A band of manicured, pedicured, hair-flicking stiletto wearers entered the biggest race in Galway yesterday, but eavesdropping on the also-rans provided the real sport, writes KATHY SHERIDAN
THE HABITUALLY dapper Michael Lowry saunters past with a glamorous woman and an intriguing group of Middle Eastern gentlemen, but there are more immediate fish to fry. What the Middle Eastern gents made of the mani/pedied, behatted, hair-flicking, stilettoed, bare-shouldered females surging against the barriers of Anthony Ryan’s tent would have been interesting.
The towering heels and skin-scorching wedding ensembles look twice as daft alongside the comfortably attired males who stray into the area and back off like scalded cats. This, says a woman morosely, is women dressing for women. How indescribably daft is that?
In the nearest car park, a gathering of friends from Quin, Co Clare, arrive in their hired coach and demonstrate total sanity by erecting their fancy gazebo next to the bus and picnicking on champagne and delicious home-cooked food. It’s a tradition for the Kellehers, the Kearns, the McSweeneys, the Coopers, the Caseys, the Ryans, the Condrens and McHughs and a husband. They divvy up the duties and do it in style.
Meanwhile, dear God, how to rise – physically, emotionally, philosophically – above the poignant, beseeching female hordes, wearing the imploring “Pick ME! Pick ME!” look of impounded puppies at the best-dressed tent? Inside, Anthony Ryan, the besieged sponsor, tries to spread the blame. There are five judges out there to do the selection, he says. But, Anthony, what would you like to see your best-dressed person wearing?
“We’re looking for elegance, classical . . . none of the gimmickry this year.” Right. But what does that actually mean? “Ideally, I’d like to see someone with their shoulders covered.” Yes! You’ve just ruled out 90 per cent of the imploring puppies.
“And she doesn’t have to be a size eight. You don’t have to be skinny and tall to be beautiful,” he adds endearingly. Hmmm. Let’s hear it for the size 14s-plus then, who never get a look-in. And for Keith Kane, the Co Down hairdresser in the sparkling white suit and diamante pendants, who took the “person” in best-dressed person literally, and made it into the final in his dazzling vintage Moschino suit and crystal cane.
As the judges move around the sunny grounds, causing quiet consternation every time they pluck a hopeful from her huddle of friends – “God, do they know where she got that yoke of an outfit?” exclaims one, not noticeably overjoyed for her disappearing pal – the chosen ones are directed to Anthony’s tent, where a touch of mutiny is in the air. Olivia Duff, whose family runs the Headfort Arms in Co Meath, looks around for somewhere to place a bet.
“They take it for granted that recessionista fashionistas don’t require to have a bet, that we’re so self-obsessed . . . At the moment, I feel like I’m up for sale here, that they’re going to smack a number on my head and auction me off.”
Well, Olivia, you’re all dressed up in your nice hat and dress and you walked in here unaided, so what did you expect?
“I know . . . it’s exactly the same philosophy as turning out a good horse – putting on the hoof oil and plaiting the mane and you’re hoping you’re not going to get stage fright at the last minute.”
So how did she get involved? “I was on my way to the tote and was waylaid,” she says, almost convincingly.
At that moment, Anthony rises to announce that the judges want a last look at the candidates and anyone not interested in competing should move to the back. Not many move, it must be said. The remarks among the commentariat left outside the tent are no tribute to the sisterhood. It’s well known that some of these women are serial best-dressed competitors. One of them brought no fewer than three outfits, each one to be summoned into battle every time a judge did a pass and failed to pick her out.
Attention focuses on a woman in an extraordinary kaleidoscope of colours. “She’s always placed as a finalist,” says one. Really? “Yeah, in agricultural shows.” A stunningly attractive woman in a maxi dress and toning hat is instantly exposed as a “bloody model”, complete with agency name.
“I’d give it to the wan in the purple, but sure she won it at – bleep – show last year. And anyway her make-up is caked. Definitely caked.”
A stunner in a gold jumpsuit and hat – “so big it needs planning permission” – is given the thumbs-up. “But she’ll never win in the trousers. You’ll never win a best-dressed competition in trousers.”
Meanwhile, Crona Esler, a journalist with the Western People who makes the Galway Races an annual outing with her mother, Mary, sits comfortably in the sun and debates the vexed question: what constitutes best dressed versus most appropriately dressed. Crona forecasts that the gold jumpsuit will lose out because of the trousers and she is right. The winner, Mary Therese McDonnell from Santry, back in the capital, does indeed have her shoulders covered, as Anthony desired, in a silk kaftan dress finished with a pink flower hat, and comes away with €12,000 worth of jewellery, cash and vouchers.
Mary Rose McNally, a Longford native practising as a solicitor in Roscommon, is in the running for the best hat prize with her fabulous €400 confection.
Gráinne Cawley should have won with her Bord Snip creation, featuring a scissors and monopoly money. But the prize goes to Sinéad Purcell from Galway. It has to be said the size 10s still look to be in the ascendancy.
