It's not complicated: a nice day out helped by nice people is what we all want at the races

I've spent the best part of a long career writing about needless and pointless restrictions on racecourses.

I suppose it started in earnest the day I was refused entry for wearing one of those nice button-necked, collared woollen jumpers under my rather smart suit, instead of a shirt and tie. To compound the insult, I was then offered a tie from the racecourse's 'lost and found' drawer – an item I described at the time as "looking as though it had last been worn by a tramp in a vomiting contest" – which I wore at half-mast, knot down to the chest, after which I was nodded through approvingly for obeying the rules, despite looking like a complete dog's breakfast.

The worst thing about it was not so much that somebody, somewhere, thought it was a good idea to tell somebody else what to wear on a day out, but that the people charged with enforcing the regulations seemed so numerous and utterly suited to the task, while those who were supposed to be stopping besuited young men from brawling in the bars were thin on the ground.