At Henley Royal Regatta yesterday, I found myself observing the Skullionesque policing of spectators. Guardians of the Stewards’ Enclosure ensure that the Regatta’s rules and regulations are strictly adhered to. Especially the dress code: In accordance with long established tradition, gentlemen ‘are required to wear lounge suits, or jackets or blazers with flannels, and a tie or cravat. Ladies are required to wear dresses or skirts with a hemline below the knee and will not be admitted wearing divided skirts, culottes or trousers of any kind’
And they’re surprisingly effective at applying the rules, terrorizing spectators with their raised eyebrows and prodding brollies… It’s remarkable how accepting, even protective, we are of this uniquely fusty bastion of bowler-hatted style. Three cheers for the old retainer.
Thank god someone does try and uphold a bit of tradition during the daytime – because once it gets dark, the local youth descend en masse from Wycombe, Slough, Maidenhead and Reading and it all turns into a bit of a binge-drinking chavfest. The few times I’ve been (as one of the local chavs, rather than a blazered participant) I have seen plenty of drunken argy-bargy.
Those icecreams look delicious!!
Dress code, where would the English be without it, not just when ordered, as at Henley, in the armed services, traffic wardens etc but also the herd instinct code. Out pops the sun, out trot the legions of convertible trousered, besandaled ones, sunglasses over brow of course, mountain bikes atop the A4.
From such social immobility revolutions are born.
On the subject of threads and the display thereof one did observe during the week that the prospective mother-in-law, you know, that prospective mother-in-law, was dressed like a lower middle class ladies nine hole golf club captain caught scrubbing the Aga because the cleaning lady had refused to come in that day owing to fact that she hadn’t been payed for six weeks. Being caught on camera would, as she would observe be not on she being an acolyte of the Judith Chalmers dress code.
I haven’t experienced the Henley argy-bargy, Worm, though it can get a bit rowdy after dark, especially on Saturday night. However, I was once refused admission to the Stewards’ Enclosure for wearing a dress that was ‘too short’. Funny because I’d worn the same dress the previous year and they let me in that time.
Malty, lack of imagination on the fashion front equals lucrative business – fortunes have been made from ‘as seen on screen’ rip-offs and branded sh**e. Seems no one has ever got around to designing stylish golf attire – bring on the golfing revolution I say – a curiously creative new set of clubhouse rules is available upon request. And Judith Chalmers? Perhaps M in law was inspired by this?!
oh my god susan, your link should carry a health warning, dark and dangerous information that no man should ever be exposed to
There are times worm when one wishes that the great creator had fitted our imaginations with one of those large red emergency stop buttons. I hope Mahlerman doesn’t spot the link Susan, pacemaker replacement being so arduous.
When it says on the television do they mean on the television or on the television.
Thanks Malty, but I’d clicked on the link to the mahogany-mother-of-two before reading your health warning. She stirs not my vitals, panty-line or no. I’ve still not quite got over Sylvia Peters (who probably wore two pairs), and learning from my mum that she coached our Queen in presentation skills in the lead-up to the Christmas broadcasts. By the cringe, those were the days, what?
I’ve witnessed the carnage at Royal Ascot at first hand but I didn’t realise Henley was a drunken riot these days too. Is there nothing left for the sporty toff who doesn’t fancy ending his night wrestling in a ditch with someone called Wayne?
But then I suppose the upper and lower echelons have always loved a binge and a scrap, it’s the middle-classes that get it all wrong. Wimbledon surely boasts the naffest fans in sport?
I once saw Judith Chalmers take off across the marble floor of the American Embassy, walking straight through a water feature as if it wasn’t there. I rather admired her for that.
One of the delights of Dabbling is the occasionally surreal, Ken Dodd like rambling journey through the Straße and Gasse of life, resembling at times a Billy Connolly live performance in its sides, asides, digressions and disjointed gaiety.
What started out as an account from Susan of her big day out on the banks of theThames concludes with a general discussion about a lady who is eligible for the winter fuel allowance appearing on television sans thong and, courtesey of Nige, an account of her journey over water, hopefully with the thong back in situ.
I could think Benny Hill / Italian Job but I shan’t as this would presume girth on the part of Judy and would be considered disingenuous in the extreme. After all, were we to spend days in a Shearings omnibus, wouldn’t we attract girth.
Big red stop button anyone?
You’ve coined a beauty there, Malty:
Yes, over the years I suppose I have attracted my fair share of girth…
Malty, the ‘account’ of my ‘big day out’ was meant to be a comment on British social convention (see wording on lolly stick). After all her peripatetic adventures, I’m left wondering if perhaps Ms Charming mistook Nige’s water feature for a giant bidet?
That would make her sang froid even more impressive.
I went to Annabel’s for the first time the other week and on entering was stopped and asked to tuck in a stray end of shirt-tail. Fair enough, I suppose, and very well spotted (I was wearing a jacket).
Ladies were allowed to wear trousers but only if they weren’t ‘work trousers’. Revealing cocktail dresses, as seen on a few of the girls waiting outside, were ok even though they might have been described as workwear for quite a few of them.