High Society= Hats + Hooves.

Thursday, June 19, 2008. Although I have been fighting off hay fever symptoms for months on end this spring and summer, I felt it would only be appropriate for me to finish off my year in London by attending Ladies Day at the Royal Ascot. A must-see for anyone who is someone and wants to remind the world, or just wants to feel like they’re entitled in a way to dress in such ridiculous attire and get wasted watching horses race, this is THE event of the year in England. I may not have been invited to the Royal Enclosure, where Queen Lizzie herself was meeting and greeting guests and searching for the most perfect hat on the hundreds amongst her, it was one of the most interesting things I have done here so far.
Should I buy a fascinator or a hat? No. Wear a really fancy schmancy dress? No. So I put my picnic attire clearance-rack BCBG sun dress on, a jean jacket, a pair of shades, and threw my camera into my bag. I knew I’d be seeing people and things I wanted to remember beyond the capacity of just my memory. I hopped on the tube to Waterloo and the adventure began.

Upon arrival, my jaw dropped so low it could have been wiping the floors clean. It was as if you stuffed middle-aged prom dress-clad women from all walks of life into a train station dragging about men who knew better than to resist their dates’ excitement about the day’s activities. Here they were in their absolute best dresses and feathery fascinators, long coat suits and top hats, laughing away and having a jolly good time on their way to Ascot. It was a LONG hour train.

Excuse my francais, but what a clusterf***! Swarms of people flooded the tents of fast food and alcohol vendors lined up. Outside closer to the action, “Ascoteers” laid blankets out and sprawled themselves out in the grass. We were lucky it was a sunny and pleasant day out. A friend and I sat for a bit amidst the sunbathing crowds, throwing back glasses of the Pimm’s and lemonade jug we purchased, with a 10-pound deposit (it was a plastic jug). Of course most of it WAS lemonade, so sobriety was never an issue.

Five minutes into it, of course, a couple of truly questionable girls in undeniably cheap attire smoking even cheaper cigarettes start chatting us up, making awkward comments. It must have been our American accents. One of them had dreads in her hair, smeared lipstick, incredibly ashy heels, her dress hiked up to inappropriate levels, swinging back and forth and smacking her elbows into my friend’s back. Classy.Then, a few obviously wasted guys dressed in jeans (yes, jeans) started blabbing away about how they don’t really care to get dressed up for Ascot (yeah, no kidding), and that they’re just there to have a good time. Really? You came all the way to Ascot on LADIES DAY to drink Guinness and hang out with the boys? Puhhhhleeez. We managed to sneak away just in time.

We decided we would catch a pair of seats in the bleachers and see a couple of the races properly. The old people really didn’t seem to warm up to us, but we just thought we’d finish our pitcher and get the hell out of there. In any case, we watched two races, saw the Brits get overly excited or disappointed about their bets. We got up before it was over, hoping to get a head start before the crowds flocked to the parking lots and the lines for the train got too long. It was bad anyway. We finally got on a train that was too packed and had to stand for a while. I finally got a seat but my friend did not. And what a shame; the only thing we had learned by the end of that ride was that chivalry was dead. In our train car, tons of men had seats, and not a single one offered them to ANY female that was standing! I was exhausted, sniffly, sneezy, and I certainly left with a bad taste in my mouth.

Overall, though, the Royal Ascot was a treat. It was just one of those days I’ll talk about as long as it’s fresh in my mind. A truly British experience, and although I have some complaints, it was worth every penny spent.

More later.

Pip pip, cheerio

D

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