Royal Ascot is great fun, but not as posh as the hats suggest

I thought of Eliza Doolittle a lot at Royal Ascot. Not just for the spectacle of the famous race scene in My Fair Lady, awash with fabulous clothes and hats. More specifically for that wonderful moment when Eliza's facade slips and she bellows decidedly un-ladylike encouragement at her horse in a rich cockney accent. There were a lot of Elizas in the crowd.

Next to getting invited to Cowes aboard somebody's boat, Royal Ascot is probably the event within the English social season that I most wanted to attend, but had never managed. I was fortunate to snag an invitation this year and was as excited as a kid in the run-up to Christmas. I plotted my outfit: Blue, early '60s patterned and styled skirt, blue top, slimline white jacket; big white hat with very big bow. Designer shades at the ready, though we never got enough sun to need them. I even withdrew a bit of cash for betting and paid close attention to the Radio 4 picks.

There's no doubt about it: It's a grand and glorious occasion. From the time you hit the High Street in Ascot you're surrounded by the fashion parade. Men in tailcoats and top hats (necessary for the Royal Enclosure), women in their best summer frocks and showy headgear. It was here that I encountered my first Elizas. Dressed to kill, standing barefoot next to the pub, 3-inch heels beside them, long-neck beer gripped in one hand, fag in the other, braying like donkeys.

Eliza or not, the fashion statement for the year seemed to be fascinators. While hats were still in abundance, those little clumps of feathers and whatnot ... corsages for the head ... were in the very large majority. Although not, I hear, in the Royal Enclosure, where women are still required to cover the whole crown of their head.

Though we weren't in the uber-posh Royal Enclosure, we certainly weren't suffering. The Pavilion Restaurant is a long, glass-walled building at one end of the front of the course complex, looking out over the entry gates, the bandstand and the winners' circle. You can't see the course from here, but the Pavilion is filled with large screen televisions giving you all the action. And girls wandering around with hand-held betting machines. So you can, in theory, have the whole Ascot experience without ever standing up. Or seeing a real horse. Which, given the champagne that was flowing regularly from the moment we sat down to the end of the day, would have been easy to do.

Getting out to the course (or track, for all you Americans) wasn't difficult, however. After a satisfying lunch (salmon terrine, roast chicken, chocolate tart, large quantities of champagne) we wandered beneath the grandstand and emerged onto an exquisite scene. Before us the vivid green jewel of turf stretching for miles, bisected by bright white fences, bordered by the trees that cloak leafy, suburban Ascot. Behind us, the striking modern architecture of the new grandstand, its canopy like a flock of birds on the wing and each balcony below filled with merry makers, the women's bright dresses and hats turning the whole facade into a blaze of colour. If 19th century races were the same, no wonder the Impressionists painted them. In the centre, the grand glass bubble of the royal box. Too far away to make out details, but if you'd seen the royal arrivals earlier you could pick out the queen (purple splotch) and the Duchess of Cornwall (blue).

The most beautiful element in the whole scene was undoubtedly the horses. Delicate, gleaming, muscles quivering with excitement, mounted by jockeys whose vivid silks made them the only men in the place to outshow the feminine fashion parade. Beguiled by the scene, I made my usual mistake of placing my bets based on the combination of prettiest horse and jauntiest racing silks. Of course, I lost. But only eight of the ten pounds I had set aside for the day. Tired of losing, I decided not to bet on the race for which I had the Radio 4 tip. The Duke of Marmalade, of course, won.

Having watched a few races and giggled at a few drunk Elizas and their even more sozzled dates ("chav city", my hostess sighed in her cut glass accent, shaking her well coiffed head sadly) we headed back to the more exclusive confines of the hospitality area. Just in time for the cheese and port. Then a bit of a wander to the winners' circle to see some hefty silverware being handed over to some top hatted owners. Back to the pavilion again, where it was time for afternoon tea. Delicate sandwiches (cucumber, salmon, egg and watercress), scones with cream and jam, bite-sized pastries. More champagne. Good Lord, didn't we just finish lunch? But how can one resist? Far too sated for walking, we took in the last race from the comfort of our table. Allowing us to capture several extra rounds of bubbly just before the bar closed down. (You will not be surprised to know that it was NOT a good week at Weight Watchers.)

Completely exhausted after all this hard work, the walk to Ascot train station seemed like miles. We even threw propriety to the wind and joined the Elizas, kicking off our shoes and making a bit of the trek barefoot. When you can't beat 'em, join 'em.