The Regal Rules for Girls (29 page)

Whenever I went out for drinks with a group of British friends, students, or coworkers, someone would kindly offer to buy me a gin and tonic, so I’d thank them profusely and graciously accept. Inevitably, before my drink was halfway finished, someone else would offer to buy me a drink, and again, I’d thank them for the kindness and happily accept. Afterward, I usually had to go meet my gay best friend for dinner or head across town for another puzzling “date” with a English boy, so I’d thank them again, say good-bye to everyone, and be on my way.

Little did I know that this was the height of rudeness. Worse than that, it was practically heresy.

In the UK, drinking is done in
rounds
. If you are out socializing with eight people, you are expected to drink
eight
drinks, because every single one of you is expected to buy
a round
of eight drinks. If you have a headache and only feel like drinking one drink or you simply can’t afford to buy eight drinks, then apparently you shouldn’t be consuming alcohol in public whatsoever.

This isn’t just bizarre British drinking etiquette, it’s actually some kind of sacred British obligation—and god knows how many Brits I offended before I realized my mistake.

In England, there is a well-known saying that everyone loves to repeat:
Football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen.

I can’t stress to you how true this is. The most important piece of advice I can give you on this subject of UK sporting events is to avoid football matches (aka soccer games) like the plague.

I realize that compared to the high-impact activity of the NFL, soccer looks positively elegant. Graceful even. And in the US, soccer players tend to reflect this. (In my high school, members of the soccer team were among some of the highest achieving and well-rounded students in the district.)

Yet in England the reverse tends to be true. UK soccer games have a reputation for being filled with spectators that look as
though they have done time for assault, and alcohol is not allowed in the stadiums for this very reason. Promise me—steer clear.

But in terms of Hunting Grounds, all is not lost. If you’re looking for handsomely rowdy and roguish English boys (that also happen to be true gentlemen), I guarantee you will find them at any:

It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand the rules to any of the above. I certainly don’t. But I assure you that even if you have no idea what is happening during the game itself, all of these sporting events are splendid social occasions that also happen to be filled with eligible Englishmen. (And if any guy dares to give you trouble about the fact that you possess less than a working knowledge of the above sports, just ask him to explain the Eton Wall Game. That should silence him pretty quickly—as I’m pretty sure that less than 50 percent of the players understand it themselves.)

Rugby (A Hooligan’s Game Played by Gentlemen)

Until rather recently, rugby union players were not allowed to earn any money through sponsorship or advertising (because after all, only the lower classes require an income.)

Where to go:
Any England or Wales match at Twickenham.

What to expect:
Mauling, rucking, scrums, and something
quite worryingly called a “blood bin.”
¹⁴
But all you really need to know is that rugby players have big sturdy thighs, big muscley shoulders, and (because they refuse to wear protective gear of any kind) they are always getting spectacularly and violently injured.

What to drink:
Bitter, Lager, or Guinness. Throughout the entire game. No hot dogs or peanuts or Cracker Jack. Just pints and pints and pints of beer. Needless to say, the queue for the ladies loo can be rather lengthy.

Who goes:
If England or Wales is playing, sightings of Prince Harry, William and Kate, Zara Phillips (her husband, Mike Tindall, is a former England captain), and their Castle Crew friends are regular occurrences.

Warning:
Every girl I know who is dating a rugby player spends most weekends by his hospital bedside, faithfully tending to his injury of the week.

Cricket

Admittedly, the rules of cricket are a minefield if you haven’t grown up with them (from what I can tell, one player’s sole task is to hold onto his teammate’s sweater for safekeeping), but what I love most about cricket is that people dress up for it.

Where to go:
Lord’s Cricket Ground will have a slightly higher caliber of spectator
than the Oval. (Although Hugh Grant has been spotted at both.)

What to wear:
Summery dresses for women, linen suits for men.

What to expect:
Victorian stands filled with spectators leisurely reading the
Sunday Times
, munching on delicate finger sandwiches, sipping chilled wine and pitchers of Pimm’s, and stopping only occasionally to glance at the scoreboard to see how England is progressing. And of course the game pauses at 4 p.m. sharp to allow for afternoon tea. You can see why it’s my kind of sport. Believe me, if baseball involved a semiformal dress code and a civilized tea break, I might be more of a fan.

Best flirting spots:
The Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) Pavilion; the Eton vs. Harrow match (think of the alumni!).

How to spot MCC members:
The distinctive gold and red necktie (affectionately referred to as “egg and bacon”).

Faux pas:
Arguing with the umpire (this is a gentleman’s game after all).

Polo

See
Chapter 6
, “The Season,”
page 173
.

Tennis

See “Tennis Clubs,”
p. 150
; see also “Wimbledon,”
page 184
.

The Queen’s Club
, Baron’s Court, London,
www.queensclub.co.uk

Featured in the Woody Allen movie
Match Point
, this is one of the most coveted club memberships in the UK. Named after Queen Victoria, The Queen’s Club was the first multipurpose sports complex to be built anywhere on earth and is one of the most prestigious tennis clubs in the country, if not the world.

More than anything, this club is known for hosting tournaments of a spin-off game called “racquets”—a game that is only taught at exclusive British boarding schools. Only a dozen or so courts on the planet can even facilitate racquets, and Queen’s Club has two of them.

When it comes to sports that I actually, genuinely enjoy watching—this one ranks right behind polo. The game moves so fast and the players move with such amazing, inhuman skill my heart actually pumps with excitement. (Though I’m sure the champagne helps.)

Did I mention that Queen’s also happens to have a marvelous bar? And some really cute semiprofessional players whom I may or may not have snogged in my youth? Highly, highly recommended.

The Hurlingham Club
, Putney Bridge, London
www.hurlinghamclub.org.uk

With a membership waiting list of sixteen years(!), this striking Georgian clubhouse is set on two acres of magnificently manicured grounds alongside the River Thames. When I first moved to London, a lovely floppy-haired Englishman (whom I happened to meet
at The Queen’s Club) took me on a date to this quintessentially English paradise, and as I held his hand and entered a world of timeless elegance, I felt like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
as she entered Munchkinland—it was that magical, and that unexpected.

Up until World War II, the club hosted all major polo events for the British Empire. Today at the Hurlingham you can watch polo, play tennis, sip Pimm’s, sun yourself by the pool, or frolic with your dog through the club’s rolling green hills. If you want to play croquet, you must wear white.

Many Englishmen (and even some Americans) have reciprocal memberships through their universities, so despite The Hurlingham’s reputation as the most exclusive private members’ club in England, it’s not as hard to get into as people think.

My favorite event? Guy Fawkes Night (November 5). There is nothing better than a grand fireworks display, hot British boys, and hot mulled wine.

Polo in the Park and the Boat Race Ball are also worth attending, as is The Hurlingham’s exclusive speed dating evening.

I once found myself attending a black-tie ball for a charity that provides cricket equipment to disadvantaged children. (In England it doesn’t matter if the child is starving or homeless, as long as he or she can play cricket.) I was seated at a table of rowdy rugby players and had already consumed several glasses of champagne before the first course arrived. It was salmon of some kind, yet I was so caught up in the ridiculous conversations happening around me (and so hungry, as I hadn’t had much for lunch) that I accidentally used the wrong knife. I quickly spotted my mistake after the first bite and
swiftly changed knives, certain no one would notice—least of all the highly inebriated gentlemen on either side of me.

How wrong I was.

Within seconds, the broad-shouldered, floppy-haired Englishman to my right was standing up and tapping his spoon on his water glass to get the table’s attention.

“I would like to announce that the lovely American to my left has used the wrong knife,” Tarquin bellowed good-naturedly. “And for this she must be penalized!”

To atone for my mistake I was forced to chug the rest of my wine, the rest of Tarquin’s wine, and all the remaining wine in the bottle sitting in the center of our table.

As you can imagine, I have very little recollection of what happened after that. But let me tell you: I now make a point of paying close attention to the cutlery before each and every course.