Acouple of weeks ago, my wife Stacey and I were invited to a polo match. From the little I had seen in the occasional social page in Hello, I imagined that it would be packed with Euro Trash and D-list celebs. I was going to fit right in. I had also read the story about Jordan not being allowed into some posh polo tent because she was too common. I was naturally curious to see who did make the grade. I asked Stacey whether she fancied it. I need not have bothered – she spends long lunches in local pubs mentally relieving hunky Argentine players of their tight jodhpurs. There is nothing she likes better than an opportunity to dress up and get out of "mum" duties and she was off to the hairdresser before I could say, "Fancy a chukka?"
The day duly arrived and we got there bang on time. My beloved Jag was clearly deemed an embarrassment as it was ushered into a little side field for "Cars That Aren't Aston Martins". I made a mental note to get rid of the Jag – it was common, like Jordan, it simply had to go.
We had little badges we hung from our buttonholes that allowed us access to the inner sanctum where men in white blazers quaffed free champagne with leggy Sloanes. Well, the first bunch we saw were – there were also quite a few who would surely have not passed the Jordan test
We all stood around jaw-jawing until a Mittel-European oompah band struck up some tune that announced the impending arrival of a low-flying plane that everyone was very excited about. Sure enough, two minutes later a small jet flew so low over the field that Sloane hairdos were severely ruffled. There did not seem to be much point in this but there is a strong military connection to the game so it must be the equivalent of boys in fast cars pulling handbrakes in front of their contemporaries on Clacton seafront. After this we were ushered into a very hot tent where we queued up for plates of coronation chicken and potato salad. Jordan did not miss much in the culinary stakes.
Once the meal was over several horsey women stood up and waffled on about how wonderful all this was and how we were now to have an auction to raise money for wounded British soldiers. This duly began and we were forced to sit in the stifling heat of the canvas for what seemed like hours as the lots were auctioned off. Almost all of them seemed to involve Laurence Llewelyn Bowen. He had recently moved into the area and successfully taken over Cirencester in an overnight coup. I entered the town one morning to find every shop window festooned with a photograph of "LLB" shaking hands with a startled looking shopkeeper. The lots rolled on: "What am I bid for tea for two with LLB and his family?"
"Lot 36 ... a day out exploring churches with LLB as your guide."
"Who wants to start the bidding at £50 for the opportunity of LLB coming round to your home and prancing around in your wife's underwear?" OK, OK, I made the last one up but I'm sure it could be arranged for a fee should you so desire it...
Finally, we were allowed to take our seats to watch the polo. It is all men in tight pants on horses whacking a ball about with big mallets. It's quite exciting – for about five minutes and then you start to try and get a better look down the ample cleavage of the bubbly blonde sitting two rows in front of you. Just as I managed to get a premium vantage point everybody got up and ran on to the field. What was this – a pitch invasion? No, we were simply between chukkas and we all had to wander about and stamp on the divots. As we were returning to the stands, Stacey and I looked at each other and nodded – three minutes later we were safely ensconced in the Jag and on our way home chortling heartily about the day's events. Don't worry, Jordan – you didn't miss much.
This is no way for decent folk to dress in public
I play golf quite a lot and have got used to donning the tasteless clothes that seem to be de rigueur if you play the game. Basically, the rule is: if it looks ludicrous in the real world, you will be fine on the fairway.
That's fine if you like to hang about your club bedecked in plaid and checkers with like-minded individuals. Personally, I don't. I like to play a round and then head to the pub for lunch. This is a problem. What can look fine in the clubhouse looks positively insane in public. Just the other morning I had to put up with a table of ignorants pointing and laughing as though they were on a visit to Bedlam. Next time I am going to take my clubs into the pub with me to make the point clear. Toad in the hole, please...
Jonny, it's time to try something gentler...
Jonny Wilkinson is injured again. Thrilled as I am by his new surfer dude hairstyle and spiritual enlightenment, shouldn't he think of taking up another sport? Great Britain currently has no Greco-Roman wrestlers for 2012...Reuse content