Off to the polo

Sunday was an extravaganza of sorts. Excited by the prospects of wearing pashminas and watching expensive horses gallop across the pitch after an absurdly small ball, we went to the Barclay's Wealth polo match. Bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm, we all were up with sun and ready to make a day of it. None of us knew a damn thing about polo, but we were ready to learn a thing or two about this high society sport. As an art historian, I am pretty in tune with this sort of British student. Generally, they sit on the right side of the classroom, making loud and rude comments about their weekends as they receive calls on their Prada mobile phones. (yes, Prada has a new razor phone that's quite slick and if you're anyone important, you'll be getting one.) What better way to bond with my class than to attempt assimilation? We packed our picnic basket, put on our pearls, and readied for our aristocratic outing.


Our teak wood hamper of Dom, caviar, and St. Agur must have been switched before our arrival. In its stead was a tesco bag containing onion rings, value brie, tesco brand rum. But this group of easy going gals were not dissuaded from the Sunday's festivities. We set up camp and watched the match.

This group of expatriates were not the only ones that didn't know a damn thing about polo. Many of the players were beginners. Their plan of attack usually being the "equine pile", not unlike a pig pile. Irritated horses in a big clump of horse flesh in the center of the field as young players swing and miss at the ball. But as an audience, we offered our support. Rather than rooting for the players that didn't have a clue, we picked our favorite horses that actually looked like they knew what the F was going on. My personal favorite was a sassy grey called Lizzie. That kid could really make tracks. I think she could even make me look like I knew the sport, even after imbibing one too many Dark and Stormy's.

..............And while the riders were sussing out how to hit the ball (props to them for trying), we kept the drinks coming. As I said before, this day was a cultural exchange. The Brits had been drinking since 11:00 when they arrived. We were only doing our best to keep up.

Some of the players had imported their steeds from Argentina, also a place where much polo is played. We too brought imports. The lovely North Carolina native and her Maryland(ish?) flatmate had their solo cups shipped in just for the occasion.



Rachel was the only member of the group with a genuine posh accent. We tried to emulate her while she did her best to pick on us.

Here's an up close and personal. Smell the sweat?

Here I am, receiving a call on the "Hef Phone". That blond bombshell from Ashville lent me her gem encrusted phone as my mobile decided to do a swan dive into my rum and ginger beer. My reaction was less than cat-like. Since Sunday I've spent over 5 quid dialing '99999' and customer service. (Rather, my phone likes to make mystery calls). Greeaat.

Lauren, dining on mini sandwiches. Notice the puffy vest and matching scarf. Excellent land aristocrat guise Ms. Northup. She'll be fox hunting later.

All in all, it was a lovely Sunday outing. But my the day's end, the suture between the Americans and the Yas was becoming noticeable. That Tiffany necklace only brought me so far, the blonde locks of my companions no longer adequate cover. The Lumsden ladies knew that we were impostors. With the rum running low and the Doritos devoured, it was time to go. We hailed a cab a headed back to the comfort of our South Castle Street apartment.