It's Time to Rein in Fake-Tanned Busts and Thighs

Racegoers wear outfits of all kinds - some revealing and some not.

(Photo:http://www.queenieau.com)

England's Aintree racecourse is about to introduce a new style code for women, and no wonder. Every year, after Ladies Day at the Grand National Festival, the papers are filled with unflattering photographs of women falling out of dresses that appear several sizes too small for them. Acres of flesh are snapped, puckered by the chill. The whole thing makes me shiver, for several reasons.

The idea, it seems, will be to follow the lead of Ascot's Royal Enclosure and ban mini skirts and revealing tops and the like.

I, for one, will be utterly relieved if a dress code is brought in. I've simply had enough of going to big race meetings and feeling as if I was in a cheesy holiday resort in Spain. At courses around the country I sometimes wonder where I am, as perma-tanned thighs parade past and busts bounce along inches away. The hairspray fumes are enough to asphyxiate any racegoer who dares venture to the loo.

What on earth is going on? Racing is the sport of kings, not a hen-night extravaganza. It's a grand, majestic, vibrant, physical thing, full of intrigue and expectations and heightened emotions. Racing makes me laugh and cry, despair and triumph.

For a lifelong racegoer like me, it's about everything other than the clothes. It's about the horses - magnificent beasts trying their hardest to get past the post first. It's about the jockeys and the trainers and the stable lads and lasses who put endless hours and days and lifetimes into looking after these tricky, hot-headed thoroughbreds.

What it isn't about is fakebake tan, decorated nails long enough to scratch your eyes out and fistfuls of hair extensions. It's not about tiny skirts, crop tops, spaghetti straps, see-through this, cut-away that and g-string-flashing once a bit of vinho verde has been consumed.

Racing is a serious business. Money is won and lost, fortunes are made and broken,...