And the Mirror answered sweet and low, "The horse's name is Mistletoe."

Britain seems like a toilet sometimes, especially when irresponsible politicians secretly peddle powers over to a doomed EU pipe dream.  This country is caught in the back-eddy of a Marxist ship with Brussels at the helm.  But before anyone tries to pull the chain on Stonehenge or flush Shakespeare down the bathroom of our hearts, there's still ASCOT! 

Female attendees to this royal event are required to wear a hat, which is a relief to me because my short hair (due to neglect) has wilted into an indistinguishable long-short-do which, at the best of times, can neither brace the wind nor stand up to the lightest of showers.  So I'll put off another trip to the salon and invite my Mum to go hat shopping with me instead, or I might just concoct something myself out of brick-a-brack and a bit of tinsel.

As for Ascot, The Queen herself will be in attendance and, to preserve tradition and boost pageantry, she'll arrive each day in a horse-drawn carriage.  Ascot is a shot in the arm for Britain's social calendar, and the press coverage of attendees often exceeds that of the actual racing. The Royal Enclosure has a strict dress code—gentlemen must wear full morning dress including a top hat, whilst ladies are not permitted to show bare midriffs or shoulders and must wear hats.  But alas, I won't be allowed into that corral stuffed with peacocks and penguins, instead I'll be grazing with the lesser known charlatans, commoners, and serfs wearing a baseball cap.

On the left is Beatrice, the daughter of Prince Andrew and Fergie, and the best of British journalists captioned her as "The Princess and the Pea".  Brilliant!