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Yesterday marked the start of Royal Ascot, that annual racing event that puts aside the woes of the day and brings out the toffs attired in top hats and tails with their ladies modelling stunning dresses and impossible hats (sometimes in impossible dresses and stunning hats!). Of course, we plebs do not have to dress formally, though it is nice to do so now and again if only to give our partners a chance to shine in their own new clothes.
I and some of my colleagues were invited to Ascot by a wealthy contact a couple of times a few years ago. He had a box and so we all had to troop round to Moss Bros. and get ourselves correctly kitted out. Our wives were invited on the first occasion and went off to buy themselves lovely dresses and hats. We all had a wonderful time sipping champagne and enjoying the appetisers and lunch and, when we remembered to look, the races themselves. Afterwards, we went to a posh hotel somewhere and had a splendid slap-up dinner complete with yet more champagne.
The second year, I forget which it was though doubtless someone with racing knowledge will let me know, six of us were invited without our wives. Again we poodled round to Moss Bros. for our suits and hats and, once again, we enjoyed all the good things in life in the box that our contact had hired as well as dinner in a hotel afterwards.
That particular year, we impoverished shipping executives decided that we would have a ‘kitty’ from which we would make our bets so that we would equally share the winnings we would undoubtedly receive. If anything, that £20 sub from each of us focussed our minds on the actual races.
The first race was the Queen Anne Stakes and we placed three bets on the three horses we figured between us might come in first. To back up our guesses, we also made three place bets, so ensuring that, even if one of our horses came within the first three, we would make a little money. If one of our horses came in first, then that would be wonderful.
As it happened, all three horses we picked were the first three to cross the line and we were cock-a-hoop with excitement as we tried to work out how much we had won. Around us, disappointed punters threw their useless tickets on the ground.
But then there was an announcement that there was a stewards’ inquiry into the race and, instantly and suddenly, well-tutored young boys hoovered up all of those discarded race tickets and, in half a minute before anyone could react, they disappeared. After an anxious wait, all of our three horses were disqualified, for the jockeys’ use of the whip I seem to recall, and we were added to those who were bitterly disappointed by the result. Among us were frustrated punters who had lost the opportunity to recover their tickets and so make a profit on the day.
It was the year when all three winners of the Queen Anne Stakes were disqualified. It was a day when we didn’t make a fortune, but then we hadn’t spent one either.
But we had a wonderful day nonetheless!
.
Yesterday marked the start of Royal Ascot, that annual racing event that puts aside the woes of the day and brings out the toffs attired in top hats and tails with their ladies modelling stunning dresses and impossible hats (sometimes in impossible dresses and stunning hats!). Of course, we plebs do not have to dress formally, though it is nice to do so now and again if only to give our partners a chance to shine in their own new clothes.
I and some of my colleagues were invited to Ascot by a wealthy contact a couple of times a few years ago. He had a box and so we all had to troop round to Moss Bros. and get ourselves correctly kitted out. Our wives were invited on the first occasion and went off to buy themselves lovely dresses and hats. We all had a wonderful time sipping champagne and enjoying the appetisers and lunch and, when we remembered to look, the races themselves. Afterwards, we went to a posh hotel somewhere and had a splendid slap-up dinner complete with yet more champagne.
The second year, I forget which it was though doubtless someone with racing knowledge will let me know, six of us were invited without our wives. Again we poodled round to Moss Bros. for our suits and hats and, once again, we enjoyed all the good things in life in the box that our contact had hired as well as dinner in a hotel afterwards.
That particular year, we impoverished shipping executives decided that we would have a ‘kitty’ from which we would make our bets so that we would equally share the winnings we would undoubtedly receive. If anything, that £20 sub from each of us focussed our minds on the actual races.
The first race was the Queen Anne Stakes and we placed three bets on the three horses we figured between us might come in first. To back up our guesses, we also made three place bets, so ensuring that, even if one of our horses came within the first three, we would make a little money. If one of our horses came in first, then that would be wonderful.
As it happened, all three horses we picked were the first three to cross the line and we were cock-a-hoop with excitement as we tried to work out how much we had won. Around us, disappointed punters threw their useless tickets on the ground.
But then there was an announcement that there was a stewards’ inquiry into the race and, instantly and suddenly, well-tutored young boys hoovered up all of those discarded race tickets and, in half a minute before anyone could react, they disappeared. After an anxious wait, all of our three horses were disqualified, for the jockeys’ use of the whip I seem to recall, and we were added to those who were bitterly disappointed by the result. Among us were frustrated punters who had lost the opportunity to recover their tickets and so make a profit on the day.
It was the year when all three winners of the Queen Anne Stakes were disqualified. It was a day when we didn’t make a fortune, but then we hadn’t spent one either.
But we had a wonderful day nonetheless!
.
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