No doubt, gatherers at Cape Town's J&B Met have spent the last week cutting up pieces of household cardboard in order to fashion themselves up an extravaganza for the big day. Cover it with colourful material and voila! artistry a la tete that makes sipping on that complimentary glass of bubbly that much more glamorous.

Much like the Durban July, but rather, filled with those who?d take a Steenberg Chardonnay over Autumn Harvest Crackling, the Met (and events like it) amaze me at their classy yet unabashed horsy-related sex racing, beg pardon, horse racing.

I can hear it now: the commentator, excitedly exclaiming at the racey colours in the tents... never mind those long-legged, ample-thighed beauties that went on to kick some Pocket Power arse on the race-track.

And just as an aside, congratulations to our horsey sisters who won the main race and stopped dear old Pocket Power from winning his fourth Met in a row.

I wonder just how many of the two-legged babes decked out in their own coloured silks and watching from the sidelines even knew who won? They should be proud though ? three time Met winner, Pocket Power, was beaten by his own full-blood sister, River Jetez, and rival racer, Mother Russia, yet another filly. He was left eating their dust in third place.

Now I'd say that's girl power.

No matter your creed, people come right at these events. The glamour, the colour, not to mention the heart-stopping races (if you care to watch) are enough to get anyone's blood running hot through their veins ? even if they are wearing a fruit basket on their heads. (Call Carmen Miranda, someone stole her headgear!)

It really comes down to science. When you don't have the package, you might as well lean on what you do have: colour. Peacocks don't have large penises, but they have plumes. And let's be honest, the breath-taking fan of colour that any self-respecting male peacock displays when he does want to make babies, is pretty effective. The lady peacock in question would have to be stark raving mad (and blind) not to notice.

Colour attracts. He who wears khaki all day long won't get laid as much as he who wears that pink shirt. Fact.

Even if you swear that you?ll never take home a man in a pink shirt, it will happen eventually. 'Peacocking' has been a phenomenon for as long as warm-blooded creatures have walked the earth.

Of course, you have to make sure that you out-peacock the other rising plumes amongst you. The Met is filled to the rafters with swanning, beautiful peacockesses, complete with Caribbean Tans and sleek hairdos, and you've got to show 'em that you know how to show your own colours.

Horse racing brings out a competitive streak in everyone, so it's vital that you step up to the plate and preen yourself into a shiny, colourful sex-thing. If you can?t take the heat, you might as well stay at home and watch Antique Roadshow. Opting out of the peacock parade by wearing taupe would mean you're opting out of the booty-call circle.

Of course, with many colours comes great responsibility. Peacocking has to be practical. I peacocked my way around the Durban July one year wearing a cerise boob tube tutu which kept on falling down. Eventually ? and not on purpose ? I walked through a vat of horse by-product in order to use the Porta-Loos. Not a good look, especially against a backdrop of white drapes in the Miller tent.

It's a dangerous world out there and you've got to protect your tutti-fruiti hat for all its worth.