My first Arc de Triomph was a triumph

Aboard our coach from Rouen to Paris for the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe our lady guide put it succinctly: ‘The only polite Parisians are the ones who are asleep.’ Try out your rusty French anywhere else and the locals award you bonus marks for effort: Parisians sneer and affect the sort of aural incomprehension Lester Piggott displayed when stable lads sought a fiver for leading up his winner.

It was a joy nonetheless to be at my first Arc: while I was a full-time political commentator the coincidence with the party conference season made attendance impossible. It was all the more fun sharing duties with ex-jockey John Reid, who won the 1988 Arc on Tony Bin, escorting cruise ship passengers to the big race won for the second year in a row by the remarkable filly Treve.

Longchamp’s style certainly lived up to expectations. The spaces between the grandstand towers were populated by matinee idol men with flowing silk handkerchiefs and impeccably tailored suits escorting girls young enough to be their daughters in bandage dresses and Bondage Queen high heels. Scarves were draped with the artless abandon of those who have absorbed chic through their pores. Impeccably made-up women prowled like panthers, exuding a confidence that opened doors on its own. There was an exuberance, too, about the Qatari sponsorship that makes this the richest race in Europe. Everywhere the banners in a strange shade of purple — foreseeable fuchsia? — fluttered in the breeze while in an entertainment pavilion white-robed and moustached Qatari men blew pipes, waved swords and danced in that decorously timeless Arab way.

My only complaint was the poor-quality catering for those without reservations in the grandstand restaurants. A minimum 25-minute wait for a crêpe au marron or a coffee is just not on.