Royal Ascot. If I had gone expecting ‘My Fair Lady’, each lady resembling Audrey Hepburn, exquisitely dressed head to toe in Norman Hartnell, beautiful eyes flashing from the shadows cast by an outrageous chapeau, the gents all toffs, aristocratic in their immaculate morning attire, topped off with a topper, then I should have been disappointed. But I didn’t expect that, although secretly hoped for the faint hint of an echo, which is probably close to what I got.

Together with half-a-dozen colleagues, I received an invitation from a company supplier to a day of corporate hospitality at the right royal racing event. We were picked up at 9.30am from the office and whisked westwards in the June sunshine to the small Berkshire town, which, for a week each year, is afforded royal patronage during the world famous race meeting. This being my first ever visit to such an event – a day at the races - I had few preconceived notions as to how the day would go and what to expect.

On our arrival, following a two-hour journey through slow-moving traffic, we spilled from our people carrier, somewhat crumpled, onto the heaving pavement outside the main entrance to the racecourse. Within minutes it became apparent that Ascot 2007 was less of a gavotte -where everyone that SHOULD be here is here – and more of a cavort – where everyone that COULD be here is here. But twas maybe always so. For racing may be the sport of kings (and queens), but has long since been enjoyed and patronised by those of us far less privileged.

As we waited for our hosts to arrive and issue us with tickets, our small party had an ideal opportunity to study the form of the hundreds of race goers parading before us through the entrance gates. Naturally, there were hats a-plenty. For the men in their formal wear, grey or black top hats, some carried, but mostly worn on heads of all shapes and sizes. One gentlemen, sporting a topper that was only prevented from completely covering his eyes by his conveniently placed and generously large ears, could have walked straight out of the tea party with Alice, a dead ringer for Tenniel’s mad hatter.

But it was on the heads of the ladies that the real triumphs and disasters were to be found - though opinions as to which belonged where was strictly personal.
There were feathers, flowers, fruit, probably veg (though I didn’t spot any), no fur (but it is summer), or small living mammals (tricky to keep in place). Some hats were huge, others tiny, but not one stood out as being spectacularly original. Fact was, they were all a bit safe. Ah well. Maybe the big guns are rolled out for Ladies Day. Big guns. Now there’s a thought. A scale replica of the forward turret of the Graf Spee, that at intervals, would fire off a salvo. That would be worth the price of a ticket to the Royal Enclosure to witness. Probably wouldn’t make it through security though. Pity. Ah for those gay, carefree days as portrayed in the Harrison/Hepburn movie, before everyone was a potential suicide bomber and a real laydee was spared the indignity of having official prying fingers rummage through the intimate contents of her handbag in full view of the hoi polloi.

Walking down to the rail to watch a race, Helen, one of our group, summed up the day’s fashions perfectly – ‘It’s like being at the largest wedding you’ve ever been to’. ‘With occasional horses’, I added.

So, what of the horses? They were, after all, the reason for being there weren’t they? Well, yes and no, for it would have been quite possible not to set eyes on the real thing if one so wished. The hospitality rooms, where we spent most of the day, were at the rear of the massive main stand and the course was not in our sight. At the table, which was ours for the day, we were plied with an endless supply of food and drink. Champagne glasses were never empty. There was no real need to leave the spot, except to go to the loo, or place a bet, or collect winnings, or smoke a fag. The races could be viewed on a giant screen outside the window. Sorted mate.

We did choose to make our way to the rails to watch the field thunder past on their way to the winning post opposite the Royal Box. Some of us managed to win, others, me included, did not. But it’s the taking part that counts, I told myself. Just as well. After each race it was back to the table for a top up and study the card for the next one. Another two quid on the nose, or shall I go each way. Either way, the result was the same.

And then, it was over. We had to drink up and wait outside for the cabs that would carry us back the way we had come ten hours before. My remains of the day? Gangs of girls, straight from the pages of Viz, tottering around on heels, hats akimbo, avin’ it large. Big men in big suits and big knots in their ties, walking that big man walk, their knees destined never to meet, kept apart by big thighs. Toffs in toppers discussing ‘officer material’. Ladies in gaudily expensive outfits pulling other ladies in expensive gaudy outfits to pieces with their eyes. In other words, one big gloriously tasteless English – not British - pageant.

Eliza Doolittle – where was ya darlin’?