I’ve attempted to play polo a few times, but on each occasion I quickly came to the conclusion I’m much, much better at spectating. I’m particularly good when I have a glass of fizz in hand.
I’m a fairly competent rider, we shall ignore the incident in Spain where I was head-butted by the horse, sending me to hospital in need of stitches to my chin, but my experience of trying to wield a mallet, hit a ball and negotiate other ponies, is simply too much for me to juggle. I’ll leave it to the professionals. Last weekend I grabbed my bestie Han and we made our way down to the Hurlingham Club for Chesterton’s Polo in the Park. I’ve been to the event for the past couple of years and it’s always a nice way to kick off the summer season. I threw on a white skater dress from here (Han wore a printed cape number from here ) and wedges were the only viable option – I didn’t want to spend my day sinking into the grass.
We arrived to glorious sunshine and headed straight to the Mahiki VIP area to meet friends – those pina colada pineapples don’t drink themselves.
We were right next to the field, close enough to get smacked in the face by a flying polo ball (and despite the warning signs it did happen to one poor punter) so we had the perfect spot to watch the action on the field. Content with our lot we stayed, we cheered and we drank.
At half time Hannah and I made our way onto the grass with the masses for a spot of “divot stomping”.
We were a little late off the mark and by the time we got there very few divots remained. Not wanting to look idle, we sort of pretended, kicking about bits of grass haphazardly.
I’m pretty sure it’s all about looking the part at the polo anyway, I draw your attention to the snap of two men wearing the seemingly obligatory red chinos. In our defence we were a little tipsy, plus, we weren’t the only ones faking it, one couple approached us and asked if I could take a picture of their faux divot stomping. It’s all the rage.
I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, well, you know apart from the prostitute bit. And the awful hat. Plus there was definitely no Richard Gere type circa 1985 either, sadly.
It was time for sustinence and we found it at Bleecker Street Burger. One deliciously dirty burger later (which I wolfed down so quickly I didn’t have time to snap it) and we mosied back to our table to catch the final minutes of the polo action and to watch Team Abu Dhabi storm to victory.
It might have been the first polo event of the summer but it looks like it won’t be the last, particularly if Andrea has anything to do with it.
“How was the polo?” she enquired, before adding: “I love the polo so much, let’s get you an invite to another one this season and you can take me too, OK?”