Ascot Diary: Hats bang on an afternoon of high stakes and short dweebs

General / Jack Houghton / 18 June 2008 / Leave a Comment

Betfair ambassador Jack Houghton's notalgic Trixies are trodden on by the heels versus no heels debate.

I've been lobbying for Trixie for a while now. My arguments have been that, as a name for a first born girl, it's short, fun and less prevalent than Kylie or Jordan. "It means Bringer of Joy," I told my fiancée last week, and she seemed to warm to the idea. But now the game is up. She's come back unexpectedly for lunch and has found the betting slip on the table - a Trixie on Henrythenavigator, Duke Of Marmalade and Yeats.

"What do you want as a middle name? Each-way?!" she shouts as she storms out.

"It's a Win Trixie actually - they're all short priced favourites!" seems a relevant response, although, on reflection, it doesn't really have the argument-ending impact I was hoping for.

Still, she's out the door now and I can focus on an indulgent day of BBC racing coverage. The curry's on its way, the beers are in the fridge and a four-figure return from the Trixie is all but guaranteed.

Shrewdies will baulk at the idea of a Betfair ambassador sullying themselves with such things as Trixies; but this week watching racing on TV is a return to my youth, and I intend to recreate the atmosphere as best I can. So Trixie it is.

The BBC continuity man announces a week of "high stakes and high fashion." Wonderful stuff. I can't wait.

What on EARTH is that thing on Clare's head? That aerial shot makes it look as if someone has deposited a massive cymbal there. But as the camera pans down to ground-level things look a bit more normal. There's Clare, underneath her gigantic LP, and next to her is midget-man - presumably stood on a box (although it doesn't show) - and looking as excitable as ever.

I've promised myself I won't write about Willie Carson too much this week. As tempting as it is to lay in to a TV presenter unable to string sentences together, it feels wrong. The Creator has dealt him such hefty blows already; there's no reason I should stick the boot in. Suffice to say he begins Royal Ascot as he will no doubt continue it: his mouth ejects nonsense upon nonsense and, stood next to the uber-talented Clare, his incompetence is magnified. But he seems happy enough to prattle on, and the care-in-the-community-conscious BBC are happy to let him.

I drift off for a while pondering how R2-D2 would fare as Clare's co-presenter. I'm picturing how he would look with a top-hat perched on his silver helmet. My attention is suddenly pricked though as Rishi introduces our fashion correspondents for the week, Julia and James, by announcing that the last time he saw Julia, she was wearing a bikini. It transpires she was presenting a travel show but James, a little confused, is having no truck with any suggestion of bikini wearing. Standards in the Royal Enclosure last year were apparently "ghastly", and the last thing we need is Julia showing off any more flesh than absolutely necessary. Red is apparently in this year.

Clare announces an innovation: the introduction of the day's big-name jockeys, boxing-style, to an expectant crowd. That they are all - Frankie apart - such miserable, charisma-void, little dweebs, means no amount of dramatic music can turn this into a spectacle of note. But Clare, the consummate professional, battles through. The crowd seems suitably unimpressed and even the men in bowler hats, presumably paid to do so, struggle to raise a clap as the latest non-entity emerges into the parade ring. Innovation and Royal Ascot, it seems, do not mix. Clare decides to interview some of them. Oh dear. This just compounds things. Some of the BBC audience might still be under the illusion that these men, despite countenances that scream otherwise, are in some way interesting. Interviews over; the illusion shattered.

Kevin Darley has been talking to clerk-of-the-course Chris Stickels. I amuse myself by suggesting to no-one that his wife is called Tess. Kev explains that runners on the straight course might come down the middle, or might come down either rail. Great stuff Kev, thanks.

The Royal Procession proceeds and James and Clare tackle the weighty issues of the day: hair up or down, one-strand pearl necklace or three, full hat or fascinator. The National Anthem is played by some military types to signal the Queen's arrival, but no one has told the oompa-band, who drown out attempts at a nationalistic moment.

There is brief discussion about the place of the Royal Procession in a modern world. If, that is, you define "discussion" as being unanimous sycophancy. James justifies it thus: "It's because no-one else can do it. It's what the British excel at." Two questions come to mind. First, are nations around the world really ruing their inability to have some old people ride around in pony and traps? Second, is that all the British excel at? But no time for such musings.

Lisa Snowden will be a special guest this week. I get the impression I should know who she is. But I don't. And it isn't explained. There's a long debate about heels versus no heels; with heels the undisputed winner.

36 minutes in we are given the day's non-runners. Punters will no doubt understand why the heel debate was given preference.

Haradasun wins the first, and there's Aidan, on the phone. Who's he talking to? Perhaps he's ringing Betfair Radio?

The racing thankfully out of the way for the time being, we get to focus on the catwalk show. James describes each outfit by making a film reference: "She's like so-and-so out of Cabaret..." I wonder how he might describe my outfit of shorts and vest. Like Bruce Willis out of Die Hard perhaps? But then I get the impression James is more of a musicals man.

The King's Stand over, commentators marvel at the cosmopolitan team around the winner. Spanish-trained, French-ridden, Greek-bred and Irish-owned, they gloss over the fact that in a preview focusing on the international nature of the race, they had completely overlooked Equiano.

On BBC2 now, we're treated to a segment called Wives In The City; an examination of the women behind our swashbuckling midget heroes. That one of them isn't actually a wife, and there is no city on show, undermines the premise somewhat. Nonetheless, we discover that one wife has to hide biscuits and cakes from her fasting husband (I have an idea where), another announces that her fiancé is a regular back-sack-and-cracker, and overall, it seems these girls are a little more interesting than their other halves tend to be when interviewed.

Henrythenavigator wins and the Trixie is still alive. He is reluctant to enter the winner's enclosure, presumably because some woman is dancing around with a gigantic snowball on her head. She must be wearing it for a bet, but Henry is, wisely, taking no chances.

Aidan gives his usual interview. The hoss is really special. He has class, stamina, a turn of foot. He could step up, step down, do the Hokey-Cokey and turnaround. That's what the stallion PR machine is all about. It all seems a little familiar, like I've heard it before, but I can't remember where or when.

There's a piece about James and Willie visiting a Savile Row tailor. Apparently, at £3,500, the cost-per-wear value of a bespoke morning suit is obvious to all. Except me it seems. I chuckle to myself as the tailor measures Willie's inside leg and the jocular Scot announces: "I've shrunk!"

More fashion reviews and James is delighted that, in his opinion (which has seemingly biblical authority in these parts), standards have risen this year. Lisa and Julia concur and then randomly announce: "If we stand too close together, we bang." I presume they are talking about a clash of hats, but the mind wanders nonetheless.

I close my eyes during a Nicky Henderson interview and think he sounds like a drunk Ronnie Corbett.

Another instalment of the catwalk show sees a woman in a "fabulous" blue Versace thing that makes her look like a court disciple of Ming-the-Merciless from Flash Gordon.

By now I'm drunk, and although still impressed by Barty and Clare, the only semblance of competence on display all day, I've turned to shouting abuse at the TV whenever any other contributor appears. It's time to turn off and sober up. After all, I've got four more days of this.