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Debbie Leigh: A nice bit of posh
WHEN is comes to being posh, surely it doesn't come much posher than emailing a pal to ask "dahling, what does one wear to the polo?"
I guess maybe if I'd got my butler to write the note then jump in my private jet to deliver it, that would be a smidgen more upmarket but you catch my drift, polo = posh.
However, probably the fact that I had to ask what to wear gives away my novice status, otherwise I would have known it was all about the Hunter wellies, Barbour jackets, flowery frocks and blonde highlights.
Add in the fact that my friend replied with "yay, some non-toffs to hang out with" and I think it's clear I'm not going to be giving Tara Palmer-Tomkinson a run for her money any time soon.
Still, according to one national newspaper I do actually qualify as one of the pony-riding, champagne-swigging, caviar-scoffing toffsters – if you trust their (rather basic) posh test.
Just to be clear, you only have to answer yes to three or more of the questions to be lumbered with the decidedly unappealing "posh" tag.
And as one of those questions is "do you eat hummus?" it's easy to see how an ordinary Leeds lass, who drives a clapped-out Fiesta, could soon notch up three yeses.
I mean, hummus might have been one for the bourgeoisie around 20 years ago but surely it's almost as common as peanut butter these days?
(I grew up on salmon paste sarnies, corned beef butties and Angel Delight, does that now count for nothing?)
Likewise, if you know what Prosecco is, or drink Earl Grey tea, you take two more steps towards a label many of us will always associate with Tim Nice-but-Dim.
Throw in a love of horses and a tendency to greet friends with a kiss on both cheeks and I was a goner – officially posh, despite an accent which (thankfully) means I say bath, not "barth", and the fact that, to me, supper means cereal or a slice of toast before bed – never my evening meal.
But just as I was pooh-poohing the whole posh palaver, I was invited to a polo tournament at the White Rose Polo Club, East Yorkshire, to watch some of the region's finest players in action.
Just in case I was in any doubt of my new-found class mobility, by proxy, I discovered my mate was not only club member – he had his own polo team. What ho! Rather!
And if the only time this toff sport has registered on your radar was when Katie Price reportedly got refused entry to Cartier Polo a few years ago for being a "chav" – let me explain that just your polo-playing outfit alone apparently sets you back around 1,000.
Oh yeah, and each player needs not just one polo pony – but two.
Personally, my miniscule understanding of the game stemmed purely from Jilly Cooper's bonkbuster Polo, featuring a ravishing cast of unforgettable characters like loveable cad Rupert Campbell Black.
Excited
So I was understandably excited at the prospect of getting a closer look at this exclusive, sexy, moneyed world.
Sadly Saturday's event had slightly less to offer in terms of totty but the entertainment was terribly good – to coin rather a "rah" phrase.
The commentator was unintentionally hilarious, seriously saying things like "tally-ho"and "prime poloing" as well lots of innuendo-laden riding expressions which had us ruffians tittering like naughty school kids from the sidelines.
I think it's safe to say 98 per cent of the people there would have passed any posh test with flying colours – and been thoroughly proud of it too.
Do you drive a 4x4?
Tick.
With personalised number plate? Tick.
When you think summer, do you think Pimms?
Tick.
When you laugh, is it usually followed by a distinctly horsey snort?
Tick.
Does your picnic hamper contain real crockery rather than paper plates, plus smoked salmon, artichokes, asparagus, Roquefort and Veuve Clicquot?
Ahem, well, yes it did actually – but I had nothing to do with that (other than happily scoffing the contents).
And you can hardly turn up to the polo with a shopping bag full of scotch eggs, crisps and fizzy pop, can you now?
Despite our swanky hamper, I like to think we still flew the flag for the ordinary non polo-playing public with our wildly enthusiastic, noisy responses every time our mate hit the ball, got a mention from the commentator or got within 100 yards of the goal.
I'm not sure the usual crowd are used to spectators cheering and squealing like they're at the World Cup or a theme park.
Still, they should count themselves lucky we couldn't get our hands on a couple of vuvuzelas to really crank things up.
I accept it's all too easy to knock the upper crust, after all being a toff is generally associated with being stuck-up and born into money with no concept of its value, so when it comes to tags it's about as desirable as "wag".
But after a fun-packed day in the life of a cucumber-sandwich munching, pony-riding trumpet-blower, I can't help thinking, maybe being posh wouldn't be all that bad after all.
There's a simple solution really.
Yes to the lifestyle – no to the label.
debbie.leigh@ypn.co.uk
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Sunday 12 February 2012
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