Doggy style

Lord. My stay in the UK is quickly turning into a visit to a theme park of British-ness.

Last night I went dog racing. Greyhounds, to be precise. A £10 ticket gets you entry to the ‘stadium’, two pints of beer and a traditional serving of fish and chips. You’d think that with a bargain like that it’d be hard to go wrong.

The point is that the real profit is made on the betting that goes on at the races, so the food and drink offer is kind of a ruse to get new punters through the doors. It worked with us. Besides, what else would I be doing on a wet and windy Tuesday evening (the answer is obviously sleeping and saving money).

In fact, so bracing was the weather that even the trackside bookies had moved indoors – in a bid, I’m guessing, not to lose their deerstalkers to the elements. So, all business was done indoors, but it was still outside where all the action was to be found.

Slotting ourselves in behind a curious collection of middle-aged women, we settled in for the first race of the evening. Now, it seems that it is common practice to sponsor a race for a special occasion, and name the race accordingly. This would explain why the 7.35 race was entitled ‘The Denise is looking good at 50 Stakes’.

I saw Denise later. She was having a cuddle with the winner. Denise wasn’t looking good at 50, trust me. But maybe it was the fake snakeskin ‘blouse’ that aged her.

In fact, when it came to outfits it has to be said that we were as far away from Royal Ascot, sartorially speaking, as is humanly possible. Not for us the Chanel suit and Philip Treacy fascinator. Oh no, it was poorly fitting leopard skin tops for the ‘ladies’ and anything that is good for fighting in for the lads. Hair (both male and female) was uniformly dyed the traditional shade of ‘barmaid blonde’, and the air was thick with the scent of Cool Water and the latest J-Lo offering.

So there we were, two Brit’s, a German boy and a French girl. Each as bewildered as the next. But once we got over the initial shock and the ‘have we gone back in time?’ questioning we had a marvellous evening.

Not for us the study of form or parentage – we placed our bets on the dogs with the fanciest names (‘Juniper Julip’ was my favourite in this category), the names with double entendres (we all love a ‘Midnight Tickle’, surely?), and the names that sounded like slutty teenagers (every school had a ‘Sucky Kim’, I’m certain).

I bet a grand total of £21 (hey, big spender) and won a massive 60 pence. I’m no Stephen Hawkings, but I know that that’s not a good return on my money. But what price a good time? Fifty quid always seems to be the going rate, but I’m talking about a good time, out with friends, enjoying a pleasant evening together. Laughing at the badly dressed locals and wondering why we’re not getting drunk on the cheap watery beer.

Surely £21 is a price worth paying?