Mrs P and I decided to go to Royal Ascot this year. We’d like to think we’re a socially mobile couple, going in an upward direction. It’s the poshest sporting event of the year. We went on Ladies Day, the poshest day. The poshest of posh. It’d be nice, we thought, to mix with ‘our kind or people’. Alas, it seems they let all and sundry into Ascot these days. By the time we’d got home, a video had gone viral as a group of hoodlums started a bit of fisticuffs in the Queen Anne enclosure. Shameless peasantry, so it was. Real toffs would duel at dawn, somewhere a little more discreet.
One can’t help but be drawn to the curiously hairless chap. Taking one’s shirt off for a fight is all a little bit Hollywood, and to pull it off you really need to reveal a ripped body with a solid six pack. It’s absolutely no good bursting buttons to publicize the fact that you’re essentially storing a castle pantry’s worth of lard under your top. That impresses no one.
Mrs P and I had a jolly good day. She was considerably more astute when it came to picking winners than I, picking the winner in race four, the big run of the day – the Gold Cup. She won her day’s betting money back. My brightest moment came in the same race, picking the second placed horse on a £5 each way bet. At odds of 4/5 on, I don’t need to tell you that my retirement plans have not been brought forward. For photos of our day out in the Berkshires, click here.
The Mexile 