The Grand National horse race took place last weekend in England and apart from what I heard about it, being in the horse racing community myself, I paid little attention to the event.

That is until I saw the pictures of their “Ladies day”, a pathetic mix of binge drinking, lower tier women thinking that they are 10s and a total absence of self-restraint and public decency.

It takes place at Aintree Racecourse every year in Liverpool, probably the vainest city in the UK, with more fake tan use and sun tanning salons than anywhere else in the country. So it already does not start too well.

The 2017 Ladies Day of the Grand National, gents:


“Oi, Keith! Give us a hand with those, will ya?”


One must know when the party is over.


The “no bra + nascent beer gut” combo


“Better fix my makeup before I sit in someone’s piss”


The lifeless abyss and cold emptiness of the thousand cock stare



“It says here that it is because of our genetics”



I am at a loss for words



Let’s destroy those healthy eggs and that nice, homely face





You go, grrrrl!


Stay classy.





England’s favourite feminine footwear after the first hundred yards


Thousand cock stare: Exhibit 2


Kebab Woman, the worst superhero of our time


Probably wondering why those horses are running in circles


Every inch of cleavage is needed to distract from “The Chin”


Personal champagne bottle : eliminate the middle man and be classy on the cheap




The Anglo plague of hen dos


Tramp stamp and ankle tattoo: read the warning signs


They should breathalyse them before letting anyone near the horses






Do not trip or we are all doomed.


Posing in rubbish. Says it all.



Six more or six less seeing it, who cares?


Who needs a glass when you have class?



Failed feminism at its finest

You would expect that with the price of the entrance (tickets around 25 £ quickly sell out so forty quid is the minimum to get in), the tradition of dressing well for the event and the price of the drinks would spare you the sight of the rabble.

But they found the trick, dividing a 70 £ bottle of champagne between four or five female cheap skates and sneaking drinks in. A few hours later the women, rarely under thirty, are rolling drunk in the grass and pissing everywhere when they don’t stumble away after abandoning their shoes.

A full-frontal display of wrinkled eyes, ankle tattoos and boob jobs that are the only way their saggy tits stay parallel to the ground. Droves of lower 6s and 7s bounce around, tarted up as if they were about to be auctioned to some fat-fetish brothel in downtown Istanbul.

This is what happens when you tell women that they can drink freely, dress the way they want and still be princesses. As soon as you give women their own money and no man is here to keep them in line, debauchery ensues. The Ladies Day is the closest thing a pump and dump and strong, independent women convention would look like.

But with thousands and thousands of attendees, it could not be ALL bad:

Note that this was only a fraction of the girls present BEFORE the races started.

On their side, the lads still seem to have a good time. Dressed well, they bond with friends while laughing at silly slags and might even be able to secure a random gobby behind the portaloos between the fourth and the fifth race.

A visible change

The early days of the Grand National

The world of races used to be classy when women only had access to it under the supervision of their men. The race and meeting friends were the sole focus. Now both sexes enter separately and the only goal is getting blind drunk and taking selfies while dressed in a forty pound pink dress while sprawled in the mud among empty bottles.

The sad part is that white knight MSM media celebrates that decadence with titles like “Our Girls Are Doing Us Proud” and “Liverpool, Capital Of Style” while being delusional on the objective value of these women. Probably the only time of the year their beta writers see female underwear. Nothing exists in our society to chastise them for being so indecent

The race course reflects the decline of civilisation

The Queen at the Gold Cup… and the rest

Those women ruining a sport that symbolised high standards and class in Britain is just another symptom of modern feminism tainting everything it touches. Some men will say that skanks will be skanks, whether you doll them up and put them in a classy environment or not.

But Liverpool is not the only demonstration of that decline. One just has to take a look at the pictures of low SMW women showing their tits at every Kentucky Derby or drunk slags falling in the flower beds after every Melbourne Cup, Derby Stakes or Ascot to see a common pattern.

The Ascot Gold Cup is where you can observe both ends of the spectrum with the Queen of England greeting the crowd in one tribune while at the other end of the racecourse, Kelly pukes her guts out in a purse after her ninth glass of plonk.

This was the Melbourne Cup in the early 1960s:

The Melbourne Cup in the late seventies and 1982:

The Melbourne Cup now:

We can observe it going downhill right after the sexual revolution at the end of the sixties. The same happened to the Kentucky Derby:

It is a good barometer to realise the extent of today’s “Overton Window of dressing like a slut”, but here no one objects or kicks you out for dressing like a prostitute.

Wherever you let modern Western women run free, they will ruin the place just like any English street on a weekend night, spewing between two bins and passing out on the first bench they find.

Un des derniers bastions de la classe à l’occidentale?

I am not a saint and had my share of piss-ups and falling in hedgerows during my student days. But I always kept it on campus without ruining other people’s day-out or putting on a suit on and pretend that I was the dog’s bollocks while having photographers immortalising my crotch. And that stayed in my twenties.

I bet these guys don’t hear much about the evils of patriarchy

It is a parody to let bush pigs and tattooed post-Wall spinsters in on the pretext that they put heels and hats on but still behave like forest animals. Putting fancy hats on plebs do not turn them into acceptable people.

One can wonder if races would be a good place to game. I would agree but only during the regular races and with access to the more restricted areas of the racecourse. Also, as Aintree shows it, the bulk of the quality is very low compared to the few attractive girls and the competition is high. I would also not recommend those days as the quiet spots are rare (though their shame threshold is high) and STDs are rampant in the general public’s enclosure.

Read More: The Death Of Ladies Night In America