What is the big deal with bloody N1? Hoxton might have a few bars and art galleries, but only the socially dysfunctional could ever believe that art and bars full of sour-faced stylists are a laugh.

E17's the spot. It has the greyhound racing stadium of the millennium - it's the home of The Dogs. The stadium is so glamorous it has its own members-only nightclub, Charlie Chan's. Walthamstow is hot, like a Ken Livingstone-approved Las Vegas at the end of the Victoria line.

We loaded up with pie, mash and liquor - a cockney delicacy - at L Manze, one of the city's finest pie-and-mash shops on Walthamstow High Street. The jellied eels I ostentatiously ordered - like the prat who insists on eating monkey brains on holiday - went untouched. I asked local boy Gary Painter behind the counter what would constitute a Large Night at the Dogs?

He answered me, stone-faced serious and fast: 'Pie and mash, few pints in the Dog and Duck by the stadium, get to the track in time for the second race, afterwards a quick look in at Charlie Chan's, followed by a cab out to Epping Forest Country Club.' Heads nodded around him. 'That would be a very good night out,' he said, reverential and adamant.

From the window of the 97 bus, Walthamstow Stadium is a technicolour, neon splendour. I felt the sort of excitement that you get from waltzers and holiday discos. My mate Tony, a genuine cockney, and my fella are old hands at the dogs. Tony's been going since he was a nipper: 'It's special at Walthamstow. Catford's a dump. Wimbledon's boring, but a night at the 'Stow is always a treat.'

If you are used to West End prices, Walthamstow is a bargain. Drinks are at pub prices, but the sense of occasion is a 24-carat gem. Pussy gamblers can't go wrong when the betting starts at 10p. For £12.50 I could buy a six-pack ticket which gives you: entrance, race card, a £1 bet on the Tote, two pints or two shots of spirits, scampi and chips, and a free return visit.

What have I been doing all my life, fleeced of £10 every time I order a bellini with only shouted conversation to fill the hours? The interior is genuine Sixties modern, with the sort of original details Wallpaper* flies first-class to Vladivostok to photograph.

After clapping my hands in ponce glee, I turned my enthusiasm on the friendly crowd so absent in my usual postcodes. My faith in London was reborn. There was plenty of Burberry, Louis Vuitton and Soho-boutique exclusive labels going down - a night at the dogs is hardly a well-kept secret, but it was my first time and I loved it.

My fella was impressing me, picking winners and accumulating wodges of crumpled fivers. As were the old biddies sitting at the tables studying the form. My small change pot was heavily depleted so I let him 'treat me', upstairs in the glamour of the Goodwood Lounge, to a meal. I chose the 'vegetarian' special, a tuna pasta bake. By the last race I was gagging for a win. Recklessly, I put £5 on Smoking Jacket, a rank outsider. The little bitch only went and won the race, securing me enough cash for a bottle of fizz, cabs galore, and 'one for yourself, barman'.

We were buzzing. I freshened my make-up in the ladies and we stepped down to Charlie Chan's where we were promptly refused entry for not meeting the exacting smart dress code. The minicab driver to Epping regaled us with tales of his joy-riding and car-nicking days: 'I never stole anything less than 15 grand. Not worth it.'

The journey was marred only by being stopped by the police for speeding. Epping Forest Country Club is Essex's premier nitespot, a cross between Fabric, Stringfellow's and a Beefeater Steak House. It was once one of the centres for legendary ecstasy-fuelled Ibizan-style excess. Recently there have been some well-publicised shootings, though EastEnders stars and footballers are the norm.

I might have known we wouldn't get in. The bouncer shook his head at the sight of Tony in his jeans and old-skool trainers: 'Mate, you're never going to pull a bird looking like that.' The bouncer then whispered something in Tony's ear. Tony disappeared, returning ten minutes later in some ankle-skimming pegged trousers and a pair of ex-policeman's shoes. The car-park attendant's little sideline in dress hire saved the day.

Inside the boys drooled over the fragrant Essex girls dancing up a glitter storm on the swirly carpet to house and garage. Sadly, our dress failed to mark us out as the high-rolling gamblers we really were. They make a proper effort out here. We spunked what was left of our collective winnings on the dogs - £67, £16 and 5p - on champagne and beer. My fella even won a fiver on the fruit machines.