Royal Arse Cot

Ascot. If there was ever a sickening display of outrageous decadence and assumed self-worth it’s fucking Ascot. The BBC have been there all week (BBC Breakfast doubly so, though not with Jenni Trent-Hughes). Its all “oh is it not so grand and splendid that one can swan round in posh hats and swig champagne while rubbing shoulders with other well to dos?”.

You can see them all milling about in their finery with top and fancy hats, waist coats, splendid dresses and whatnot. You can just imagine the cars in the car park with no car older than 5 years old, all shiny waxed 4x4s and other “executive” class road monstrosities. Everybody well groomed and talking as though they are sucking a fucking plum. And all for what? A couple of horse races that the Queen likes to ponce about at.

There would be enough money changing hands there than could feed a family of 6 in a century. Champagne at £10 a glass, strawberries for more than £5 for 6 (considerably less than what the poor farmer that grew them got paid), cigars, cigarettes on them poncey cigarette holders. Businessmen and women using the event to schmooze, celebrities going just to “be seen”, like some exclusive club for the wealthy. Looking down their noses at you because you are not in their club. The dreadful screechy laugh of the awful banshee women all dressed like something out of a shop window. All cock. All of it fat and sweaty cock.

Ascot? Arse Cot more like.