* Let me preface this post by saying that I am potentially about to expose myself as a huge hypocrite. After all, I have been to the J&B Met about three times and I loved it. That said, this is crazy on a whole new level…
I am confused. Hugely confused. Today John and I went to Ascot. A day at the races. The ultimate show of British class. And, as I may have said, I’m confused.
Firstly, the weather sucked. It got to a maximum of 15 celsius (for about five minutes before it started cooling down again) and there was a crazy wind howling the entire day. The sun peeked its head out for short bursts, but mostly English weather fully lived up to its reputation for being shitty today. At least it didn’t rain. Thank god for small mercies, as they say.
But this event has been on the cards for weeks. The Pimms and lemonade had been bought. The fresh fruit was cut up and mint (from the garden!) was ready to be mixed for the ultimate summers drink. Marks & Spencers had yielded the perfect picnic selection and we were (mostly) ready for a day at the races. Until we woke up this morning to find a cloudy, grey day with a thin wind. Oh boy – what to wear? I’d heard about the outfits and knew that a hat was a huge bonus (in this wind?), as were heels. Pretty much compulsory. But you know me – I like to break all the rules.
So I donned a maxi dress with my long leggings underneath (for warmth), a cardigan and then also my down-filled jacket on the way out. Oh, and I did NOT wear a hat nor heels. A girl has to dress for comfort after thirty. (Quote me on that one.) But the other girls went all out. And I mean ALL out. Never have I seen higher heels (in satins and sequins) or more squeezed-into-peeptoe toes. And the ‘fascinators’…oh boy, the fascinators. One bigger than the other and in all the colours of the rainbow. But I’m getting way ahead of myself.
We left the house and started our journey to the town of Ascot by taking a bus, followed by a train and then we finally arrived at the station from which we would take the overground National Rail train. And the platform was crowded. Insanely so. Trains only run every fifteen minutes and we couldn’t squeeze onto the first two that came past. Finally managed to make it onto the third one where John and Jill got in first and I physically forced my way into a space meant for breathing only to avoid having to spend another fifteen minutes on the platform without them. Then I proceeded to have my butt massaged by various unknowns as the sardines were shuttled along the rails. The longest forty-five minute train ride of my life, hanging onto a pole with one hand and trying to not get separated from the picnic bag in my other. And I mentioned the butt massage thing. Not fabulous.
About two hours after we left home we finally arrived at Ascot and bargained with a ticket scalper to buy GBP14 tickets for GBP35 each. Then we fell in line to get into the actual venue (add another half hour or so) and finally made it onto the lawn where we spread our picnic blanket on the only free square meter we could find. Phew – we had arrived. The picnic stuff came out and the first jug of Pimms was mixed. We didn’t see much of the horse races, but man, did those grilled chicken drumsticks from M&S hit the spot!
After the last race was run, thousands of people filed out of the stadium and into the pubs that surely survive purely on the money made during this weekend, for who ever would go there during the rest of the year? And here’s where my confusion sets in. All the girls were now in their flipflops (why even bother with the high heels when you’re heading to a huge lawn?) and there were more guys than girls wearing fascinators (Fascinators are pieces of artsy sculpture that British women wear instead of hats in their hair) and, here’s the big thing, people were absolutely wasted.
Which is fine and fun. There was crazy dancing. Crazy making out on the ‘dancefloor’ and crazy drinking. Crazy drinking. And I realized how crazy only when we decided to tackle the journey home at around 9pm. On the train? Absolute debauchery. The girl across the isle from us vomited into her boyfriend’s bag and then passed out – face first – into said bag. The guy in front of her turned towards me, vomited into his hand, swallowed it back and then, as one does, proceeded to vomit all over himself, the seat and onto the floor before staggering off the train. The ones who were not vomiting were screaming or passed out and I felt like giving these ‘classy’ Brits a piece of my mind.
Why even bother? Dresses that have never seen the light of day will see the next light of day with huge rips, vomit stains or grass burns on them. Fascinators are not cheap. Satin shoes are ruined once you’ve dropped your drink on them. And why, oh why, would you go out in your summer’s dress when it is absolutely freezing out? Maybe it’s a sign of getting old, but I’d have been much happier drinking my Pimms at home with some good music, good friends and, you guessed it, some Marks and Spencers drumsticks!
If ‘getting’ Ascot is a sign of class, call me a chav.