People who have known me for some time will remember there was a period about three years ago when I was actively pursuing the purchase of a greyhound. I love dog racing, and unlike the gee-gees I am actually quite good at judging the nick of a greyhound and its potential. I’ll return about the arcane business of doping, and handicapping, it is a much more predictable sport. Nevertheless the scheme fell through, mainly on the business of what to do if the dog got injured or retired early. A lot of greyhounds get sent to the dog version of the glue factory (the Pritt Stick factory) for pulling a muscle as their owners are not able to house them. Our consortium of eight were all living in rented accommodation, and those who weren’t did not really fancy a dog round the house. I myself had a bad experience in Seaford with a Jack Russell aged seven, and as such am purely an admirer of a dog for its sporting prowess.

All this came back to me, Tuesday night in the pub. Greyhound Racing on TV is a lackluster way of getting your thrills, but there is a race almost every ten minutes for the bar stool punter. Anyway, the 8:50 at Wimbledon, in trap number four was a dog called Baran Zulu. I doubt I would have called a dog of mine that, even if allowed. There are very strict pedigree rules about naming greyhounds, the first name usually comes from the sire. Which suggests that this Baran is a dog. Ho hum. Anyway, I watched engrossed as the raced panned out, but Baran Zulu – went the way of most second favourites. Stuck at the back, no way round it only managed third because the dogs which had a bit of whizz on their snout were fading fast.

But I want a camel coat, and the air of dodgy (doggy) insouciance that dog racing promised me.