I’m sure if you are in the thick of the Essex Social Scene like me (cough) you’ll be aware that this weekend sees The Duke of Essex Polo coming to town. Normally hearing of a Polo tournament will make you think of classy ladies in pastel chiffon, a hot summer day spent sipping Pimms , gentlemen in morning suits discussing the news, maybe even a special appearance from Royalty? NOT IN ESSEX MY FRIEND. There will be more skin on show here than at Stringfellows, more similarities to the colour orange than the paint chart at B&Q and more utter cunts than a gynaecologists office. The closest we’ll get to royalty is some moron getting their Prince Albert piercing out because they’ve drunk too many WKDs and their mates have paid them to do it for a bet.
I don’t know what it is about this event that makes everyone hateful come out in force, but they do. It’s held literally 5 minutes down the road from where I live, which is enough to make me want to move out and share the tramps sleeping bag that sleeps outside my office with his mouth open, showing that he has only half a tooth left and he’s determined to lose it to a bottle of white lightning and some crystal meth. The pictures from last year were hilarious and if you are bored and self masochistic enough to go onto the website for this year’s event you’ll see the sort of people you get going there. The TOWIE group will be out in force, stomping around the field clinging onto their glasses of champagne while exchanging pleading looks with the rest of the attendees, desperate for one of them to ask for their autograph. If you are extremely lucky you might get Lisa Snowdon, Denise Van Outen or maybe even... wait for it... Gary Lucy (but only if he’s not too busy trying to dig up the remains of his dead and buried career).
I could not think of anything worse than going to this Polo, even if someone PAID me £100 to go I wouldn’t. I am surrounded by these people every time I go out locally. Not just the Z list celebrities, but the wannabes. The girls that paint themselves orange and have pure white hair, plaster on bubblegum coloured lipstick so thick if you tried to kiss them you’d just slide right off. They grab their Louis Vuitton clutches, shuffle along like the walking dead in their Louboutins and squeeze their fat roles into Herve Leger and then spend the day balancing on a muddy field, freezing cold, trying to look their best and totally forgetting to have a good time. The boys, also the most orange anyone could be (normally worse than the girls) will stand there with a faint air of disgusting smugness about them, side swoop in place, aviators on, royal blue blazer teamed with beige chinos and a hankie hanging out their top pocket, ready for them to wipe up the jizz that gets spilt when Lucy Meckenburger from TOWIE walks past.
If I was to go to this event, I would do the following: I would indulge in the Essexness SLIGHTLY. I would have a spray tan, do my nails and make sure my hair looked nice. I would buy a nice dress from a normal shop (because I am not rich and don’t see the point in pretending to everyone that I am when the designer bag I have for that particular outing has been RENTED). I would go there with my mates. I would drink loads, pay a bit of attention to the Polo, but ultimately end up covered in mud, barefoot, slurring my words and taking the piss out of every single clone in there. Why would ANYONE want to go to an event like this when it’s all about what you look like? I spend enough time getting shit eye from the clones for being too loud or having a bit too much fun, so sod paying £90 for the pleasure in a FIELD!!!!
Another person that shares my view of The Duke of Essex Polo is none other than my faithful fellow abuser Kev James. As before, Kev’s views are all his own, you need a strong stomach to handle his banter and if you can’t, don’t read it – just don’t complain to me about it. Take it away Kev...
So it’s that time of year again, where The Duke of Essex Polo returns to the fields of Epping like an unwanted strain of rectal warts. It brings with it an amalgamation of the biggest known collection of cunts who will be dressed head to toe in rascal clobber, along with a veritable army of ronsealed old brasses rampaging through the shit and mud in £800 Louboutins, trying to hold their septums in as well as their anal tampons.
Cunts all over the region have spent the last week ironing razor sharp creases into the overpriced tailored shorts, whilst buffering their deck shoes to a whole new level of absolute shitness. The barbers on Queens Road has had more comb-over requests than a Bobby Charlton benefit dinner and the price of Ronseal has gone through the roof as slags all over the country try to recreate that terracotta glow. Dagenham Market has been besieged by coked up 8 stone Essex boys, looking for 20 quid Rolexes to wrap around their anaemic wrists whilst the good women of Essex debate whether to keep their wraps of dickie inside their bums or their twinkies. Hopefully it’ll be a good opportunity to do some minor celebrity spotting as I’m sure that Gemma from TOWIE will be there, rampaging through the undergrowth like a rabid rhinoceros, dressed head to toe in some technicolor monstrosity that only comes in two sizes – Massive or Brontosaurus!
I’d imagine you’d see Arg there too, drowning his sorrows having recently been rejected as the new face of ‘Go Compare’ for being too much of an aggravating disgusting cunt that we all want to shoot! Then there's Arg's ex, the lovely Chlamydia Rose Bright. If she manages to find her way there in this low light with those hypnotic cod-eyes of hers, she’ll be spotted wafting across the site like an anorexic, blind goat in the company of that fucking crazy haired old witch hag of a mother, looking like she's escaped from shutter island.
Its a certainty that Lauren Goodger will be there, flaunting that trout pout and a pair of cankles a rugby player would be proud of - Fuck knows what she’s done to her lips but she looks like a fucking radioactive orange pufferfish that has succumbed to its own venom. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Harry Derbidge is making an appearance, swimming around in Debbie's cauldron which will be full of Moet and poppers so that when he gets drunk his asshole will open up like a garage door and he’ll be able to consume himself.
Anyway, as it happens I can’t make it and i’m fucking gutted but i’ve got something much more pleasurable to do. I’m going to be wiping my ass with a broken beer bottle, but if that fails I might nail-gun myself to a billboard on the A406 and invite people to throw pieces of dog shit at me all day. On that note, enjoy the weekend you cunts! :)