Ascot – Berkshire countryside | June 2015
An absurd lobster pink suit jacket, a white wrinkly shirt, and a ceremony black bow tie embellished with a plastic sparkling pearl. A brand new day was waiting for me, the “Ladies Days”, the very heart of the Royal Ascot week, the hottest European horse race.
A muster for the sake of kitsch of biblical proportions distinguishes the Silver Ring atmosphere. The latter which frankly is neither a ring nor in silver, is a a patch of land flanking the initial portion of the racecourse straight road end. It is right the less glamorous and people’s spot too see this event. This most of people flap of lawn not only is the place where mass has the privilege of admiring the first Queen’s passage through the Royal Còrtege by the sound of “Go, Queeny” motto, but it is also the best spot to listen first the thunder of horse hovees arriving at the head of the stretch. Only a lucky few will be able to understand which horse will be crossing the far away finishing line; and anyway, no matter. The horse race is just a mere footnote. The real show is being able to see strange outfits and agitated gestures of this crazy and vivid crowd, getting lost among the pungent mix of women fresh perfumes, the queasy smell of chicken wings, the overloading stench of fish and chips, and the asphyxiating stink of horse excrement.
What may appear to be an enormous and lavish wedding reception or an odd and fake elegant picnic becomes even more interesting when liters of beer and pimm’s show their effects.
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