Sport of Kings and Warriors

"On the polo field, where else."

British gold-digger Sarah Ferguson, when asked where she met her temporary husband, Prince Andrew.

True confession: I own a couple of Ralph Lauren shirts, complete with wee polo player logo. They both came from Costco and so, cost about 1/10th of their normal retail price but what the hey, I look pretty darn stylish when wearing them, if I say so myself. Not only that, I spent this weekend at the Columbine Polo Club, rubbin’ shoulders with the cream of Denver society. It’s true; I was there in my capacity as sort-of-a-drummer for the Colorado Isle of Mull St Andrew Pipes & Drums. And I was simply providing entertainment for the rich folk, but I was there all the same.

Other than the occasional rain storm, my car Angus hasn’t had a decent wash since my parents came to visit almost two years ago. With his numerous rust spots, dents and bits hanging off, he didn’t exactly blend in with the gleaming Jaguars, BMWs and Lexuses (Lexii?) already filling up the grass parking lot. But to the credit of the parking attendants, they didn’t bat an eyelid, simply directed me to the closest available spot. A few other band members were already there and it didn’t take me too long to swap the sandals, shorts and t-shirt for kilt and full highland rig ready for a pleasant afternoon in the sunshine.

And dearie me, did we get sunshine. It was a record breaking 102 degrees in Denver on Saturday apparently, and the only way to fully appreciate just how toasty that is, is to wrap yourself in eight yards of wool and go and stand in the sun for a couple of hours. Like any true Scot, all I wear under my kilt is shoes and socks so I had my own little personal sauna going on down there. Oh dear doG, it was hot! Fortunately, the organizers had found the perfect spot for us to perform. On a patch of baking blacktop, right in front of the already aromatic port-a-potties and miles from the sanctuary of the beer tent. Somebody eventually took pity on us and brought water but mine evaporated with a hiss on the way down my throat.

Fortunately, Saturday’s gig was mercifully short and we were soon inside the tent, which frankly, wasn’t that much cooler. There were large electric fans but none pointing in our direction so we had no choice but to replenish our lost fluids by making frequent trips for free beer. There was free food too although it wasn’t until we’d each laden our plates that one of the organizers pointed out we weren’t supposed to be helping ourselves; it was reserved for the paying guests. "You can eat as much as you like tomorrow," they said, "but not today." Having been firmly reminded that we were merely the 'help', we settled in to an afternoon of people watching.

Now I’m well aware that when it’s over 100 degrees in the shade and you’re dressed in the aforementioned eight yards of wool, with a black hat, tie and vest, and effeminate little bobbly covers on the top of your socks, you aren’t really in a position to critique other peoples’ clothing choices. But that didn’t stop us. Because oh boy, there were some doozies here to choose from.

I’ll never be mistaken for a GQ model, but I have at least seen enough episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to know there are certain combinations which aren’t done. Lime green pants with canary yellow shirts, tailored shorts with black socks and lace up dress shoes, competing stripes, the works. For the most part, the women were dressed sort of tastefully but then, their outfits were often overshadowed by the feats of engineering which had gone into creating their physiques. So impressed were we guys by the plastic surgeon’s art that the girls in the band had occasion more than once to reprimand us for staring. I suppose we were lucky none of us got our tongues trodden on. Joking apart, I’m really not a fan of false boobs but some of these were truly uhm, eye-catching.

Sunday dawned with the promise of slightly cooler temperature and while the clouds kept the mercury down, it was still plenty steamy out there. We had a bit more work to do this time in that they wanted us to march from behind the goals, out to the center of the field, then turn and head towards the main stand where we could cook a little longer during the singing of the national anthem. Polo fields are pretty big so this involved quite a hike but at least they didn’t make us stand out there while somebody prayed, as they do at most of the Highland Games. A few more tunes up by the entrance and we were done for the day.

Remember how they told us "You can eat as much as you want tomorrow." Well, we should have remembered the adage "Tomorrow never comes" because by the time we hit the buffet line, the wait staff were clearing things away. Yep, the food was all gone and while a couple of folk managed to snag a wee prawn salad thing in a wine glass, the rest of us went hungry. Personally, I hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty about snagging a plateful the day before but I know it was preying on the consciences of one or two band-members. Not any more it wasn’t and suitably chagrined, we fell like a plague of locusts on the beer tent, ready to make up the missing calories.

As I said, we weren’t the only ones in strange attire but perhaps because we were all dressed alike, and possibly because at least two of us had funny accents, we attracted a certain amount of attention. In the same way anthropologists might be attracted to a new and hitherto undiscovered tribe of jungle savages. I didn’t receive any dinner invitations but I did talk to some very charming people including one young lady called Danell (sp?) who endeared herself to me by constantly replenishing my beer supply, bringing me a fresh glass as soon as the level in my current one neared the bottom.

Mind you, even she put her foot in it as we packed up after our final performance. She asked me when we were due to play again.

"That’s it; we’re finished." I told her.

"Oh," she replied "but weren’t you just warming up?"

Ouch.