The Scottish Grand National Festival is Decadent and Depraved

Red-faced men in fancy dress dig madly in their sporrans for bills to wave in my face. 'Give me three pints of lager, love, a lager tops, and two lager shandys.'

Valium-infused women in sequins and rhinestone incrusted sandals hobble to the bar, requesting, in their best impressions of a posh accent, 'one vodka with lemonade, one vodka with blackcurrant and lemonade, two gin and tonics, one vodka soda and lime, one vodka lemon and lime, a brandy and lemonade . . . do you have any white wine?' while the feathers adorning their disheveled hair give them the appearance of so many poorly-plucked hens.

Two men lock arms to legs and tumble across the carpeted floor, knocking their heads on the beams.

A group of men in kilts and women who have long-since kicked off their shoes put their arms around shoulders and sing along to the band covering 'Wonderwall' at the top of their lungs, before toddling rapidly back to the bar for another drink.

Pods of women sans shoes, with dresses half-unzipped, are strewn across the carpeted expanse, clutching vodka mixers and going on about sales on the high street, as their makeup runs in horror from their faces and the feathers do a desperate attempt to fly off their heads.

'This is a fucking freak show.'

It is a big race day at Ayr Racecourse. The ponies are running. The Scottish Grand National Festival is decadent and depraved.