How I spent my summer vacation-Chapter 62, Part 1---Royal Ascot

[satan's twin]

1. It is not just a simple day at the races. A visit to Royal Ascot Race Course is a process---a long, expensive, drawn-out affair that was in the works for our Chicago-based menagerie for a year and a half. We were originally spurred on to attend the event at Breeder's Cup 2012 by Derby Trail poster, and Irish sot, Brockguy, who assured us the process "was no big deal." That is indeed true, if you overlook the ass-probing background checks conducted by two countries, endless correspondence with the U.S. Embassy in London, compliance with etiquette edicts written with a quill pen by some sniffling bumbledom bureaucrat 150 years ago and compliance with a draconian dress code mandating the torturous dress of Victorian straight-jackets, re-labeled for present day sensibilities as "morning wear."
And all this, just for a day or two engaging in the Sport of Kings----with a Queen.


2. The prize seats at Ascot are those seats in the Royal Enclosure. Essentially, these are the seats reserved for attendees sitting closest to the Queen. In order to procure a seat here, one must first request consideration for seating in this exclusive area from his or her embassy in London. "Only ladies and gentlemen of high character and good standing shall be considered for seating." Just as I had suspected, we were eliminated from consideration even before our parole officer had a chance to write a fraudulent letter of recommendation on our behalf. These strident rules for admission left us but one option to meet the high moral standards required. We needed to lie.
Beginning on January 1st, individual embassies would accept applications for consideration of admission into the Royal Enclosure. In our case, the U.S. Embassy in London would forward each individual information sheet and questionnaire to the F.B.I. for a formal background check. Those applications that passed the initial background were then forwarded to the British government for them to conduct their own background check. Those that passed both checks were then selected on a first come/first serve basis to receive a ticket. Each country was allotted a limited number of guest badges, with Commonwealth nations receiving first consideration. The U.S. allotment for tickets in the Royal Enclosure was 200 per day. Each three day badge cost $400.
Each applicant was given a ridiculously detailed questionnaire regarding personal conduct with a decided slant towards the lewd and lascivious, not forgetting, of course, the criminally demented. The questions were weighted and points were accumulated for answers. It seemed that sexual deviancy, personal addictions, personality disorders and poor potty habits scored you those much needed bonus points. With the prize of rubbing elbows with the Queen of England at stake, who would dare miss the opportunity to reveal one's own personal lunacy or tendency towards perversion lest the authorities find it first and eliminate you from consideration?
In an effort to seek out the best qualified candidates to share the Queen's company on a fine summer day, her Majesty's Secret Service afforded each candidate an opportunity to write a short description of themselves to help sway the selection committee's vote in their favor. I went with, "old, fat, dead broke, plug ugly and hung like a chipmunk."
BINGO! I got a box chair with the Queen.


3. It was a surprise attack. I never saw it coming. With my attention diverted to the pomp and pageantry of Ascot, I never anticipated the sudden assault upon my person by a savage beast that stealthily attacked me from behind. Through the sea of beautifully clad ladies and gentlemen in attendance, I ambled along taking in the ambiance and charm of my surroundings. In a dreamlike haze I absorbed all of the vivid colors, the sun-drenched skies and the dulcet sounds around me. Suddenly, without provocation, a massive misshapen blob in a hideous red dress, reeking of gin and breakfast sausages, landed a vice-like grip on the left cheek of me arse! A gentleman in a morning coat would naturally assume the tails of the coat would afford protection from such an invasion but, I assure you, it did not. If the anal handshake of this Amazonian cur was not enough to pop the monocle from my eye, what she uttered would certainly have done it. "Say, would ye like to have a go, luv?"
Admittedly, I want some mud for my turtle as much as the next guy, but there isn't enough tequila in the world that would have given me, or Lil' Thumper, the liquid courage needed to face a night of that kind of abuse. Further, even though therapy has gone a long way to purge the memories of my horrid parochial school experience, I do, on occasion, harken back to one of those commandments (before VIII but after III, I think) which has proven to be a rather helpful beacon of guidance whence choosing an exercise partner for an evening dalliance. I believe the exact verbiage was, "Thou shalt not pillow with a partner outside of one's own species." Indeed, words to live by.
Fortified by my renewed moral compass and still fearing for my safety, I sprinted off in the other direction. In full retreat, I was able to snap a photo of the assailant for evidence. Scotland Yard is still investigating.


4. For this American, the British monarchy is, at once, both indescribably confusing and uproariously hilarious. Laden with the burden of a thousand years of history and tradition, one individual and his/her family are expected to perform a modern version of 'ruler of a nation for life by divine right.' Born into the position, the chosen one essentially fills a ceremonial role of the Big Cheese. Where once her predecessors ruled with absolute and unquestioned authority, today, as the British monarch, Elizabeth presides over ribbon cuttings, rides in old carriages as a photo op for tourists, ingests a toxic amount of caffeine from having too many high teas with dignitaries of diminished standing and stands as regally as her 88 year old bones will let her at a race track while in close proximity to an imbecile like me.
The position is not without its perks. She is the richest woman in the world, has her image on all of the country's currency, is genuinely loved and respected, has been forgiven for siring idiots, lives in castles, is waited on hand and foot, and is treated, well, ......like a queen.
Always the image of dignity, charm and grace, the Queen, as the imperial head of country and commonwealth, is near but not approachable, human but appearing infallible, iron-willed and indestructible some times, loving and caring at all times. She has balanced the burden of this impossible position as a royal, longer, and arguably better, than anyone in history. On a catwalk inside the grandstands looking at the interior entrance to the Royal Box, I watched the Queen enter, then disappear, behind the closed door. I could not help but wonder if there, away from the prying eyes of the public, does she morph into the role of mere mortal---kick off her granny heels, take a few belts of a gin and tonic, fart in the general direction of bonnie Prince Charles?
While England has asked for, and received, a royal who has served for 61 years with class and distinction, it would be prudent to lower the bar of expectations the next time around, to say, to a couple of inches above the ground. Charles has been in the public eye far too long. In his earlier years, England hoped for two things from the Prince of Wales: 1.) that he would grow into the role of a good king and 2.) that his face would catch up to the size of his nose. At this point, you would probably get long odds on both propositions from the London bookies. A world traveler with an insanely brilliant education, Charles is not nearly as popular as his mother or his two sons. When his personal messages were compromised years ago and the world learned that he had written to Camilla Bowles that he wanted to be her tampon, he lost me...........and I lost my lunch. Every time I see him in a kilt, I just imagine him in an orange Hooters thong under it. Personally, after he traded Diana and picked up Camilla on waivers, the only crown I'd want to see on this guy's head comes from Burger King.


5. The arrival of the Queen to Royal Ascot from nearby Windsor Castle is the focal point of the day for all attendees, save for the handful of harden horse players/ international travelers. Riding in a carriage at a snail's pace down the mile long straightaway of the main track, the Queen's processional parades past 65,000 well-dressed, cheering, sun-soaked and sweat-drenched subjects. Just prior to her arrival into the paddock, the Queen's track attendants, clad in green felt morning coats and black top hats, handed out roster sheets with the list of the occupants in the four carriages. Besides the royal family members, we were 'treated' to the sight of sheikhs and emirs, titled Brits, distinguished military and a couple of up and comers with hyphenated last names.
In seconds, the first carriage turned the corner and passed by, just feet in front of us. The Queen smiled and waved dutifully, fashionably dressed in matching powder blue suit and hat. Princes Philip and Charles were smartly attired in matching gray morning coats, waist coats and top hats. Camilla wore bright red blinkers and a black #5 saddlecloth.
After exiting her royal coach, the Queen made the first of several appearances in the winner's circle where she would later make numerous presentations. As the day wore on, after she had stood for countless photographs and gave away what appeared to be someone's complete china and cutlery set, undoubtedly seized by the crown centuries ago for the pleasure of the king. These 'priceless' dinnerware mementos were given as awards to all connections with the winning teams. Before the distribution of gravy bowls, I saw the Queen standing by herself, wistfully looking to the sky, perhaps thinking to herself that in the autumn of her life, she had witnessed this scene so, so many times before............Another day, another sea of gawking eyes, more races, more of those damn sterling silver spoons to pass out to tiny men in silk costumes, more photographs, more God damn waving.......................Oh, my kingdom for just one day to have been the Queen in another time............A Tudor Queen!............to have seen a different sport.............some jousting...................maybe some sword fighting............perhaps a beheading of an Irishman or two..........


6. Every track has its unique touches and traditions. Churchill Downs has its mint juleps and price gouging, Saratoga has its shade trees and its picnics, Hawthorne has its meth users, and Ascot has its communal singing. Following the races, thousands of the most inebriated patrons of the day incapable of negotiating the twenty minute walk to the train station gather behind the grandstands around the bandstand to listen to a military band and to sing along to the 15 or 20 songs chosen for the day. Song books and small British flags were distributed to all. The words to the songs were displayed on the large video screen above the crowd in case the task of holding a cocktail and an open song book simultaneously proved too dangerous. Warm up tunes like "New York, New York" and "Hey Jude" eventually gave way to the patriotic songs and finally ended with the national anthem and God Save the Queen. A good time indeed and a great time for an American to videotape an Irishman in full voice, waving a British flag and singing a British war chant like "Rule Britannia". When I photoshop the tears onto his face, I'll have the perfect blackmailing tool to insure that our boy Kevin buys the first round of drinks for all 20 of us at Breeder's Cup. Woop Woop!!!