At Henley even the waitresses are posh. "Are yee yeezing thaise tee-chaz?" a girl of peaches-and-cream complexion with dark sleek hair, in black uniform and white apron, asks the people at the next table, gesturing to some empty seats, writes John S Doyle.
We are in the Pimm's tent, getting behind a cooling pint of the eponymous lemonade and spirits mixture. Henley Royal Regatta, on the Thames, upriver from London, is the largest amateur regatta in the world, and the secret of its success lies in that very poshness, it seems. The event is highly regulated, and there are a number of layers to it.
The general public can come along and watch for no charge; that is the outer layer. The inner layer is the Stewards' Enclosure. This is set along the part of the river where the races finish, and so there is always some excitement. The enclosure is for members and their guests. There are three grandstands, tents for lunch and tea, and a number of bars, including one devoted to champagne and another to Pimm's. There are rows of green deckchairs set out along the river, labelled "HRR".
The dress code here is strict. "Gentlemen are required to wear lounge suits, or jackets or blazers with flannels, and a tie or cravat. Ladies are required to wear dresses or suits with a hemline below the knee and will not be admitted wearing divided skirts, culottes or trousers of any kind." The use of mobile phones is prohibited, as are children under 10.
In between these two layers is the Regatta Enclosure, open to non-members who would like to "sample the unique atmosphere". It costs £16 (a guest would pay £39 in the other enclosure), and there is no dress code, but "many people enjoy entering into the spirit of the occasion".
This enclosure has its own tents and bars, and a stand (though it's not covered). The public area, being another step down, has no stand at all. The attraction of the Regatta Enclosure is that "athletes taking part" use it "extensively".
In Stewards', the ladies are dressed up, and many wear hats, but the real finery on show is worn by the old boys in their brightly coloured blazers. They come in stripes of the most garish hue, pinks and oranges, green and gold, and there is a great variety of braid on the lapels. A chap wearing a buff blazer in a camouflage design is pointed out as an army man. Some of the blazers are decrepit and torn, threadbare; these seem to be especially prized. There are boaters, and a lot of battered Panama hats. Best of all is the old schoolboy-type cap, with peak. The umpires wear these too, as they stand in the bow of their fine long boats, hands behind their backs, pursuing the racers.
The men in caps look like schoolboys, not only because of the old- fashioned cut of the blazers and their tight fit, and the archaic headgear, but also because of the glee in their faces. This is sport. And the racing really is most impressive: such speed and precision. The American Ivy League colleges do well.
The inner circle at Henley may no longer be members of ruling class; they may not even have the most money. But they know how to organise an event. It all works beautifully. Nobody takes off their jacket. Nobody uses a mobile phone. No babies cry, because they aren't allowed in. There are no broken glasses, no obvious drunkenness. Nobody watches England getting beaten by Portugal in the World Cup, because there is no television; everyone is there for the rowing.
I stand by the riverbank, near the fence separating us from the mere Regatta Enclosure. To my left, a lady is sitting with her feet in the water. My wife thinks this is a good idea so she sits down beside her and does likewise. A lady sitting to my right says, "That looks awfully tempting". She takes off her shoes and paddles. The gentleman on her far side and I smile at each other and at the vagaries of our ladies. We soldier on, standing, boiled in our collars and ties. Someone has to set an example. Come and join us, say the ladies, but we stay put.
But then the man says: "Ya can't remove ya jacket in Stewards', but it doesn't say anything about removing ya SHOES!" So he takes off his and I take off mine and our feet fizz as they slide into the Thames. As I look over, trying to identify the crest on his blazer, I notice he has a monocle dangling from a cord.
He has a boater too, lying beside him on the grass. My own headgear is a cross between tweed cap and straw hat - an elaborately plaited job that I imagine a sport wears, the kind of fellow who cruises along the Riviera in his Facel Vega, winking at the girls. Maybe not.
As we sit in the stand, I take off the cap to mop my brow and place it on my knee. A woman with protruding teeth turns round, stares at my cap, then pokes at it. "Quite chawming!" she says. I take it, in a post-colonial kind of way, as a compliment.