The gentlemen
LAST summer at Ascot, I found what must be the only complimentary bit of shade in the Royal Enclosure, up against a hedge. From there, I had a wonderful view of the several marquees on parade, Cavalry & Guards on one side, the Garrick on the other, White's and so on and so forth. As it was too hot to have a regular conversation with anyone, I lit up my Cohiba Siglo VI and people watched.
There is a particularly British form of masochism that requires men to dress in a three-piece suit with a long coat, rather than a jacket, in the summer months. On the one hand, if you're unlucky enough for the weather to be wonderful, it requires the kind of pluck and stiff upper lip that won us the war. On the other, it's likely the weather will be dreadful and, in that instance, all is well.
What I observed from my shady nook was how every man was clearly struggling. No one pranced as if their clothes were airconditioned. Nevertheless, those who refused to let standards slip were nothing if not inspirational. It brings to mind Cecil Beaton's quote on style: 'Be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.' If you need glamourous examples, look up Gregory Peck and David Niven together striding purposefully into Ascot.
Every year, I attend with the same friend, Shary Rahman, and our wives. He shares my enthusiasm for people watching, rather than people engaging, so we wander together and see if we find someone beautifully dressed towards whom we doff our top hats approvingly. 'The same thing happens each time,' he says. 'At first, there is nothing interesting to see, and then all of a sudden someone pops up and restores your faith in civilisation.
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