I’ve never liked Ascot. On the occasions when I have dressed up and flogged across the south-east on a series of trains to get there, I have always regretted it. The pinching shoes, the faux-snobbery of the Royal Enclosure, the traipsing around the grandstand that resembles an airport crossed with a shopping mall, the feigned interest in equestrianism, the footballers in toppers and tails. All in all, I find it hollow. But there’s a certain sadness here; I want to like Ascot. I want to see what others see: the champers, the races, the hats, the larks, the British at play. Instead, I just find it a bit naff; the Season equivalent of nude tights à la Pippa Middleton.
Getting into the Royal Enclosure is considerably easier than in bygone eras
Ascot week ‘used to mean something’ my grandmother noted sadly many years ago, flicking through the pages of the Daily Telegraph in her armchair. Certainly, in its heyday Ascot did mean something. In the Edwardian era, Ascot was at its zenith. It is the Ascot that is embedded in our cultural imaginary: think Edward VII holding court at Windsor Castle during Ascot week, the balls, the White’s tent, the sheer social nirvana of it all. We’re still chasing that image. Except today, Ascot week has become about corporate sponsorship by Peroni, L.K. Bennett et al, adverts on the telly and the tube – ‘There’s you you… Then there’s Ascot you’ – and Instagrammable images of women in hats, instant ‘poshness’ as easily dismantled as a fascinator.
Such disappointment is nothing new. In a diary entry from 1967, Cecil Beaton – a man who did more to burnish the cultural imaginary of Ascot than perhaps anyone else with My Fair Lady – remarked: ‘The quality of the material was so poor. The plastic and the nylon look so crummy in the outdoors. The retina irritant imitation leather shoes and handbags are part of the Roxy Floor Show. The crocheted shift, the miniskirts and little girl fashions are not right for here.’ Poor old Cecil. Having long been denied entry into the Royal Enclosure by the ferociously snobby gatekeeper Victor Spencer, 1st Viscount Churchill for years on account of his middle-class mother, the much anticipated moment can have been nothing short of devastating.
What, one might ask, would Beaton make of the Royal Enclosure today? Unprintable, one must imagine. Naturally, much journalistic ink has been spilt over the Ascot dress code since it was tightened up in 2012 by banning bottom-skimming skirts, spaghetti straps and halter necks to name but a few. Those falling foul to these infractions were handed a ‘jewel-tone’ pashmina to protect their modesty by Ascot-employed fashion police. Frankly, I’d rather see the bare flesh than a sea of tipsy women poorly shrouded in a jewel-tone woollen rainbow.
These days, with no bulldog Lord Churchill to vet the entrants, getting into the Royal Enclosure is considerably easier than in bygone eras when those who did not meet the criteria of being presented at Court (or those who were divorced) were denied access. Contemporary members, defined by the Royal Ascot website as those who ‘have attended the Royal Enclosure for a minimum of five years’, may sponsor other prospective members. That’s it. Just WhatsApp a fellow parent from your child’s prep school or someone you used to play rugby with in Clapham, and bingo! You’re in. You’re on for a posh day out; get ‘Ascot You’ ready. Cue WhatsApp group messages to share pictures of your hat and male folk trussed up in morning suits and (hired) toppers with their Royal Enclosure badges firmly on display.
But while stories of tattooed ladies staggering around the Royal Enclosure with their arms out and sunglasses on make for superb Daily Mail fodder, there are far more subtle indicators of class when it comes to Ascot. The classic is of course how you pronounce it; say ‘Ascottt’ with the emphasis on the ‘t’, rather than a clipped ‘cot’ and you’ve given yourself away as a pretender. Say ‘Royal Ascot’ and you’ve also fluffed it because true poshos know it’s in extremely bad taste to say ‘royal’ anything. Say that you’re there to see the ‘horse racing’ rather than simply the ‘races’ and you’re finished. The advance of these ‘pretenders’ into the Royal Enclosure has spawned the neologism ‘Naffcot’ used by fashion editors to warn you against looking like you belong in the bawdy grandstand rather than the Enclosure itself.
But who cares if Ascot is not what it was? Perhaps it’s better; more fun, more bouncy Zara Tindall than horsey old Princess Anne. The meeting’s association with the Crown is still there but, with the Queen gone, it’s less unified by obvious, regal glee. In short, it’s as naff as it always was but now sans Queen to jolly it along. As the papers fill up with pictures of ladies in their hats this week, I have only one thought: are they wearing nude tights? Bare legs I hope; best to show off the ankle tattoo. Queen Victoria had one, after all.
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