After the game a few of us went to Wimbledon dogs. I really didn’t feel like it but it was probably better than sitting at home annoying Hady. We got there, paid a gold-skinned weasel of a man five pounds to get in, and strolled up to the punters’ lounge. This is like a giant… what? maybe a college lecture theatre that’s looking out onto a dog track through glass. Strange.
Anyway, we’re there and the first race goes and there go six greyhounds whizzing round a track. I don’t know who they are and spending money guessing who’s going to win seems a bit odd to me in this black, black mood. Some people cheer: “go on six!” and so on. I watch to see how happy the dogs look. They get to the end and yes, they’ve enjoyed their run. Okay, well that cheers me up a bit. I sit and take things in. My brain replays Jermain Pennant’s near post drive. Whoosh! Why didn’t Keller move?
I went to get some food. Chips and mushy peas for me, my mate Wilf’s having a hot dog and chips. My polystyrene tub of mush looks pretty tasty actually, Wilf’s hot dog has a black look about it, blackened onions smothering a long slimy sausage below. I haven’t a fork so make do with my fingers, which later end up covered in bright green mushy pea sediment. While we’re waiting we talk about the dogs and how they’re going to go. Are the rumours about pinching their balls to make them go faster true? Wilf gets a text: “I hear they stick ginger up their arses”. We could try that with Diomansy Kamara, I think to myself.
Someone overhears us. His name is Bookie Jack and he must be seventy at least. He reminds me of the cigarette smoking man in the X-Files. Bookie Jack is in charge of the bookies who stand down trackside and take money for nothing. He tells us that one of the trainers in particular is quite straight. Quite straight? The implication is that others are not. What does he mean? Well, just that this trainer exercises the dogs properly, plays by the rules, does the right thing. Alright, I think, this is something to latch onto. We head off to the Tote stand and put £5 on this trainer’s dog.
And it wins. Our fiver gets us… £8.50 back. Alright, it had been a favourite. Not to worry, I have an in now, I’m an ethical investor. I proceed to bet on this trainer’s dogs all night. They don’t win again until the last race, at which point I make £4.50 for a £2 stake. Some of my friends are throwing tenners at the bookies, chasing a big win, but £2 here and there is more than enough for me. I’m betting on the good guys, not with any expectations of winning but because it seems like the right thing to do. In goes Pennant’s shot again. The whole crowd is stunned into a final silence. Rats.
The clock ticks on and I’ve gone into myself again. There’s laughter and joy all around but now I’m staring at the glass, still wearing my coat even though I’m indoors. It’s time to go home and watch Match of the Day, to see if things still look bad for Fulham. Keller definitely should’ve saved the first shot, and what happened on the second? Now the pundits are talking about who the third team to go down will be. We’re in a two team bracket of shame with Derby County. Birmingham, Bolton and Reading are all discussed as relegation mates, and again I sit and think that we must be better than these teams. But we’re not are we?
