Except what seems to work on paper is, in reality, a full-blown horror story, at the centre of which is the nightmare of heat and cost. Heat because of the compulsory male dress. There are three layers of morning dress: the throttling buttoned-up shirt, the corset-suffocation of a waistcoat, the heavy, sweaty madness of a coat and the awkward, boiling burden of a top hat.
The costs make me queasy just to contemplate. From London, that’s a taxi to Waterloo, a return train, food and drink and the gambling. A pal once put to me the idea that “we’ll get the tickets, you buy lunch”. Seems a fair deal – until you realise that a bottle of average chardonnay in a tent in the Royal Enclosure costs more than £100, and it’s at least the same per head for lunch. A refreshing glass of Pimm’s (make that a weak and watery ice-filled aberration) is north of £25. Add a mid-afternoon break for tea with a glass of champagne, and you could have taken a family of four to Corfu for a week, all-inclusive, with water-skiing lessons, too, and a night en route at a Sofitel.
Then there’s actually being there. Because far from a merry-go-round of socialising, it’s a day of ducking idiots and social climbers. Yes, it’s a marvel to watch the arrival of the Royal family as they process, drawn by horse and carriage, onto the racecourse. But the comments of one’s neighbours, gawping at this poor flock of sovereignty: “Look at him/her/it! Too thin/too fat/too prim/too unshaven. I bet Prince Andrew/is/isn’t watching…”
‘ The preceding article may include information circulated by third parties ’
‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source www.telegraph.co.uk ’
