From the Snooker World Championships in May, to the Cricket County Championship in September, and the Darts World Championship in December; Britain certainly has no shortage of bizarre – and somewhat archaic – sporting traditions.
However, there is perhaps no sporting practice seen on these shores that can claim to be as offbeat and peculiar as Britain’s sixth most popular spectator sport, Greyhound Racing. A pastime in which six dogs (specifically greyhounds) – an animal more commonly seen as a household pet – are raced over a distance of around five-hundred metres on a sand-covered track, something they are encouraged to do by the presence of a toy rabbit that runs slightly ahead of them around the track, while a crowd of onlookers place bets and rabidly cheer them on.
At the peak of its popularity, the sport was a national obsession. In 1946, there were over seventy million attendees at races each year, and over 270 tracks across the country. The most successful greyhounds – such as Spanish Battleship, a three time Irish Greyhound Derby winner – became revered heroes.
While attendances and levels of national interest have since waned, there still remain 21 tracks across the nation, which attract a dedicated fanbase and continue to be embedded landmarks of their community. One such track is situated in my own hometown of Romford, Essex, to which I recently paid my first ever visit.
Upon arrival at the track, I was immediately greeted by an eclectic mix of many elements of British life. The crisp, freezing cold January evening air, fused with the glare of the stadium floodlights, had clear redolences of a weeknight lower-league football game. While the crackly voice of a middle-aged volunteer directing traffic into an overcrowded suburban carpark, gave the area the feeling of a primary school on the night of the year six nativity.
It was also incredibly overwhelming uncovering a sporting subculture that I had never before been witness to; I felt as if I had landed in a new country, or arrived at the sold-out concert of an artist who I’d never before heard of.
Such a feeling was only compounded by the links between the sport and my own family. With an oft-recounted story – originally told to me by my late grandfather – focusing around the fact that my great-grandfather, Edgar Stanley Hague, once, on account of the fact that he enjoyed betting on the dogs, bought a racing greyhound off of his local milkman in Hackney. Needless to say, under his stewardship, it didn’t actually win any races.
Despite ‘going down the dogs’ being something that had never existed in my conscience, it was clearly something that was a hallmark of many people’s social lives. Many cars were adorned with stickers making some kind of reference to greyhound racing, while throngs of supporters poured in through the stadium’s many turnstiles. As my ticket was being checked and scanned, I was excited for whatever lay ahead.
Due to my attendance being on account of a special family occasion, I spent the evening in the track’s ‘Pavillion Carvery’, where spectators sit indoors at tables that overlook the track, instead of standing out on the freezing cold terraces. This was the crème de la crème of ‘an evening down the dogs’.
In spite of the modern decor, the ‘Pavillion Carvery’ was what can only be described as a time warp. The gents supped pints of John Smith’s and Guinness, and the ladies were offered refills on their glasses of Prosecco. While the buffet served prawn cocktails and devilled eggs, items rarely seen outside of a 1970s-era home counties dinner party. Yet, it was still a quintessentially lovely place to spend a weekend night out with the family – I even began to make mental plans to return with my friends at some point – and its outdated nature did nothing but increase the feeling of cosy familiarity.
To further add to the jovial, fun atmosphere, a number of bookies swiftly moved between the tables, allowing punters to place bets on the various dogs running across the course of the evening. While also incredibly helpfully explaining the sports complicated and sometimes even downright confusing gambling jargon. Regardless of the fact their actions led to me losing £13.64, I admired their work.
The Pavillion was also a fascinating place to people-watch. At some tables sat elderly retired couples, definitively old-school eastenders quietly admiring their surroundings and schematically placing bets. Meanwhile, other tables emanated significantly larger amounts of noise, as stiletto wearing Essex matriarchs, and their Ralph Lauren polo-shirt clad sons and grandsons celebrated birthdays and anniversaries with a ‘knees up’. All heightening the sense of local community.
Suddenly, as the clock hit eight o’clock, and crowd noise began to funnel in from the outside terraces, it was finally time to turn our heads and watch the main event of the evening, the races. Unfortunately, this was the point at which my enjoyment of the evening began to reduce.
While I can clearly see its appeal, and the crescendo to which the fans in the terrace build over the course of a race is positively rousing to any lover of attending sport; for me at least, the races are simply too fast paced to be truly engaging. My interest gradually decreased as I witnessed twelve races in the space of around three hours.
Over the course of their sub-one minute runtime, all one witnesses are vaguely discernible flashes of light – accompanied by the patter of paws – tear past them. Hardly any action can properly be caught or digested before the finish line is crossed, and the finishing order is being read out by the announcer.
One also couldn’t help but get the feeling that in some cases, many of the dogs did not particularly consent to their involvement in the spectacle, as they seemed to put up resistance to being placed in the starting boxes as the races were beginning, and in some cases seemed fairly unaware of their surroundings.
This served as a harsh reminder of the many controversies that surround greyhound racing, as concerns are often raised by animal rights organisations about the sport. Many greyhounds suffer severe injuries while racing, that will sometimes even lead to untimely death. While after retirement, a number of greyhounds are often abandoned or forced into cramped and unsatisfactory pens or enclosures. This has led to the sport being banned in forty-two states in the US.
Therefore, as the buffet began to be cleared away, and each spectator began their journey back to their own corner of Havering, I was left feeling discernibly confused, and my thoughts about the evening were wholly inconclusive. Despite the fact I would encourage you, the reader, to try ‘an evening down the dogs’ out for yourself, I don’t know if I will be returning myself any time in the near future.
Romford Racing is actively working to combat this issue with their campaign to increase greyhound welfare both during racing dogs’ careers and after their retirement. More can be found on that
The nearest track to the University of Manchester is the Owlerton Stadium, located in Sheffield. Tickets to races are available here.
