Gone to the dogs

Last night I had a typical British evening out. A friend invited me to come along to the greyhound racing track in Wimbledon.

I didn't quite know what to expect so in my naivety I asked what I should wear. I had images in mind of women in flowery dresses and hats, sipping champagne. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dog racing is also known as the "poor man's horse racing" and is far removed from the high society image of horse racing. It was more a spectacle of big bellies, beer and betting. It was very entertaining to see the whole experience. The dogs waiting in their traps, eager to go chase that fake bunny, the trainers in their white coats, the betting frenzy and the tacky bombastic music as the race is about to start.

I did bet a few pounds myself that all woefully went to waste. My friend won £0.60 and one other person in our group managed to actually go home with a few more pounds than she came with. Other than that though we all lost. My bets were all pretty much wild guesses anyhow. We did get a stat book before the races but I had no idea how to interpret all those facts and figures. My chosen ones were primarily based on the dog's name. Unfortunately Fear Haribo, Rhincrew Molly and Unique Pharaoh did not bring me any luck. O well, I am more of a cat person anyway.