Morning:
8°c
Had I known what fun greyhound racing was, I'd have gone to the dogs years ago. What a shame I didn't because Walthamstow Stadium shuts tomorrow, destined to become affordable flats. I squeezed through the turnstile last night, though, and found dog racing to be on great form.
Even getting there was tricky, with traffic jamming the North Circular roundabout nearest the iconic white art deco building. dog enthusiasts streamed past the giant neon greyhound, leaping like a modern-day Stubbs across the front of the stadium, and last night every restaurant seat was booked.
Inside there was a sign: "as a result of increased attendances our staff are finding it difficult to cope. Please be patient." Certainly the bars and betting windows were queued out and by the time I thought to take a red plastic seat in the expensive stand (£6 as opposed to the £1 cheap version opposite), every one was bagged.
The average age took me by surprise, too. I went expecting a sea of flat caps but the bulk of spectators were spruced up and under 40. Whatever the punters' age, they were having fun.
From the moment the first trainers paraded their dogs along the sandy track I was gripped. Choosing one to back is baffling, and watching the tic-tac men's semaphore or the bookies chalking up ever-changing odds doesn't help a bit. Friends offered conflicting advice: choose a number and stick to it through all the night's races; pick the name you like best; watch to see if any dog relieves itself - it'll run the fastest. as it happens, even favourites don't always win. But one thing's for sure - Walthamstow regulars love an underdog. When I backed number four - drooper's Jackay - on the basis that it was a rank outsider at 8 to 1, the crowd went wild as it so nearly won.
The races are short and sharp but leave the Olympics standing for sheer addictive thrill. Winning dogs are led out wearing jackets of scarlet and gold, then lifted gently to the podium, surrounded by the family that trained them. It's a moving, modest sight and for my money beats Beijing gold anytime.
But most of all, Walthamstow is part of London's living history. Trainers, bookmakers, punters: they're all families who've raced greyhounds for generations. and they want the tradition to survive.
So when a spokesman for Save Our Stow got up on stage, his angry attack on the plan to sacrifice local leisure for housing drew huge cheers. Now the campaign has raised enough cash to buy the stadium back. Something tells me there's life in this old dog track yet.
