Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Place on Starboard Hold (POSH)



I am a fan of the Races, the formula one and basically love any competitive sport. I especially enjoy a flutter on the Gee-Gees (Horse Racing), or even betting two flies climbing a wall. A group of friends and I attended the Portsea Polo recently at Point Nepean on one of the few beautiful days this summer. If ever there was a gathering of the beautiful, the privileged, the fit and the well dressed, this was it. A plethora of pastels, peaches, a bouquet of botox, a decadent feast of Dolce, a glut of Gabana, a surplus of Sass and Bide, the odd prancing pony and the occasional horse. There were bold stripes, outrageous crevattes, a BMWX5 Diesel boot load of hair product, a regatta load of Ralf Lauren and a third world countries deficit worth of Prada walking around sipping bubbles and uploading photos of themselves in real time to social sites where others can 'Like' the socially distinctive trophies of success.

As I walked past the helipad, to accommodate those with the coin to allow a lack of tolerance for taxis or travel time, I asked a few random people how many Chukkas or periods there were in a game. Not one person could tell me any details about the game. I guess it has become a largely social event, a lot like the Spring Racing Carnival. I did eventually meet a person who could word me up on the intricacies of the sport. An immense amount of skill displayed by the players. To be able to position a horse beside a small heavy ball, and at speed, hit it behind you with a flick of the wrist, on the half volley is very impressive. The horses are changed at each break, and usually the game is free of serious incidents, however on this day a beautiful horse went down, breaking a leg. This is a fatal wound for a horse and the players and officials moved the animal into a trailer. "He's off to the vet," a member of the crowd commented. I imagine the same number of people who were unaware of the number of chukkas in a game would also be unaware that this beautiful animal was to be destroyed shortly.

At half time a race was announced, interrupting my cigarette, corona and observation of the rampant totty on parade. At that point I could not imagine anything that would convince me to participate in the contest. The announcement of the prize of a new range rover sport quickly changed my tune from "the best things in life are free" to "If I was a rich man, da da di da da di dum." Salivating, while contemplating cream Italian leather interiors I took my place on the line. Twelve champagne bottles lined across the field, one unknown bottle held the magical ticket that would win me the Rover. There was no gun to signal the start of the inebriated sprint, and I missed the start, I was also laden down with four coronas and a smoking habit, and ten years on the field. I feared one of the twenty-one year olds would best me. And so they did, hurdling those that had tripped, bounding over the fallen without a thought, one goal resinated with them, “If I can win the Range Rover Sport and will no longer have borrow daddy’s Jag or mummies X5 Diesel when I go skiing.”

Giddy, sunkist and full to the brim with giggles, bubbles, sangria, tia Maria, Bordeaux, château, merlot, and well and truly sponsored by Stella Artios, we moved towards the bus queue home.

When you have four hundred people queuing for a bus, all having have gone though life privileged and being told they are beautiful and special, a funny thing happens. Everyone believed they deserved to be at the front. An amazing tumbling sea of queue jumping, jostling and cajoling ensued. Alcohol fuelled chest beating was not uncommon, and some of the accents and class, or lack there of, shone there true colours, any camouflage washed away along with the fake tan, with drowned in social lubricant.

All carrying a silver spoon in a back pocket that they cut their first tooth on, the crowd migrated back to the houses lining the bay and to the private schools. I caught the bus, which alas did not have an Italian cream leather interior.

Jonathan