Last updated 05:38, Friday, 01 August 2008

It’s possible we’ll risk a glass or two of something refreshing. In fact it’s probable. Or – put another way – absolutely certain. Even so, there was no need for his sarcasm.

“You’ll be wearing a big hat, then...” More a statement of pointed ridicule than polite inquiry.

“Most likely carrying one,” I replied. “Along with a copy of the Racing Post and an orchid corsage.”

If a bloke’s going to laugh cruelly at your expense, you might as well supply the weaponry.

“Ah yes, big hat, something floaty, a bottle draped over one shoulder. Can you manage a matching tattoo?”

What is it with men when women gather together socially? What makes them want to reduce the occasion to a bad joke? And why is it that the thought of women getting together at a sporting event makes so many blokes as twitchy as cats in a vet’s neutering queue?

The questions aren’t new and each has always had several answers, ranging from instinctive conviction that any sport is essentially a male domain to genetically formed insistence that wherever two or more women are gathered, there a conversation about men will be. Oh, as if!

But are we bothered? Not a bit of it.

No matter how their genetics might persuade chaps to view our outing, we girls are off to the races. Ladies Night at Carlisle – outings don’t come much better than that. Hats are a maybe, ill-fitting shoes a must and an irresponsible flutter at the Tote a reckless given. Bring it on.

Female gatherings have taken long strides since women used to spike tinned pineapple and cheese cubes on cocktail sticks for a frenzied orgy of Tupperware shopping over a pot of weak coffee.

Not that there was anything wrong with those cheery dos. Seemingly they could be highly amusing affairs – in their own way. And the joy of taking delivery of stacking sandwich boxes and plastic pudding bowls was incomparable... allegedly.

Times change though. Progress dictates fake-tanned legs, strappy frocks, fascinators and carry-home shoes are more necessary now than something seductively see-through from which to pour Corn Flakes. Life’s too short to turn down the chance of a race night for purchase of transparent picnic plates. Particularly when you have advantage of betting tips from one in the know.

On that score, our little band is well served. First among equals is our prime mover, organiser, plotter and gifted gambler. Others talk, she does. Ideas are mooted, she galvanises. And – infuriatingly – when I’m studying gormlessly a form of colours, names and lucky dips, she’ll be winning wads of cash.

Last foray into this sport of kings saw our queen coining it even when the horses had given up. Defeated by Carlisle’s infamous wet bends, they’d ground to a halt, gone for a lie down or whatever racehorses do in an impromptu break from gallop. She counted tenners.

“How did you do that?”

“First and second at Redcar,” she said, knocking back another glass of red. Tell me that doesn’t beat Tupperware.

We’re not alone in looking forward to one of the high spots in Cumbria’s social calendar. There’s been a flurry of retail activity from ladies keen to be best dressed – some of it a touch stressed, apparently.

“Luckily I knew what she meant when she asked for a feathered vibrator,” reported style guru Heather at The Loft. “At least I think I did – she’ll be wearing a black fascinator on the night, anyway.”

Nearly 8,000 attended Carlisle’s Ladies Night last year. Arriving in posh frocks and fascinators, stretch limos and crippling heels, with fake and real tans, clutch bags and betting slips – by any small course’s standards, that was one heck of a turnout for a Monday evening in August.

It was also a whopping testimony to the strength and attraction of a girls’ night out at a racecourse ranked among the best in the country.

According to David Ashforth, writing in the Racing Post, Carlisle is on a par with Epsom, home of the Derby and rated better than Aintree, Newcastle, Ayr and Doncaster. So – might I add – are its ladies, who are without doubt more glorious than Goodwood’s.

Carlisle’s history of horse-racing dates from the 16th century.

Even then where there was racing there was betting, a few winners, more losers and the usual clutch of gormless hopefuls studying form in colours and names; listening hard for guarantees from a horse’s mouth.

This paper’s own top tipster Phil Rostron might have been a possibility, he claiming to be closely familiar with many a nag’s head – or was that IN many a Nag’s Head?

However, his fascinator’s at the dry cleaners and his killer heels are at death’s door. We girls are on our own – which, come to think of it, is precisely the way we like it.