Voxfrock kicks off 2014 with a reflective, hot-from-Portsea post by young reporter Alexia Petsinis (pictured, top) with photographs by Joshua Montebello.
A mellow 23 degrees, a buttery January sun melted upon a tiny speck on the Peninsula. Today Voxfrock joined 6000 guests at the Jeep Portsea Polo, an annual do’ when the Point Nepean Quarantine Station becomes a playground for a deliciously suave set. Polished men in loafers, ladies with flutes, and an abundance of the finest bubbly fizzing with the same effervescent zing one feels at the beginning of a New Year.
There were other pretty creatures there too – ponies? – gracefully obliging in their duty to facilitate an athletic spectacle fit for one sumptuous seaside party.
Before this, my most meaningful encounter with polo was a thumbnail logo worn on a favourite yellow T-shirt. So, yes, I was a wide-eyed Polo Rookie. A vague appreciation of the commercial ‘branding’ of the sport as something of a leisurely past time for the ruggedly handsome 40-something gentleman meant that I arrived with one expectation: to be acquainted with many of life’s finer things.
Matt Preston
A pristine polo field and two rows of salubrious marquees nestled in sprawling Point Nepean National Park was an honest enough depiction of the event’s exclusivity. Guests mingled and munched, enjoying custom menus created by A-list chefs including Cody’s Adam D’Sylva for Peroni, and the inimitable Matt Preston for Jeep. One smoked salmon roe blini after the next and the banter gets louder, the music a little more funky, and I am all at once certain the real excitement of the polo – the real party – is off the field.
Having said that, a polo novice must also be a little curious about the sport, surely. A portly gentleman in white jodhpurs (a ‘Flagman’ if you don’t mind) delved into the technicalities of ‘Neckshots’ and ‘Bump and Ride-Offs’ if ever I should find myself in the position of needing to execute these manoeuvres.
So I deduced the following about polo: fellows on ponies, two teams, mallets (correct name for the striking stick), and an upmost concern for the safety of each player and their mount. For those fellow left handers out there also considering a career in polo, you might want to reconsider. The mallet may only be held in the right hand! And no, contrary to my insistence, a chukka is not a variety of South Australian oyster, but a term used to describe a period of play in a polo match of seven and a half minutes duration.
There you have it.
Naturally, it’s just not polo – the Portsea variety – without celebrity buzz and high style stakes. When it came to ‘Who Wore What Where’, there was really no reigning colour or style of dress. Quite refreshing. Instead, a fabulous mash of brights, prints, classic-cut shifts, daring backless statements and even sleek jumpsuits seen both within the the marquees and on the more relaxed, sunny lawns.
The Klims
As for gents (aah, the gents…) they turned out in their ginghams, their pinstripes, their plaids, fresh and radiant with Colgate smiles and the kind of zing that emanates from colognes liberally applied to excited pulse points. Soccer heartthrob Harry Kewell was warmly welcomed into the luxe resort-like Jeep marquee, along with Shane Warne (single, again apparently), Michael and Lindy Klim and cricket’s golden boy Peter Siddle, still rather merry from an Ashes victory.
Peroni hosted a young and bubbly crowd too, including Geelong’s (very tall) Tom Hawkins and the ever-elegant Rebecca Bramich. They were seduced by Peroni’s ‘La Dolce Vita’, a sweet and breezy Italian experience evoked with quaint blue gingham table cloths, bouquets of fresh cut hydrangeas and servings of sticky prosciutto parma that lingered long on the palette. Not even the late afternoon’s novelty events such as the ‘Dash for Cash’ (you can guess what brand of chaos that looks like), and ‘Stomping down the Divets’ (when “wives, girlfriends and mistresses” are invited to help flatten clods of earth upturned by the ponies) could detract from the buzz of networking and picture-taking unfolding in these marquees.
An occasional salty southerly breeze reminded me where I was amid the flurry of logos, branding and frivolity. It was strange, albeit energising to muse at the collision of the polished material world and the natural universe. What remained on the faces of guests as they began to depart this luxury oasis was joy and contentment after hours spent eating, drinking and being very, very merry.
If there were ever a place where the free spirit and material pleasures trot hand in hand, the Polo must certainly be it.
