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Journalist and writer Taki Theodoracopulos was at the centre of the swinging golden era of Parisian polo. He recalls some of the colourful characters who made it happen

illustration PHIL DISLEY

Back in the glory days of the City of Light, the best-known secret among the so-called Parisian upper crust was the Bagatelle Polo Club in the Bois de Boulogne. Situated on the western side of the Bois, near Le Pont de Saint-Cloud, the club was run by an elite twosome consisting of the president, Baron Jacques de Nervo, and the vice-president, Baron Élie de Rothschild. Both gents have now left us, but during the heyday of the club they managed to run a tight ship; namely by allowing their friends in and keeping the nouveaux and vulgar out.

I joined the club in the early Sixties, and Élie took a shine to me because of the girl I was going out with. He told me to ‘stop this silly game you’re playing – it’s for girls – and try a real man’s sport: polo.’ I was a ranked tennis player at the time, and represented my country in the Davis Cup, as well as being somewhat of a fixture at the French Championships, having competed every year since I was a teenager.

Although I declined to quit tennis, I took up polo immediately after visiting the club. The place was teaming with young and beautiful girls, and the married women –I was told – had an eye for hot-blooded South American players over for the season. I paid my dues, bought four horses, and signed up for winter lessons with Jacques Macaire, the head groom of the club and father of Lionel Macaire, who later became highly rated as a player. Lionel was an accomplished rider and taught me the basics well. This would have been the mid-Sixties. Just about that time, I found a beautiful farmhouse for rent just 15km west of Paris with the somewhat grand name of Flambertins des Crepieres. I took out a lease and began to live the life of a country gent. I would wake up, do some exercises around the garden – which involved punching and kicking a bag hanging from a tree – then drive to the polo club a convenient fifteen-minute drive away. Once there I would stick and ball, and work the ponies, shower and then go to lunch with friends.

Oh, I almost forgot. My best friend and mentor at the time was one Porfirio Rubirosa, the Dominican diplomat who was on his fourth wife, Barbara Hutton, by the time I met him in 1953. They divorced after 53 days of marriage, but not before after she’d gifted him with a string of ponies and, I believe, a cool million – quite a handy amount to be walking around with back in the Fifties. Rubi had previously been married to Flor Trujillo

(daughter of Dominican strongman Rafael Trujillo), Doris Duke, and the enchanting French actress Danielle Darrieux. After his divorce from Babs, he bought a house in Saint Cloud near my humble abode, married Odile Rodin – a young French actress whose looks and figure were far superior to those of Brigitte Bardot – and put together a polo team consisting mostly of his buddies.

Rubi was the most popular of the club’s members: he had legendary charm, was a good racing driver and boxed well. He was even a keen dueller, and a ladykiller par excellence. He was a born entertainer and knew everyone there was to know. Obviously I fell under his spell. We’d box together in the ring he had in his house, then work the ponies and follow that with a spot of lunch with our wives. After lunch the girls would head off shopping and we’d make our way to Paris’s finest gentleman’s clubs, often joined by Élie de Rothschild. For someone in his twenties, it was a dream life.

We even managed to play some polo. Wednesday afternoons were reserved for practice matches, while on Saturdays and Sundays we played for the various cups. Many a French fat cat mounted teams with two professionals, which the rules allowed for. Count du Bourg de Bozas was one of the most colourful. He looked around 70, and although he could only canter like a 90-yearold, he chased young women around the club as if he were 20. He always had two good Argentinians playing for him, plus a so-so Frenchman, so his teams were hard to beat, despite the handicap of a cantering count.

Jean Louis Hachette, of the publishing firm, was another team captain, as was Robert de Balkany, born Bobby Zellinger, who attended Yale after leaving Hungary. Balka changed his name, became a big real estate entrepreneur, bought a 13th-century chateau west of Paris and an enormous yacht. He and I didn’t get along – Élie de Rothschild wasn’t keen either. Balka liked to push his weight around, but that didn’t work for some. Although he rose to be a three-goal handicap, one of the pleasures of my life was taking him on while I was still a one-goaler, and driving him nuts by sticking some very hard and illegal elbows into his side. He would howl ‘foul’ like no other, but Balka knew his bullying didn’t work with me, and after an argument with Élie he took his team back to his chateau and started another polo circuit in his private field. Some chaps followed him

because of the favourable terms; Balka picked up everyone’s bills and stable costs. But Rubi and I remained faithful to the club.

Yet another character straight out of fiction was one Mairesse-Lebrun, a French cavalry officer who’d married a rich woman and who had to be tied on his mount, as he had lost the use of his legs during the war. He was very brave, and only stopped playing after a terrible fall that disabled him further.

Polo back then was much more of an amateur sport. Sure, there were professionals, and well-paid ones too, but the handicaps of a typical match were 14 to 18 at most, and team captains tried to keep it fair by only inviting pros with medium handicaps. Still, during my 10 years of playing, I rode with such names as Merlos, Gracida, Brown, Miguens, Harriott, and my big buddy Charlie Menditegui, a 10-handicap and his brother Julio, a nine.

Another souvenir was playing with the Maharaja of Jaipur, Jai, who sold me a steed I never managed to control in two damned years of trying – but he was a pleasure to play against. He was an exceedingly elegant rider and his horses were superb, as were his yarns about the polo played in his native country.

Needless to say, the best part of the summer season in Paris was the parties that always followed the matches. The city’s chic would show up on the weekends, and after play the club would serve dinner on the terrace while a band played the latest dance tunes. It was to die for, especially as the night would go on until the dawn at Jimmy’s, the best club in Boulevard Montparnasse, run by the fabled Regine. Regine was fat but loved men, especially polo players, so we were always welcome and were always given the best tables in the joint.

In 1968, while the student revolt was in full cry, the two barons decided it would be a provocation to continue the season, so only practice matches were played. During one of them, Élie de Rothschild was hit by a ball and damaged an eye, an injury that led to the end of an era. The club built a swimming pool, which became a magnet for yuppies – a word unheard of back then. The club’s membership grew and as its vast real estate belonged to the Paris municipality, the bureaucrats got involved. The sweet deal we’d enjoyed began to change, and I for one moved my operations over to England, with Cirencester as my home base. It was not the same. This was the real polo deal, but suddenly living away from the bright lights of Paris did not do it for me.

When I was sent to Vietnam in 1971 by National Review I sold my ponies to Ronnie Driver and never played another match. But I still follow polo, marvel at the speed with which the game is now played and look back with nostalgia at those Paris years, when I was young and had friends like Rubi, Jai, and those wonderful Argentinians.