As I walk down the platform at Euston Station to catch the train to Birmingham
International, the object of my pilgrimage gazes out at me from not one, but
two billboards. It’s Katie Price, aka Jordan, resplendent in full make-up
and riding kit, clutching the bridle of a horse. The advert is for this very
newspaper, part of a campaign that juxtaposes the likes of the former
glamour model with more venerable famous faces such as Winston Churchill.
Her very presence on the Times poster is an accurate reflection of her
ambiguous appeal. To some she’s a pneumatic, permatanned, overmade-up
B-lister; to others a hard-working, hard-nosed businesswoman who juggles the
never-ending demands of celebrity, three children (including one with a
disability) and a high-maintenance husband, the half-successful pop star
Peter Andre. Whichever view you subscribe to, there’s no doubt that she
makes headlines.
Ever since Price’s presence at the Horse of the Year Show was first mooted, it
has generated controversy. She is here ostensibly to perform a dressage
routine, flanked by her (extremely handsome) trainer Andrew Gould and a very
promising young talent, Henry Boswell. Dressage is not, of course, the main
focus of the HOYS — this is primarily a showing and showjumping event — and
this is the only reason she is been allowed on to the hallowed sawdust of
the main arena. Under normal circumstances a rider of Price’s experience
wouldn’t stand a chance; but, stongarmed by her formidable publicity team
and by the opportunity to sell tickets (Price’s event, I am later told,
could have filled the place twice over), the organisers are making an
exception.
There is one other thing: her new equestrian clothing range.
Despite all the fuss, despite the supposedly “serious” Olympic ambitions,
generating publicity for “KP Equestrian”, a Barbie-esque collection of tops
and jodhpurs, is the real reason Price has engineered this appearance. So
far, it seems to be working.
Walking towards the Arena from the train station, the smell of horse manure
drifts across the wind. The building itself is large and densely packed.
There is, of course, a Retail Village, a sprawling assemblage of stalls
selling everything from horse portraiture to trailers. There is an abundance
of sturdy outdoor clothing and hearty, milk-fed English thighs, sensible
hairstyles and ruddy cheeks. Mothers hold hands with small girls clutching
horsey soft toys and other pony paraphernalia. For all the sensible
Home-Counties atmosphere, there is a distinctly My Little Pony edge. A
company called Tottie sells a plethora of pink riding gear; other stalls
hawk tacky glitter head-collars.
In one corner, a large bunch of pink balloons signals Price’s clothing range.
As I approach, two young sisters from Peterborough, Leanne and Tammy, are
securing the purchase of a bright pink polo shirt, with glitter detailing (a
bargain at £25.99). I ask Tammy what she thinks of Price’s presence here at
the show. “When I heard she was coming it wasn’t like ’ohmygod, get her
autograph’ or anything like that,” she laughs.
“We just came to have a look.” What do they think of her riding career? More
laughter. “Well, it’s not like she’s shovelling crap every day, like we are.
It’s not like she trains her own horse or anything. I’ve seen her reality TV
show — she hardly spends any time doing proper horse stuff. If someone made
a reality TV show about us, they’d be filming at least two hours a day with
the horses — whereas she has it all pre-packaged and done for her.”
Price’s brazen (and distinctly pink) assault on the no-nonsense, rise-at-five
equestrian world is typical of her unflinching ambition. She’s going for it,
whether they like it or not.
“There’s nothing wrong with someone like me doing it,” she says. “I’m just
bringing a bit of glamour to dressage. And besides: everyone’s been so
welcoming.”
Welcoming they may be, but this lot are by nature a very polite bunch. And
I’ve seen it: some of the smiles don’t quite reach the eyes. For now they
are putting on a brave, if slightly stunned face. Privately, however, many
have not taken kindly to, as one put it, “this surgically enhanced dolly
bird” muscling in on their territory.
Others are more pragmatic: Richard Davison, the manager of the Olympic
Dressage team, thinks that her presence could help to bring the sport to a
wider audience. “It’s refreshing, fantastic,” he says. “But it is a bit like
putting the cat amongst the pigeons,” he adds.
Backstage, I talk to the Olympic showjumper Tim Stockdale, himself a man with
quite an eye for publicity (he fronted the reality TV show Only Fools on
Horses). “I think it’s a good thing,” he says firmly. “The point about
horses is they don’t care who you are, they’re very honest creatures. To
them, she’s not a celebrity, she’s just another rider. The main thing,
though, is that people understand that we’re not a gimmick. I don’t want our
sport trivialised.”
Robert Smith, another top British showjumper and the son of the showjumping
legend Harvey Smith, agrees. “It’s a broad church,” he grins amiably,
pulling on his jacket. “I look forward to her going out topless!” he calls
back at me, as he strides off down the track towards the arena.
To the outside world it’s an irresistible clash of cultures. For Price, the
pinkification of the pony set surely represents a potentially huge business
opportunity. She — and her wares — may be tacky; but there’s no denying her
popularity. As the lights go down for her performance, the 8,000-strong
arena is filled to capacity. To the unmistakeably saccharine strains of
Peter Andre’s Mysterious Girl (what else), Price takes to the
floor on a fine black steed. She is wearing a black and gold-trimmed cropped
jacket with sequinned detail, more Playboy Bunny than pony club. Her hair is
slicked back into a ponytail (and not in a net, as it should be), and she is
in full night-club hostess make-up. It is quite a sight.
Flanked by Gould and Boswell, she performs the routine. By contrast to the
others she is stiff and nervy. She is struggling somewhat to control her
horse, who is not behaving quite according to plan; nevertheless, she grits
her teeth and carries on. If nothing else, the woman has balls. The crowd
claps, the horse falters, and they fall obligingly silent, not wanting to
tempt fate. She struggles, but she gets through it.
Afterwards, at the press conference, she is bullish. Will she really try for
the Olympics? “Why not?” I can see it now: Katie’s Olympic
Challenge, a four-year-long reality TV show in which the plucky former
glamour model overcomes the odds (and the snobs) to romp to victory at
London 2012. Don’t laugh too much: it could happen.
