It’s that time of year when racegoers top up their tans, shoehorn on towering shoes, spend a fortune on glamorous frocks, hours getting hair curled and arranging hats at perfect tilt… only to be tabloid-shamed the next day necking champagne then plummeting from high heels, exposing their nether regions and generally humiliated via unflattering photography.
It can only be Grand National time, for Merseysiders the pinnacle of the social calendar and a grand day out.
For those who probably spent their day flicking wistfully through a Boden catalogue and mowing the lawn, it’s a chance to plunder inner snob stockpiles and snigger at girls staggering around in their £150 Ted Baker dresses, exposing tattoos and spilling out of plunging necklines.
Of course while gawping, they conveniently forget the party where they threw up in a plantpot or the time they necked eight tequila shots and split the dress they bought from Asos.
Then there was the cheap tattoo that seemed a really good idea at a full moon party in Thailand…
Somehow, the annual Aintree shenanigans brings out the worst and the best in British behaviour and I’m not talking about those who actually attend.
It is inarguably fascinating to flick through photos of the event online including the cliched shot of an elegantly clad young ladywith the very finest police ankle-tag.
We should be ashamed of ourselves for encouraging this sort of shaming, sure, but what we need to understand is that these women with, as one website described, ‘deep tans and very plunging necklines’ are having a fabulous time.
Much better than most of us in fact.
Merseyside is an area where dressing up is a way of life and an event like the National needs an extra special effort.
Race-goers dress up to look fab and feel fab even if not everybody gets it right and it goes downhill with a few wines.
Just like every wedding reception we’ve ever been to.
