Ah, the main season of the Sport of Kings is upon us again. A regal time you’ll agree: when women across the nation don bizarre headgear, get drunk on champagne, totter into the street, and try to hail taxis with their high heels in their hands.

Yes, the Sport of Kings, where finely tuned thoroughbred horses compete in stylish sporting events called the Le Pine Funerals Handicap, the Drink Driving – Say No Stakes, the Greg Bottomley Plumbing Services Handicap, and the Pizza Pasta Schnitzel Plate. Majestic, or what?

Speaking of nobility, when I was a cadet journalist typing up the race results, snobbish newspaper style insisted that owners were granted a “Mr” and a first and surname (as in “Mr Frank Packer”), but trainers and jockeys only achieved an initial (as in “T. Smith” and “G. Moore”).

At this stage I should say that I won the princely sum of $13 ($10 each way on Bernie of Babylon) in the XXXX Gold Lismore Cup recently. Bernie, selected purely because his and his race’s name matched the theme of this column, came a fading second after leading all the way.

I’m glad I stuck with Bernie of Babylon and XXXX Gold though because my other fancies that race day: Mile High Madam (rather risqué, I thought) in the North Coast Petroleum Handicap, and Quackerina in the Herne’s Freight Service Maiden Handicap, came nowhere.

To be fair, dopey names are probably unavoidable given that naming a racehorse can be far more difficult than, say, naming a newborn baby, where trying to combine the names of the child’s sire and dam doesn’t normally apply. Or having to wait until your child is 25 before you can use a name that’s been chosen once before

Strict guidelines allegedly apply with horses. The Registrar of Racehorses wishes it to be known that she “considers very seriously what is publicly acceptable, and the name of the racehorse should not create controversy nor bring the racing industry into disrepute.”

The Registrar, Judy Stevenson, says she finds “unacceptable” names of over 18 letters, brand and company names, first name and surname combinations, names that are suggestive, scandalous, vulgar or obscene, or names that may be offensive or humiliating to a specific individual or religious, political or ethnic group.

In which case I suggest the Registrar gets out more, because a few dodgy ones have slipped through the cracks over the years, though not necessarily on her watch. Some recent Australian ones: Super Shag, Smut, Sweet Jugs, Perfect Cleavage, Porn Queen, Dirty Weekend, Don’t Come Yet, Don’t Tell the Wife, Silent But Deadly, Knickers In a Knot and, an early favourite, Richard Cranium.

Not that a sense of humour isn’t welcome. Who could resist an each way bet on an Aussie stayer named Tom Likes Beetroot, The Dingo Dunnit, A Horse Called Man, Beer Belly Bob, Let Her Rip Hughie, Fax Me Back Jack, Amanda Huggenkiss, the New Zealand trier Waikikamukau (Why Kick a Moo Cow), or the gelding called Altered Boy?

Despite the registration rules, in the nudge-nudge-wink-wink, unreconstructed macho world of horse racing (yes, there was a horse called Nujnujwinkwink), smutty innuendo always seems worth trying on. Hence these racehorse names that have slipped past the US Jockey Club in the past 20 years: Spank It, Date More Minors, Bodacious Tatas, Sexual Harassment, Wrecked Em, Hoochiecoochimama, Panty Raid, Thong or Panties, and Boxers or Briefs.

American horse owners, bless them, are on a constant quest to give race callers a hard time, from the recent Onoitsmymotherinlaw, to Doremifasolatido, Arrrrrrrr and the wonderfully cruel–to-callers, Flat Fleet Feet, all of which passed the registrar. As did the notorious English horse, Hoof Hearted.

In such cases (“Flat Fleet Feet is forcing forward!”) listening to the races suddenly has great entertainment value far beyond the flutter. As does the strange headgear that women have taken to wearing whenever horse races and champagne are in close conjunction.

No longer hats, but peculiar semi-hats, these are compulsory not only at the race meetings themselves but even in liquor-licensed premises where women gather thousands of kilometres from the actual event.

Not being the slightest bit knowledgeable about Fashions in the Field, I was trying the other day to remember the name of this peculiar form of horse-race millinery. Wasn’t it the Titivator? That seemed to ring a bell. The Tantaliser? The Tittilator? Maybe the Perpetrator? The Terminator? The Benefactor? The Interrogator? Or was it the Vindicator? The Fornicator?

Oh yes, the Fascinator. But from the look of those comatose punters in the Melbourne Cup car park at 5 p.m., the Defibrillator would be more appropriate.

Robert Drewe’s most recent books The Local Wildlife and Swimming to the Moon are on sale here: penguin.com.au

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