Suggs and the City: Journeys Through Disappearing London (26 page)

I don’t think it’s the risk of being savaged by wild animals that keeps the good folk of London at home rather than at the dog track these days. But there are now so many other activities competing for our leisure time, like pilates, which hadn’t been invented in 1927, and the TV, computer games and the internet - and you haven’t even left home yet. The virtual world is your oyster. Now that the sport is slowly losing its visibility in popular culture, it’s hard to imagine just how important greyhound racing was in the sporting calendar.

One of the best-loved dogs of the pre-Second World War era, and probably the star that really got Britain excited about the sport, was a hound called Mick the Miller, whose career spanned 1929 to 1931. Originally owned and trained in Ireland by Father Martin Brophy, legend has it that he was so impressive on his first run out at White City that he was auctioned then and there on the steps of the stadium for 800 guineas, the price of desirable house in a leafy London suburb or two. During his brief British racing career, he won 46 out of 61 races and was the first dog to be a double Greyhound Derby winner, the top prize of the greyhound racing calendar.

He was the sporting pin-up of his day. His mush appeared everywhere. On his retirement, he even starred in a film loosely based around greyhound racing called
Wild Boy
, playing the title role. Released in 1934, having gone way over budget, the thin plot revolved around an unscrupulous greyhound owner trying to stop his rival, and the owner of our eponymous hero, from winning the Greyhound Derby. I think, actually, it would make a rather marvellous plot for a Duran Duran comeback promo. Simon Le Bon in flat cap, nervously smoking a roll-up while trying to nobble John Taylor’s dog. No? Not enough yachts? Oh well. Scrolling down the list of credits, I spotted that among Mick’s co-stars were Flanagan and Allen. That’s Bud Flanagan, who once shared the bill with my mother-in-law and whose own mother ran a fried fish shop on Hanbury Street in Spitalfields. Which takes us back to that Huguenot/Jewish fusion food again.

When Mick the Miller died, he was so highly treasured that he was stuffed and exhibited in the Natural History Museum, which, rest assured, was an accolade. Mick was there on display until 2005, when he was moved to an offshoot of the Natural History Museum in Tring. It’s a bit out of my catchment area, but apparently you’ll find him on his plinth in Gallery Six.

My passion for dog racing was probably at its most fervent when, along with my fellow band members, I actually enjoyed a stint as owner of a greyhound, Nutty Boy, who briefly raced out of Walthamstow. We were very excited about his potential, and we had some great nights out, taking on the likes of Vinnie Jones - on the track, I hasten to add. But Nutty Boy didn’t reach the heights we’d hoped for, because of illness rather than lack of class.

After Mick the Miller, the sport found other heroes and remained popular through to the 1960s and 70s. Imagine this: even in 1966, when we all had World Cup fever and were innocently singing ‘World Cup Willie’ without even thinking of sniggering, a greyhound meet at Wembley took precedence over a World Cup match between France and Uruguay. All the group one games except this fixture were played at Wembley, but the France v Uruguay match had to be played instead at another great greyhound venue, White City Stadium, while the dogs had their day at Wembley.

Greyhound racing had something of an ironic revival in the 1980s, when city workers discovered the sport, and it was plonked back on to the cultural map when Blur featured greyhounds on the cover of
Parklife
. But there has been no real resurgence in interest. Now it’s a sport that is struggling to keep its place in the affections of the public. Greyhound racing has always been closely allied with gambling, so the ‘lure’ of other betting opportunities, especially online gambling, has also had a role in the decline of the sport.

As you’ll have gathered, I am all for being ‘there’, wherever the ‘there’ is, rather than experiencing something vicariously on a computer screen. To get a taste of this fast-disappearing spectator experience, you could do worse than head out east to Romford for a night out. But if you do go, I recommend that you follow this golden rule: put your betting money in one pocket and your real money in another and don’t confuse the two, because if you do, you may have trouble getting home.

So there you are at Romford, standing on the terrace on a crisp late-winter evening, and - putting the newish hospitality area to one side, with its restaurants and bars - the terraces are reminiscent of a lower-league football club in the 1970s: functional and intimate rather than glamorous. But you are quickly transported away from reality, even with no cheetahs on the race card. It has to be said that dog racing is improved when it’s experienced as a nocturnal event. The sky is a deep black, an unnatural colour only ever achieved under floodlights. There is a sense of adventure in the air - or is it just the aroma of Woodbines and spilt lager? The arena at night, under lights, suddenly seems to acquire a touch of glamour. The crumbling stadium, the slightly tattered advertising hoardings, the litter, all recede into the half light. The rest of the world and all its aggravations and demands can be forgotten. The bookies’ stalls entice you, the lights of the bars of the stadium twinkle and beckon you in. All wrapped up against the cold, you get a race card and give it your utmost attention. In my case, it’s all done scientifically. I eliminate the name of any dog that in any way might suggest disappointment or failure. Using this patented system to identify the winning hound, I stride to the bookie certain that I’m going to get it right this time, just like the England World Cup squad of 1982.

When I am about to hand over hard-earned cash, book-makers are so welcoming and full of promise. At the dogs, they always seem to congratulate me on my choice - ‘Certainly got a chance’ - which is merely a grudging statement of the fact that my dog had actually made it on to the track, had not savaged its owner or refused to enter its trap. But hope springs eternal and I immediately have a sense of camaraderie with fellow gamblers, whose dreams I share for just a minute or so.

There goes the electrified bunny round the inside ring, up go the trap doors, all of a clatter, off go the greyhounds in their little orange, blue, black and white racing waistcoats. And there goes my money, down the drain. Like England in 1982, the campaign begins with optimism but ends in broken dreams. At the end of the night, the steps of the terracing at Romford are covered with discarded dreams and betting slips, mine included. One of the great mysteries of dog racing is why you are always standing next to some delirious winner when you are losing.

Romford has not been my lucky track. But the track at the now-defunct Walthamstow dogs, well, that has been a scene of triumph. Aside from each race night with Nutty Boy, one of my best nights out at Walthamstow dogs was enjoyed in the company of my cousin, Hector, on the occasion of his stag do. Twelve Welshmen were let loose in London, and I was their guide and chaperone. We had a superb time in Soho and then we determined to enjoy a spot of dog racing. I can’t quite recall how we got our party up to Walthamstow, but we were having a jolly time at a table in the terrace restaurant, despite losing money on every race on the card. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the elegant figure of Jimmy White, snooker supremo, with a few mates in tow, who seemed to appear out of the night shadows like a vision.

There were only about three races left and it was apparent Jimmy and his mates weren’t betting. They were just sitting, fags in mouths, counting out wodges of cash on their table. Big wodges.

Jimmy is one of the few people who deserves his billing as a London hero, and is an eminently likeable chap to boot. Having seen him around over the years, I went up to say hello and, with a vague sense of responsibility for my group, who could barely rustle a cab fare at this point, find out what was occurring. Among the pleasantries, it was intimated to me that a certain dog in the last race might be worth the punt of a penny or two, and there were a fair amount of pennies in Jimmy’s hands as he strode to the teller.

Now as any betting man will tell you, a true tip is an elusive creature and even a tip based on inside knowledge can never guarantee a winner. So it was with this in mind that I approached the bookie with some trepidation. In my hand was the contingency fund, which I was holding in reserve in order for there to be some evening left back in town, should things turn out badly for us. To be frank, they already had. But by making a bet at this late stage, I was breaking my golden rule.

Jimmy and his mates had only come for the last race. Did they know something? They must. They better had. All eyes were on me as I returned to our table, the little table lamp dimmed, the distorted trumpet fanfare sounded and they were off! And so were we. The dog came out of the traps first and won by a mile. What a feeling, second only to standing in front of the teller as she counted out the readies, lots of them, an experience I have had so rarely I can count them on the fingers of one mitten. Thanks, Jimmy.

At 5.30 that morning I was standing on Frith Street in Soho and still had £800 of my winnings in my pocket. A cabbie I knew was chatting to my friend Anthony Polledri outside Bar Italia. He had had poor business all night and was about to give it up. My family had decamped to Kent for the weekend and I was flagging and wanting to go home. My last Champagne Charlie act of the night was to say to the cabman, ‘Take me to Whitstable and don’t spare the horses.’ There can be few finer things than munching on a cheese and ham croissant, cantering up hill and down dale, through the misty Kentish countryside, in a black cab, first thing.

The closure of Walthamstow, the scene of this rather wonderful night of adventure and some other convivial evenings, is a loss to me and to London. It even holds a place in David Beckham’s heart because it’s where, as a teenager, he earned a few bob collecting empty glasses. Presumably, David could only do this when Manchester United had away games in London. Life is full of tough choices, and I guess David will just have to learn to live with regret in his mansions in Milan and LA.

 

David chose football, as so many of us now do. So let’s have a look at how the competing sport of football staked its claim on the hearts and minds of Londoners at the end of the nineteenth century. As the story unfolds, what becomes clear is that numbers and availability of spectators had a huge impact on the location, architecture and destiny of some of London’s football clubs 100 odd years ago. The players were very much an afterthought.

In the early days of football in London, the success of a team was as much about the spectators and where the ground was as the standard of football itself. In the interests of research into Fulham’s footballing history, I chanced upon an old Fulham FC coaching film from the 1930s. I have to say that even now I could probably back-heel a ball with greater skill and confidence than the two chaps in their long shorts.

To be quite frank, if we spectators hadn’t come to games in the 1890s in search of a bit of light relief, entertainment and camaraderie, there wouldn’t be any professional football teams in London. No stadiums, no legacy and no football songs like ‘Blue Day’, the one I recorded with Chelsea’s 1997 FA Cup squad. I’m prepared to argue the toss over the contribution to culture that I made with that particular musical outing, but I feel I’m on firmer ground when I draw attention to the importance of spectators in the emergence and development of football in the capital.

As one of the inheritors of this noble band and as one of the hundreds of thousands of football fans who collectively form part of the fabric and history of the game, not just in London but across the UK, let me just share with you one of my first efforts to see a game on my own at the Bridge (Stamford Bridge, of course). I spent my early years near to the ground, so there was no real doubt about where my loyalties would lie, particularly as at the time Chelsea were the team of the moment - the King’s Road boys, full of flair and ambition.

I was football crazy, football mad. As a kid, like every boy I knew, I played every lunchtime at school, then after school in the street or the park. Like every player in our daily kick-abouts, at some stage during the game my imagination would take wing and transport me to Wembley - the old Wembley with the twin towers, mind you. Why they never incorporated them into their new Wembley, I shall never know. I still dream of them now. The next goal I’d score would not be any old goal - in my head, it would be the winning goal in an FA Cup final. Then I’d throw my arms in the air - victorious - and run around like everyone did, screaming, ‘Yeeeessssss!’ It often left me a bit hoarse, and having no voice left after football is something that has haunted the rest of my career. I still struggle to restrain that full-throated cry, even in my home.

My love of football was not confined to just playing the game. My bedroom wall was covered with team photos. I lived and breathed that team: Osgood, Hudson, Harris, Hutchinson, Hollins, Webb, Bonetti, etc. Indelibly etched in my mind, even to this day. At night I dreamt football, and each night the dream was the same. There I was at Stamford Bridge, clad in my blue shirt, blue shorts with the white stripe, white socks, Chelsea lion on my chest, Osgood on my left, Hudson on my right, jogging out on to the pitch as the Shed roared its adoration. Oh, to be eight again.

I had fallen in love with Chelsea Football Club. While I was practising my turns and overhead kicks, I was also memorising names. I was learning about the club’s history. Then, aged eight, I took my first tentative steps in European football. I’d like to say it was as the second striker ‘in the hole’, but sadly it was in the stands. But don’t think for one minute that because I was not playing I had only a passive role in the match. This could not be wider of the mark. That day, I gave my all.

Chelsea were in the Cup Winners’ Cup. We had won the FA Cup that summer, in two titanic battles against the supposedly impregnable hard men of Leeds. It was 1970, and on a dark, wintry Wednesday night in November we were due to entertain CSKA Sofia. That makes it sound as though me and my mum were laying on a spread of cold meats and pickled eggs for the Bulgarian hordes and, of course, I would have happily obliged. The welcome they would have got round our house would have proved warmer than the reception they got at Stamford Bridge, because at least we had electricity at home. Not for the first time, the Chelsea stadium was less than fit for purpose. The floodlights had failed and the game had to be postponed. As a nine-year-old, I knew I was never going to be allowed to go to that night game, but this technical hitch was the first of a number of pieces of good fortune that befell me and my chums in the ensuing 24 hours.