Skank-free Royal Ascot

It's that time of the year when Britain's royals emerge from their medieval castle fortresses in their coordinated pastel shoes and frocks and their hideous Philip Treacy hat creations and jump into their gilded carriages to make one's way into the royal enclosure at the enormously posh and pretentious Royal Ascot horse racing meeting thingy in Berkshire, England.  It doesn't get much snootier than Royal Ascot.

Don't get me wrong - I love the Queen.  I think she's an amazing human being, plus she reminds me very much of my late grandmother in the looks department. It's all the associated privileged hangers-on that are of great annoyance.

No fascinators allowed. This is much
more appropriate.

While one imagines that one wouldn't survive for long without sticking a hot poker in one's eyeball in the company of all those royally-connected twats who have an exalted sense of their own importance, one very much approves of the Royal Ascot dress code, which diplomatically and rather firmly advises that no skanks are allowed.

Some milliner/socialite was thrown out for the crime of skankiness the other day.  The evicted one, presumably a commoner from somewhere in Essex, says she will seek compensation through legal action, init.  Alrightee then, skanky whorebag.

I think the whole entire universe should have to abide by the Royal Ascot dress code, which dictates that young female things must adhere to a 'modest length' for dresess and skirts, midriffs must be covered and fascinators are no longer permitted, I assume because the majority of them are trashy and vulgar.

So that's half of the female population in their mid-20s completely banned.  Big mobs of ticks of approval for all those rules.  What's not to love about Royal Ascot?