Well, children, I went dog racing. Clive is getting married to the lovely (and lucky) Pippa in 2 weeks' time, and I had the privilege of attending his stag do. A couple of people expressed some surprise that a member of the fairer sex would take part in such a time-honored, masculine event, but Clive is an enlightened metrosexual (as well as my best mate) -- and I can hold my own when it comes to discussing football and, so it would seem, successfully betting on the dogs. After many pints in a Soho pub, we set off for the far east, to Walthamstow Stadium for a highly entertaining night of chips, beer, and small bets on pointy-headed dogs. Between us, PJ and I won something on 12 of the 14 races, earning enough to pay for a slap-up breakfast at the Italian caff just down the road from our hotel. Going to the dogs has never been so much fun.
The venue:
The multi-tasking boys: trying to figure out how to place a bet, drink a pint, and eat scampi and chips:
The groom, with his betting slip:
The board, showing the popular bets and prize money. We didn't actually figure out what this was until late in the evening.
The happy punter:
The slap-up breakfast, complete with strawberry milkshake:
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