KEY POINTS:
Patrick Guerrand-Hermes, president of the Federation of International Polo (FIP) and, obviously, one of the Hermes family, is late getting to the polo ground at Clevedon because he's in a helicopter coming back from lunch at Waiheke.
I fill in the time eyeing up the good wine in
the FIP tent and hoping Monsieur might be very French and insist on a drink. I thought I might need one because I'm told that he never gives interviews normally and I fear he might be quite grand and formal - because of the name and because he is very rich.
He pops out of the helicopter, a little fellow, about my height, which is short, and makes what I take to be cryptic and grand Gallic gestures. It turns out that all this shrugging indicates that he wants his FIP blazer brought to him because he wants to wear it in the photograph. He must be used to having people run around after him, fawningly, to fetch blazers or whatever and so he might be difficult, I thought as I watched the performance.
But it turns out that he just wants to save time by having the jacket brought rather than have to go looking for it. He is tremendously apologetic for being late and says so, a number of times, and "thank you for coming all this way". He has the most exquisite manners of anyone I've ever met, which gets a bit tricky. I know that he is itching to go and watch Australia play India, so I say I'll try not to keep him for too long. He says: "No! No! It is so nice of you to talk to me. You are very kind to spend some time for us [he means for the polo.]" And I say: "No! No! It is very nice of you to talk to me. I know you don't do many interviews."
"But I am very glad and happy," he says. And so on. We are both amused by this competitive display of manners. But it leaves me wondering how I'm going to be able to ask him the gossipy questions: the one about him suing his former daughter-in-law over some heirloom furniture or his lawsuit against an investment bank over millions in trading losses.
He says of French manners that, "people say that we are a little bit stuffy and a little bit boring, I don't know". He is neither, but the manners are a good way of setting up an expectation of the tone of an encounter. He is very accomplished at this.
A lot of his life, when he worked for the family firm and now as president of the FIP, has involved socialising and, as I put it, having to be well-behaved and nice to boring people. "I have had a very social life and I must say that it's not really my cup of tea, no. But a lot of my life is bowing, you know, and saying nice words and so on. As for boring, well, as soon as you know people better they become interesting. But I am very optimistic."
He says it is true that he doesn't do many interviews: "No, unless it's polo and what I never do ... I try not to appear in social life in France and in the social pages. When I see others in there, I don't think it's very interesting."
Because of the desirability of the famous Birkin bag, I thought he probably got sucked up to everywhere. He says there are "funny things that I've had happen. People I barely knew, but so important that I would take them on the phone and I would wonder, 'What the heck do they want?' And I could hear the wife screaming behind him: 'But tell him about the bag!"'
He grew up knowing that with the name came responsibility though, "aah, well, I would say that I've been biting at the reputation rather than suffering it".
Despite socialising not being his cup of tea, I imagine he'd be an excellent dinner companion. He is hardly indiscreet but he has known royals and the very rich all his life and after a few wines he could probably be persuaded to tell a few funny stories.
I ask him about the Queen because he's persuaded me to go on to the polo field at half time in that peculiar stomping on the turf ritual. "Come on," he says, "the Queen does this." He says: "The Queen was born to be the Queen but she can be very quick and funny." I do a bit of stomping but when I say, "I've had enough of doing this, it's boring", he roars with laughter and claps me on the back. So not so formal after all.
He probably minds a bit about questions that are not about polo but he has an elegant way of attempting to get back on the topic. If I wander too far, he says, "but I'm an old man! I'm talking of things past. But we have to speak about polo," as though he is the one who has strayed and not me.
So I had better be as polite, as he is, and say that it will be a very big day at Clevedon tomorrow and they would like a good turnout to help stomp the grass.
He thinks he might be good for polo because of his name. "It means luxury, mmm, and quality mostly, but luxury aah hah! No, it's true and it certainly helped me to be in the position. Also, when I get somewhere it's easier to memorise. People say, "Yes, Hermes. Aah, Hermes! I don't use it too much. I don't know if I do, but I hope not."
But mostly he is a good advertisement for the game because, "when you are crazy about the game, you are crazy about the game. I could speak about it for hours. And people can see I am as happy as a clam. I don't know if a clam is happy ... A clam has never talked to me, but they look happy when they open up." He does a very sweet impression of how a clam might look while smiling.
He was born in 1932 to wealth and privilege - although he says, as for everyone else in France during the war, times were not easy. His upbringing was strict. "Oh, very strict. We always had a tie on for dinner from the age of 6 and I can do a bow tie going down the stairs. You had to make your bed; to keep your room [tidy.]" Goodness, didn't they have servants? "Oh yes, we had two people serving the dinner even. But we never had a chauffeur to drop us to school. We walked to school."
He was chosen to join the family firm, although this was not a birthright, and as a young man he didn't particularly want this career. "Being the chosen one literally we are paid with stones, literally. In those days they thought it was good to know the value of money."
I'm not quite sure how rich he is these days; he used to be worth around $1.3 billion. He lives as "totally a tax exile" in Morocco, where he has a farm for his polo ponies. I was shocked to learn he doesn't own a plane but he says, "To be honest I had a plane and I found out the limit of what I could spend". How could it be too expensive for him? "That's c'est la vie." He doesn't want me to bang on about money because "it doesn't give you happiness." And he doesn't want me to say that polo is for the very rich and royalty because he's trying to change the image, although he can't resist a joke. "What is the way when you are a polo player to be a millionaire? It is to start as a billionaire." His extravagances are ... "polo." So, is he only a millionaire these days? "I didn't say that."
He had to give up polo for 33 years because of working for the House of Hermes. He plays again now, although he gives up all the time because of his age but then he "gets the bug again". Nothing - except his marriage to Martine on "the 8th of September, 1962, and I hope to live for our jubilee" - makes him happier than polo. She is not at all interested in his game but "she is very sweet". I didn't, in the end, ask him too much about his children because one of his sons, Lionel, was killed in a car crash in 1981 at the age of 18. He says, "I can't speak about it," and his eyes fill.
Later, I do hazard a question about the court case and he says, "Well, I don't know how you know that but it is difficult, yes." And that is quite obviously all he is going to say. So I say well, thank you very much and that he can go and watch the match now. "Oh. No. Thank you very much. It has been very kind," he says, smiling again now, like a very happy clam.
