The Dog Days Are Over

In February a 90-year-old tree was torn down near Broad Street to almost universal uproar from the people of Birmingham. On Saturday, this Saturday just gone, Hall Green greyhound track, itself exactly 90 years old, held its last ever meet in front of just 1,500 punters. Most Brummies had no idea it was going. But it's gone.  

The only fanfare to mark its farewell was the digital trumpeting of the First Call, that signalled last bets on the final race. A trumpet call that had preceded last bets on tens of thousands of races before that. Whether the stadium is vanishing because the sport is outdated and cruel, or if it's going because money talks, isn't a debate for now. But this time next year a 48-bedroom hotel and 210 houses will be built where part of Birmingham culture once roared. For our money, that's worth documenting.

When we arrived at the stadium on Saturday, for our first visit in the best part of 12 years, a couple were struggling to gain entry because they hadn't pre-booked. They explained to the manager that he had popped the question at the dog track and that they were marking their anniversary by saying goodbye to it. Without charging them a penny, without having another word said, she waved the pair through. It might not be the most romantic place on Earth, but for those two it literally is. Literally was.  

We spoke to dozens about their attendance that night and a familiar story formed. "I came to pay my respects" they'd say, sipping on bad lager and chewing on worse chicken. They visited regularly years back, the story would go, and they'd bet trackside with bookies who would calculate the ever-changing odds in seconds before wiping down whiteboards (or blackboards) and updating their figures with frightening mental arithmetic. Only one bookie remained who did it this way. The rest, trackside, relied on digital boards and, sadder still, inside punters queued in droves to place bets on machines. No chirpy "good lucks" from old ladies sat at desks as they de-crinkled crumpled fivers. No congratulations or commiserations, just cards going in to machines that would spit back betting slips. Welcome to factory betting: one of many individual nails hammered into this particular coffin. 

Our own experience of mid-90s nights at the dogs went something like this. Actually it went exactly like this. We'd meet at Moor Green FC — another sporting institution forced out of Hall Green, this time courtesy of arson — and we'd watch our local team get beaten in the rain. We'd wander over to the dog track, via the The Bull's Head, betting money we couldn't afford, money earned in part time jobs at WHSmiths, or at Next, or at Gateway, on dogs with daft names.  

We had a choice: stand indoors and smoke a zillion fags by proxy, or stand outside and freeze with the bookies. Whoever had won the most that night would be forced to spend all his winnings and more, on four balti meats, four naans and four Kingfisher. The same night, with the same friends, replicated 20, maybe 30 times over.

God, we think we might even miss this place.

The Greyhound Trust are looking for homes for retired Greyhounds. Head here.

Imagery: Good pics: James Tate, less good pics: Tom Cullen