Hats off to the North

Published on Friday 17 June 2005 01:47

MY FATHER was right. God is a Yorkshireman. At Royal Ascot Ladies Day yesterday he awarded the prime plumage event of the social calendar a truly thrifty amount of sunshine. The wind blew. The rain spattered, but even skies grey at Thirsk cottage could not inhibit the birds' of paradise parade. When pride is the vice of choice, comfort and maintaining a normal body temperature are minor considerations.

That was obvious by 9am on platform 19 of Edinburgh's Waverley Station where the Scottish contingent of Ascot's new Northern recruits were already assembled. Bright as the floral clock and just as punctual. Two hundred miles and several champagne breakfasts later many of them looked even brighter. But then the organisers of this unique decampment from Berkshire to York (a result of development at Royal Ascot) had advised everyone to arrive early at the racecourse to avoid queues. And, with the thoroughness for which we Scots are applauded worldwide, these people were beginning absolutely everything early. And why not? Royal Ascot at York presents a fabulous array of social possibilities.

For this is still the London Season, after all - with its arcane images of debutantes and coming-out balls, picnics at Henley and cocktails on the terrace. But York has rather different associations, noble and historic, but sterner and with a notable absence of chiffon.

Two years ago, I sat on a bench outside the grandstand at Ascot and concluded that, even on its home turf, Ascot has changed a lot since Messrs Lerner and Loewe noted that "Every Duke and Lord and Peer is here, everyone who should be here is here, what a dashing what a simply smashing spectacle at Ascot Opening Day."

The fact is, the Season is no longer exclusive, and elitist corporate entertaining has ensured that. And now that the class and money barriers are down, the British seem determined to display their enthusiasm for, well, display. The most notable style signature for Royal Ascot 2003, the last time I was there, was the full on hooker look - animal prints, corset tops (complete with extra shelves of escaped flesh back and front) tattoos, ankle chains, blue toenail polish, mulberry lip liner, streaked fake tan, isometric hems cut to knicker level on one side to achieve that fetching net curtain caught in a window frame look. And that's before we talk cleavage. Boobs threatening to escape their moorings everywhere you looked. Officially shoulders should be covered, as should knees, but this was a flesh-fest fit for a Costa Brava wine bar.

If this was a triumph of Essex over Knightsbridge, what would York add to the mix?

It didn't take long to spot the differences. Bottoms were being worn bigger this year, hats smaller. Bare legs came in ivory tones instead of fake-tan orange - and often with a bluish tinge thanks to the northern chill.

The 4ft pantomime hat brim was not entirely absent, but there were a lot fewer. In fact, the clicking gaggle of press photographers often looked rather listless as they scanned the 35,000 crowd for truly hilarious head gear to little effect.

The southern toffs were still recognisable, mostly because they looked slightly dazed and anxious, as though they had arrived at Ellis Island Enclosure instead of the Royal one. Infuriatingly, the men were generally taller and the women thinner than the home crowd, and they did not smile.

In contrast, the local racegoers were beaming with delight - all dressed up to the eights (not quite the nines but trying) in some of the worst-fitting hired tailcoats I've seen for a while. Air-kissing was replaced by hefty backslaps and huge grins. " 'ere, I looked in all the bars for thee, didn't recognise tha in all that finery," boomed a man behind me as he thumped his pal so hard his topper fell off.

A couple of beige Berkshire Royal enclosure badge-wearers gazed at the two men with curiosity, as though watching a David Dimbleby nature programme.

The northerners had brought brollies and macs, jackets and coats; the southerners - doubtless in tribute to the deputy prime minister's northern roots - opted for the two-pashmina style statement. In contrasting colours. I was anticipating some sensibly northern pricing for refreshment, 30 or less is the usual price of a bottle of champagne at York races. But the catering team was Ascot's own, so a glass of champagne was 56. You do get a whole bottle I admit, but you can't buy less than that. So, if it's just a glass you fancy, it comes a steep price, even if you can have quite a lot of fun with the leftovers.

Any pies? I asked the steward with my sweetest smile. "I beg your pardon, madam I'm afraid not," so I ordered a prawn sandwich instead. And that's when it struck me that the biggest, the most astonishing difference between Royal Ascot in York and in its normal venue is that here, everyone in the grandstand bar seemed to be studying their racecards.

They weren't exactly neglecting the champagne (though there were plenty of pints poured, too) nor were they averse to a bit of swank and swagger (when Dandy highwayman Dick Turpin was hanged on these fields in 1739 he insisted on buying new pumps and a fustian suit for the occasion) but what the northern racegoer wants to enjoy most during the big day seems to be - the racing. Extraordinary. I can't see it catching on down south.

On the way back to the station, the taxi driver assured me that every gatepost, window box and kerbside in York had been polished and painted during the last two years in preparation for this grand event. "The city has never looked better. But I bet no one notices. All these punters want to watch is bloody horses." Maybe he should move to Berkshire.