They are traipsing along the approach road to Ballybrit racecourse. They look like refugees from a society wedding, togged out to the nines. They bear no resemblance to any preconceived image of race-goers, but then the Galway Races on Ladies Day is no place to rely on preconceived notions. For anybody new to this racing lark, it is a sight to behold.

Everybody looks as if they have been scrubbed and buffed within an inch of their lives before their attire was stapled onto bodies dripping with fake tan. And that's just the men.

Every woman in sight is wearing a hat, or what is believed to pass for a hat. Some of those on display look like hair extensions which were subjected to a zap too many on the sun bed. Others are dangerous weapons. Others look for all the world as if they were salvaged from the reeds at the shore of Galway Bay. But the best of all is the flying saucer, a hat with no crown. To the sartorially ignorant this object appears redundant in protecting from sun, rain or baldness, allegedly the point of a hat.

So it goes at the races. When the bubble was being blown to blazes, the Galway Races was regarded as the place to be, a zone where the rarefied air smelt of success and prosperity. The focal point – allegedly, as this reporter was never let next or near the place during the halcyon days – was the Fianna Fáil tent.

Its absence on Thursday was one of the few signs that the country is in recession. Apparently, there used to be a whole tented city to cater for the corporate world, but it has all gone the way of the bubble wealth.

They should place a stone in the spot where the renowned tent was formerly pitched. In years to come, when every child in the land will regard Nama as an incarnation of the bogeyman, parents will be able to point out the Celtic Tiger's Garden of Eden. Therein, the arse was blown out of the bubble.

There are no Fianna Fáil honchos in attendance on Ladies Day. If any developers are still getting out of bed, they didn't have the neck to show up either. There was a sighting of Michael Lowry, but who cares about him anymore?

Numbers are down. Receipts are down, but spirits are still up once the sun is shining.

Did you know that diamonds are a big hit at this race meeting? There are two shops selling diamonds, but through traffic is only fair to middling this year.

At the tote, there is a large legend to entice you in. "Play the tote jackpot, Win a €12,000 diamond necklace." All very well, but you can't eat diamonds in these straitened times.

Big screens around the compound relay what is happening out on the racetrack, for those who can't be bothered elbowing their way out front. Every so often the big screens light up with that hyperactive guy from TV, Baz something or other, who is tipped to be the next Hector. (This recession is getting worse by the minute).

Baz appears on screen, beckoning viewers to follow him. "What does Baz want?" the screen says. "He want you to join him in the Guinness and Oyster tent." Ask not what Baz wants, but what you want to do to Baz.

Back among the hats, there is judging to be done. The judging tent has a capacity of only 100, so hundreds more totter around outside on high heels.

One woman has abandoned her shoes and is negotiating a choice beef roll, a barefoot contessa lashing into prime sirloin.

Sometime after 3.30pm word seeps out. We have a winner. The best-dressed lady and the best hat smile for the cameras, and are led off to the parade ring to be paraded. They are awarded and applauded as horses pass by, en route to the next race.

Amidst all the gardens and flowers that are growing on female heads, a few serious-looking men and women loiter around the parade ring. They look at the horses for signs of greatness, or at least form. They are in situ as a reminder that the races are about races. Or at least they once were.

Outside, the dazed and confused reporter is leaving just before the rush. A man approaches with a business card. The card is an invitation to attend the "Le Paradis Club" in the city, a gentleman's club which is advertised as an exotic dancing venue. The card coos that: "Inside every good girl is a bad girl". There is no information on whether the good or bad girls deck out in hats.