their daughters and the finalists are always aware of the judges scattered throughout the room.

Established in 1928, Miss England is the UK’s longest-running beauty pageant, although some would argue pageantry has an even longer history in Britain, with its roots in choosing May Queens for traditional May Day celebrations. Today, however, such competitions are often the focus of mockery and criticism – from the allegations of racism and bullying at Tonga’s July pageant to the car-crash reality-show portrayals such as Toddlers and Tiaras or Sandra Bullock’s turn in Miss Congeniality. Despite that, and the fact that the traditional spoils for the contestants – a modelling career and public profile – could arguably be more easily acheived in 2019 via a carefully curated Instagram feed, or reality show, somehow, beauty pageants are flourishing. Applications to compete in Miss England have been rising – reaching more than 20,000 this year.

In the age of social-media influencers, what is the enduring appeal for these 16- to 27-year-olds across the country?

“Pageants aren’t something I ever thought I’d be a part of,” says finalist Aysha Khan. “I used to think it was all about appearances, but last September, I saw posts online and realised it was more about community.” Motivated by the competition’s charitable focus – contestants must raise as much money as possible for their chosen organisations (this year it is the suicide prevention charity Papyrus) to take part – Khan decided to compete in her local Miss Lancashire – and won.

“I live in Blackburn and I’ve worked on projects to help my local Muslim community there since I was 12,” she says. “It might seem strange to use a beauty pageant to raise awareness for community issues, but it’s such a big platform I thought it was worth a try and that I might have some fun while I’m at it.” Khan attracted attention when she entered the optional swimwear round in a wetsuit. “I didn’t want to change myself to compete,” she says. “This isn’t a field that many Asians go into, so I want to spread the right message and change people’s perspectives. I wanted to show people a different side to pageants, that it’s about personality and character.”

Miss Lancashire, Aysha Khan backstage in Newcastle. Photograph: Christopher Thomond/The Guardian

There has been some backlash from religious groups who inisist Khan’s appearance in the competition is indecent, but she is determined to continue. “Miss England is the chance to become a role model and lead the next generation of young women by example,” she says.

It is this that sets beauty queens apart from social media stars, argues the finalist and junior doctor Bhasha Mukherjee. “You’re representing a brand if you’re an influencer, whereas here, you’re representing your country. The pageant is about being a person of the world so much more than just yourself. It really humbles your ego.”

Talk to anyone involved in beauty pageants these days and this is the theme: pageants are not about beauty but “character and personality”, “charity” and, crucially of course, “empowerment”. It is a modern defence against the criticism levelled at competitions since 1968, when the burgeoning Women’s Liberation Movement targeted the Miss America final. The women threw anything that represented the physical oppression of women into a “freedom trash can” (famously misrepresented as “bra burning”) to show how beauty standards oppress women. In 1970, there were similar protests against Miss World in London.

The journalist and activist Joan Smith was sent to cover local beauty pageants in Lancashire in the early 70s while working as a junior reporter. “I thought it was pure anachronism, even then,” she says. “These pageants directly exploit the idea that appearances are the most important thing for women.” Despite their socially conscious rebranding, she still believes they are a deeply damaging presence. “Pageants feed on the perpetual anxieties of young women and their longevity only proves that there’s always money to be made from exploiting women,” she says. “They promote a very old-fashioned standard of beauty – with most winners being white or blond.”

Miss England finalists listening to instructions ahead of the evening’s pageant. Photograph: Christopher Thomond/The Guardian

The lack of diversity in pageantry has long been a criticism of the industry with competitions such as Miss Black and Beautiful, which represented the Caribbean diaspora in England in the 1970s, having all but disappeared now. Leah Prescod, a former pageant competitor, set up Miss British Beauty Curve in 2012 for women over a size 14, in which more than 200 contestants have competed. “I wanted to create a space where women who don’t think they fit the mould of a beauty queen could compete,” she says. “It might seem strange to use a competitive environment to build confidence, but sometimes getting on stage and out of your comfort zone is the only way to realise your inner strength.”

Unlike Miss England, which made the infamous swimsuit round offstage and optional in 2010, Prescod’s pageant encourages swimsuits. “We have all ages; from 18 to people in their 60s competing. We want them to feel good about themselves,” she says. “Lots of the girls have never worn a bikini before, let alone in public, so it’s not easy to get up and do it, but they find it really rewarding and they gain a lot of respect for one another in the process.”

Kat Henry, the 35-year-old winner of Miss British Beauty Curve 2015, agrees. “It was the first time I’d been so open and exposed. I wore things which I never would have done normally,” she says. “It made me realise I have the same right as anyone else to be up on that stage. Beauty isn’t all there is to a pageant – it’s about women empowering other women.”

Confidence-building may be a recurring theme , but aligning individual confidence with the idea that being rated in a pageant is somehow empowering for women in general may seem a stretch. Pratishtha Raut, 26, had anxiety issues at university and reached crisis point in her final year when she didn’t leave her house for 29 days. “I didn’t know what was happening to me because I was brought up thinking mental health was for ‘crazy’ people,” she says. “After seeking help and getting better, it has been a passion of mine to advocate for better mental health, especially among my Nepalese community. That’s why I was drawn to compete in Miss England, because their chosen charity this year is Papyrus.”

Raut has raised more than £9,000 and says the competition has also unexpectedly brought her closer to her parents. “In Nepal, modelling isn’t classified as a real job and so my parents pushed me to focus on my career,” she says. “But going through this process has showed them that this could also be an option for me, along with the charity advocacy. They’re actually more into it than me because they’re so competitive – all they talk about is Miss England.”

Yet the seedier side of pageantry can be a problem. The 1980s kitsch aesthetic is cloyingly persistant – visible in the sequins, sashes and tiaras that bring to mind the televised Miss Universe pageants (at one time, the rights to which were owned by Donald Trump). Here, women would be paraded on stage in only a bikini and heels, their “vital statistics” read out to the mainly white and male audience. And there is also the question of money. While Miss England is free to enter, contestants speak of competitions where entrance fees can be up to £1,000 in a pay-to-win scenario. There is also the cost of buying ball gowns, haircare, makeup and transport, although the majority of finalists have local sponsors.

“Anyone can buy the license to put on a pageant from the patent office,” says the director of Miss England, Angie Beasley. “There are a lot of new competitions coming up – people are just buying titles and buying their way into national finals.” For Beasley, the appeal of Miss England isn’t just about history or a formalised judging process. “Miss England is something for the girls to aspire to be – it’s not the perfection of social media accounts, it’s showing your humanity and beliefs within a competitive setting.”

Beasley points to the fact there is a Mr England competition to counter to the idea that such pageants objectify women. The men’s pageant runs once every two years and attracts a fraction of the applications of its female counterpart. Mr England 2013, Jordan Williams, is hosting Miss England’s live social-media coverage of the final and says competitors are looking for “a bit of fun, to meet other people and to raise money for charity. And if it’s objectifying to women, it’s objectifying to me, then, because I’ve been a part of it.”

Kat Henry, Miss British Beauty Curve 2015. Photograph: Jason Wade

Of course, a men’s competition only shows that men can be objectified too – however willingly they submit to it. Finalist Mukherjee, however, has a slightly different argument. “Women get objectified wherever we go,” she says. “So why not use it to our advantage? If people are going to look at us because you’re beautiful, why not use it to push forward a positive, charitable message?” Surely there are easier ways to get your message across? “The glamour world is glamorous at the top and filthy when you get into it. At the same time, medicine is de-glam from the outside but beautiful on the inside. You need both in life,” she says. “You have to look for the positives and use what you’re given.”

If beauty pageants are now so anti-beauty and pro-social change, why not change their name and change their format? “You can’t just throw away this history,” says 2015 Miss England winner Natasha Hemmings. “We are changing with the times and, ultimately, it’s such an honour to represent your country at Miss World – it’s no different from the Olympics or any other elite achievement.”

Back in the banqueting suite, where floor-to-ceiling metallic curtains are shimmering and fallen sequins are crushed underfoot on the pearl-white catwalk, it is Mukherjee who is crowned Miss England 2019. There follows the inevitable burst of confetti, tears and tiaras. Millie Mae Margetts counts this as her fourth loss, but is undeterred. “I’ve got the bug – I look forward to it every year and it’s become such a passion of mine,” she says.

Meanwhile, Mukherjee is starting her new hospital rotation in the morning and looking forward to Miss World next year. “This is where the real work begins,” she says. “Being a doctor is the same as being Miss England, because they’re both about being a role model and an ambassador for good causes. I can’t wait to get started.”

For the other contestants, the long ride home awaits until the whole process to begin again.