Odds on favourites

“My grandfather raced dogs,” goes the old stand-up gag, “but he never beat ‘em!” Boom boom! My own grandfather, however, did actually race dogs and had an eye for a good ‘un. One of his “leash” – the collective noun for a group of greyhounds – was named after me, celebrating my arrival into the world. Jump Robert was a speedy animal with several prestigious victories to his name, including the News of the World trophy, in the Romford v Brighton inter-track competition. 

Since I was in the cradle, I never got to see my namesake in action. But when I too was let off the leash and went greyhound racing, I enjoyed it. It wasn’t so much the racing; more the “theatre” of the occasion. A rickety old stadium with its dusty oval track and the single, tin-roofed, concrete-terraced grandstand, with a packed, boisterous bar stretching across the top tier. The trackside bookies, shouting the odds, constantly chalking, scrubbing out and re-chalking the ever-changing numbers on slate boards. The scratchy, recorded fanfare announcing the next race as the yapping greyhounds were led out by white-coated handlers, looking more like off-duty doctors earning a bit of pin money. Then came the real excitement. 

Dogs safely in the traps, the trackside lights dimmed, and the “hare” began its journey from the far side of the track, gaining speed with the electric guide rail buzzing, sounding increasingly like a tube train approaching a station from the darkness of the tunnel. Finally, the traps spring up to thunderous cheers as the dogs hurtle away after the hare, only catching it as it slows to a standstill when the race is all over. It always amazed me that the dogs never clocked the fact that the “hare” was nothing more than a fluffy ball of material, rather than the tasty meal they were anticipating. 

As the dogs were rounded up, most punters ripped up their betting tickets and joined the general stampede back to the bar, where I sat outside waiting for my dad to emerge with a bottle of lemonade with a straw and a packet of crisps with that little blue packet of salt inside. Happy days. 

I still have that News of the World Trophy, which is actually a silvered tankard, probably more appropriate for an essentially “working class” sport. Many of those mid-twentieth century populist sports have largely disappeared now, or have become niche rather than mainstream. There was speedway with motorcyclists sliding their way around a track, trying to avoid their rear wheel overtaking the front one.

There was stock-car racing, a bit like fairground dodgems for grownups. Ten-pin bowling; pretty boring once you’d mastered the technique. And there was, of course, the daddy, or Big Daddy of them all, professional wrestling. While dogs and horses were my dad’s sports, wrestling was my mum’s. She loved it, and as my dad didn’t, I was usually roped in to accompany her on her wrestling outings. We travelled all over to see the top grapplers in action – once even to the Royal Albert Hall when the legendary Billy Two Rivers came to the UK to fight. I knew them all: Jackie “Mr TV” Pallo, Mick McManus, Steve Logan. You name them, I had their autograph in my little blue book. And as well as the top wrestling venues, we also went to the second division halls, where the “B” grade fighters did battle – my mum relished a good punch up.

Closest to home was our local flea-pit cinema, converted once a month into a wrestling arena. We even had a wrestling “relative”. He wasn’t really connected by blood, but because we kids were instructed by our dad to call his dad “uncle” he became, by association, our “cousin”. Sid was a nice guy, a clean wrestler, a favourite liked by most punters. One night he was up against the local bad guy, Tiger Bright, usually billed as “the fighter they love to hate.” Mum was in her usual ringside seat, while I’d crept off to the back of the hall for a crafty Players No 6. The fight was progressing steadily with a few calls for a bit more action, when out of nowhere the venue was in uproar.

Tiger had Sid trapped on the canvas in one corner and, having cast the hapless ref aside, was raining in punches, forearm smashes, and kicks on his cowering opponent. Suddenly a woman was through the ropes into the ring and was hammering Tiger over the back and head with her handbag, screaming, “Leave him alone, you bloody great bully.” One strap snapped off the handbag and it spilled open, sending lipstick, compact, purse, and fags hurtling in every direction. The ringside seconds and the ref, who by now had struggled to his feet, dragged away the woman and bundled her through the ropes as cheers and chants echoed around the building. It was my mum. 

With trembling fingers, I lit another No 6 and stared at the ground, but that was nothing to the humiliation of the following Monday morning. At the first break I ambled into the playground and joined a group of boys huddled together. One of them was regaling a story to the rapt attention of his listeners. “And this woman! Unbelievable. Smashing him over the head with her handbag, she was. She could have beaten them both on her own.” The group exploded into laughter while I slunk away without a word. I never went wrestling again. As far as I was concerned, wrestling had gone to the dogs.

Robert Rigby is a journalist, author and scriptwriter. His sport-themed fiction includes the novelisations of the “Goal!” movies and the four official London 2012 Olympics and Paralympics novels for children