As someone who always avoids Channel 4 racing, my interest in watching horses hare from one end of a course to another is strictly limited. Also, with an unprecedented ability to never successfully predict the outcome of anything, betting isn't one of my favoured pastimes.

However, the chance to quaff champagne and mingle with the celebs at Ladies' Day at Ascot was too good to turn down and, as the old saying goes, "When in Rome..."

Last Thursday, our party of nine boarded a train at London's Waterloo Station for the hour long ride to Ascot. It was a glorious, sunny afternoon which was a relief for the girls. Heavy showers and blustery winds could, potentially, have ruined the day before it even began.

By the end of proceedings, however, none of the girls had lost a hat or wrecked their hair which made things a lot easier for the lads.

There were six races taking place and the decision was made to have a flutter on the majority, if not all.

It was every man (and dolled-up woman) for themself. No collaboration on bets was allowed - your wins, and losses, were to be your own.

We arrived amid the throngs a good half hour before the day started properly, with the Royal procession at 2pm.

I caught a glimpse of the pomp and circumstance but, to be honest, have even less interest in seeing the Queen than watching little men in bright colours race horses.

Our party soon settled at a position along the final straight which gave us a decent view of the finish line. As we milled about and chatted the first round of drinks were called for.

I was dispatched to the bar and, as a result, missed placing a bet on the first race. Given the run I was soon to embark on, it was most likely a shrewd move.

The races were spaced 35 minutes apart which left ample time to chat and cobble together some sort of plan for victory.

Frantic text messages had been sent out to try and sniff out a decent tip or two.

The majority of text jesters responded with the wise tip of simply keeping your cash in your pocket.

Defeat became my best friend as I lost out on the second and third races but hope wasn't too far away.

Some of the others had scored a few quid here and there and my girlfriend was chuffed to win £11 when Yeats won the Gold Cup. Of course, I smiled politely (and cried inside) as she jumped for joy. How had she managed to pick the winner? "Well, 'Yeats' obviously, after the poet. And the horse is owned by somebody from Donegal."

Reason enough, I suppose. I had gone for 'Coastal Path', which had been favourite until about five minutes before the start of the race.

Finally, a text of note came through from a mate whose uncle is the tipster for a major tabloid newspaper. It was simple in its logic: "Only bet on the favourites at Ascot. So much money is spent there, the horses are that price for a reason.