Deborah Hill Cone: Sweat and manure, the smell of money

I have a metaphysical hangover. Too much Mumm champagne and parties and polo. This is the result: going down the garden to eat worms. Heroic drinker Kingsley Amis understood the nature of day-after ennui.

"When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover.

You are not sickening for anything, you have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a shit you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is."

This sort of existential torpor transcends the mere physical decrepitude brought on by a weekend of hard liquor - it is more like the psychic meltdown 5-year-olds have after a birthday party with too many artificial colourings and flavourings.

Why is it the more fun a corporate hospitality event is at the time, the more psychologically grubby one feels the next day? And the more virulently one vows to spend the next month being spiritual, drinking green tea and fundraising for Haiti? It never lasts, of course.

And I've gotta say the polo was splendid. Everyone looks more glamorous there - it must be the reflected glory of the "sport of kings".

Even our usual slebs look like they could be in a Ralph Lauren ad. There is real estate agent Michael Boulgaris like the Mount Rushmore of corporate hospitality.

There is Gilda Kirkpatrick, as impressively stony faced as Victoria Beckham. There is criminal barrister Ron Mansfield in a landed gentry cap and Ricardo Simich, who seems to have undergone a startlingly hot makeover. And there is the queen of polo, former Chapman Tripp marketing manager Fiona Alexander who now owns 10 polo ponies and a Versace kaftan.

But, strangely, I think it is the horse poo mixed with the designer labels that makes polo sexy. The piquancy of young men's sweat and fresh pony droppings juxtaposed with Tom Ford's Black Orchid gives the swank a dirty edge. Of course when I say "the polo", I should really be specifying the BMW New Zealand Polo Open at the Auckland Polo Club grounds at Clevedon.

Sponsors pony up the big buckeroonies so they like to have their name in the paper. Although I am not so sure about the BNZ, which sponsored one of the teams in the final. They might prefer to keep their support for the pukka game on the QT.

The other sponsors were luxury brands like BMW, Mumm champagne, Stella Artois and Rodd and Gunn. Since when was BNZ a luxury brand? How many mortgagee sales has the BNZ instigated this year? Do most people who have BNZ accounts think sponsoring the polo is a great use of the bank's marketing budget?

Perhaps so, since polo represents a lifestyle that is "combining dynamic athleticism with timeless elegance". I can see why BNZ might like a bit of that stardust to rub off on them. But really, if banks are going to get back the confidence of the public I think they might do better going for the opposite - a dose of reality. So maybe they were there for the horse poo instead of the champagne.

dhc@deborahhillcone.com