Only Fools And Horses?

Will polo now be an integral part of the summer schedule after the success of the inaugural World Series tournament at Hurlingham Park?

If you're going to organise a polo event in London then there's no more apt a venue than Fulham's affluent Hurlingham Club - which is precisely what the World Polo Association did one windy weekend this June.

Aimed at bringing polo to the people, the three-day World Series event showcased a more accessible version of the sport, mimicking the effect Twenty20 has had on cricket. Rules had been simplified, snazzy new filming techniques (including head cams and bird's eye shots) were employed, and a couple of 'appy chappy commentators prattled on hilariously during each of the games' "chukkas" (or periods, to you and me).

Despite these welcome changes, polo seems destined to retain its cachet of an elitist pastime for the posh - much like most equestrian sports - and there was indeed little on show to prove otherwise.

Writing a column in The Guardian on the Monday after the tournament, Harry Phibbs, a councillor for Hammersmith & Fulham, lived up to his surname by lauding the event as "for the many and not just the few". In Hurlingham Park, he saw "young and old, men and women, black and white, rich and poor" rubbing shoulders in their thousands in an "inspiring" display of "community spirit".

Funny that. I just saw predominantly white, upper-class Oxbridge types drinking a lot of Pimm's and Champagne and dressed as if they were on their way to Ascot. OK, slight exaggeration, but this wasn't exactly the racial and social melting pot that Mr Fibs described.

But is this a bad thing? Not in the slightest. The absence of ethnic and class diversity might be worrying had this been a football game or the Notting Hill Carnival, but let's not kid ourselves: this was polo, a sport for the most part unashamedly archaic and pompous in outlook (as further exemplified by the medieval jousting displays put on between games).

Granted, it would have been rather provocative to host the event in Hackney, but this was leafy Fulham - and in the shadow of one of London's swankiest members' sports clubs, the Hurlingham (where there's a 15-year waiting list).

The aim of the event was to put on a good show, generate town-dwellers' interest in a little-known country sport and lay the foundations for future similar events. As such, it was a total success. Polo In The Park may soon be as integral part of the summer calendar as Wimbledon, Royal Ascott and the Henley Regatta. What does it matter that it doesn't attract a broad, cross section of society? Few events do.

If a bunch of rich, genteel Labrador types want to get together and watch bejodhpured athletes thwack balls around on horseback, then what is the problem? At the same price of a cinema ticket, the lowly £10 entrance fee was hardly a deterrent to the lower classes - I just imagine it wasn't their cup of tea. But I don't imagine many of the horsey crowd quaffing bubbly in the Charles Heidsieck tent are frequent visitors to, say, the dogs at Walthamstow or an indie night in Dalston.

Like a magnet attracting iron filings, the World Series merely pulled together hoards of toffs in an area already renowned for its Barbours and blue blood. If it was a pudding, we'd be talking Eton Mess. But who's complaining? The White Horse, Aragon House and the Duke on the Green certainly weren't - it was business as usual for those Parsons Green pubs.

The only argument that could be levelled against the event was that it required the week-long closure of a public green-space. But with the WPA vouching £200,000 on improvements to the park then the whole community is set to benefit for the other 51 weeks of the year.

Prejudices aside, the actual event was a blast. My only experience of polo being scenes from Pretty Woman and articles in the Daily Mail about Prince William and/or Jordan, I never really appreciated its viciousness: mallets fly, horses cry blood, the ball is often hit well over head height, unseated riders plunge to the ground while, under the new guidelines, the most flamboyant of players seem to spend more time in the sin bin than a Springbok rugby forward.

With my press pass I had free reign to frolic in the paddock, chat to the (predominantly Argentine) horse dressers and lap up the pre-match atmosphere (Princess Beatrice and classical boy band Blake were the highlights). Ever-present was the striking former supermodel Jodie Kidd, the event's main fundraiser, who posed for pictures, gave interviews and generally came across as a good egg.

Jodie's brother Jack, a man who probably always wears red trousers and the WPA's director of polo, later lifted the trophy amid flames and a fanfare after his London team edged New York 9-8 in the final. The earlier third-place play-off saw a Moscow outfit devoid of Russians tame Buenos Aires 12-8 in a game which saw the long-haired Andrea Vianini shine. A part-time motorcar racer and full-time playboy, Vianini is the Cristiano Ronaldo of polo, and along with the delectable Kirsty Craig, is just the kind of face needed to pull in the punters.

It also helps having plenty of food and drinks tents, a wide range of shops and attractions on offer and a couple of cheeky Cockney commentators (the unsung heroes of the event) bringing the whole spectacle alive. And there was certainly a modicum of community spirit on display - especially when replacing the divots at half time and at the drunken after-party. It was just a very well-to-do, white community, that's all.

A Piece of Plinth Action

Ah, the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square, a shrine to modern art, and, now, a podium for show-offs, campaigners and nutcases who all want their five minutes – or hour - of fame. The first 615 such people have been selected at random to partake in sculptor Anthony Gormley's "living monument" from 6th July, each getting an hour's slot in the public gaze. It sure is a tad wackier than the equestrian statue originally intended for the plinth.

Out of the Spotlight

Playing London is a highlight of any music tour (Britney even greeted a Manchester audience the other week with "What's up, London" – oops!) but what about no lights whatsoever? Indie-disco trio Friendly Fires plunged themselves and their audience into complete darkness at a gig under the arches at London Bridge, only briefly illuminating the stage with ultraviolet light to prove it was them. Apparently they wanted to strip away everything but the sound and let the audience feel the music... yeah, man!

Horror at Heathrow

Heathrow baggage handling does not get a good press, but they may just have 'bagged' themselves a pair of tickets and backstage passes to Alice Cooper's Theatre of Death tour – great if you like fake blood! The aging shock-rocker's bag went missing at the airport (Terminal 5, by any chance?) and he was rather keen to get it back, hence the lure of tickets. But the bag didn't contain his undies or even his golfing sweater but a collection of over 300 horror movies… material for the latest tour, we're guessing!

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