Gone to the dogs

Well, we haven't been to the Royal Ascot races, or even anywhere I'd need to wear a fancy hat. (Which is okay by me.) But we have been to the dog track, which as you can imagine is almost as posh. The cover of Blur's Parklife album is as close as I've come to greyhound racing in the past, and I hadn't realized it was a bit of a thing here in England. It flies under the radar as you aren't likely to find dog tracks in the sanitized touristy areas of a city, nor are you likely to encounter Prince William at one. We had to take the bus out to the part of Oxford the tourist hordes never see. We even went beyond the ring road. And there, in suburban wasteland that could have been almost anywhere in the Western world (brown 1960s and 1970s duplexes and row houses with the odd smattering of apartment blocks and parking lots), was the Oxford Greyhound Stadium. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night they have races. You pay five pounds to get in, and they give you a programme of all the races that night, the dogs competing, and lots of complicated information about the dogs' previous races and statistics, whether they're a wide runner or middle runner (whatever that means), etc.

The place reminded me of a hockey arena, not least because it was bloody freezing outside so we stayed in the warm part behind glass as much as possible, in an area with grungy chairs and tables and a canteen suffusing the air with the odours of french fries (okay, chips) and watery hot chocolate. Except there was, of course, also a bar. So the first order of business was to pick up a beer, and then peruse the programme to plan our first bets.



Before each race, handlers would parade the dogs past the stands. For what purpose I don't know, as bets were already finished by that point so if you discovered that your dog was half the size of the others, or even lame, it was too late to change.



When the dogs went into their little chutes to start the race, we'd rush downstairs to take our places along the track. The mechanical hare would go whizzing past, followed by the pack of greyhounds, and the whole thing would be over in a few short minutes. As no flash was allowed, this was the best 'action shot' we could muster.



The betting system proved to be a challenge for someone with no tolerance for small print, calculations and statistics, and the weighing of several options (this is why I could never be bothered to choose a cell phone plan). After a cursory glance at the programme, I decided to bet on the dogs with the cutest names. Because I forgot to visit the bank machine Jeff and I placed one bet between us, taking turns to choose the winner. He was actually thinking about which dog might be likely to win based on its stats, and didn't notice that I wasn't until I bet on a dog named 'Tullyvin Laura'. Naturally that arose his suspicions. 'Tullyvin Laura' comported herself much like her namesake. She was big and ungainly and clearly aspired to nothing greater than mediocrity, placing an unremarkable fourth out of six. (You don't want to do well, because then there will be Pressure and Expectations. The coach might erroneously think you have Potential and make you work harder to realise it. I've run every race I've been in with the sole objective of being Not Last.)

Jeff kept saying he didn't understand it, he won three times at his last trip to the dog track, how could we go an entire night without success? But he hadn't been out betting with me before. I am a black hole of despair when it comes to any kind of gamble or lottery. In fact, by the end of the night people were asking me which dog I was betting on so they'd know which NOT to pick. Hmmm ... perhaps that's a power in itself. Knowing how to pick a loser is surely almost as useful as being able to pick a winner? (I am here obliged to preclude jokes by acknowledging that I have picked a winner in Jeff.)

Anyway, as I may have mentioned earlier, it's suddenly quite chilly here. The sun has been setting as I've left work the past couple of days which means the long dark winter is uncomfortably close. But in the meantime, it's an excuse to make tracks for the nearest pub, or curl up with a book and a nice hot mug of tea. Eh, to heck with books. We've got a whole new season of TV shows to get on with! If you haven't been watching Mad Men and can catch up on previous episodes, it's just swell. As is Flight of the Conchords. (We'll also be looking out for Scrubs, Heroes and My Name is Earl.)