Going to the dogs

The following post is largely for the benefit of those fool-hardy folk who kick a ball with me on a Saturday morning, and specifically those who attended our social last night, although other readers who know Ross Caws may also want to read on.

It is not often that my blog entries, let alone any comments that are made about Saturday morning football, are sombre and serious in tone, but there were a number of very worrying things that took place at the Dogs last night, and, in all seriousness, I would like to relate them to you so that together we can help the individual concerned.

For those unaware of the basic facts: a number of us from the football crew had a social at the dog-racing track in Brandon last night. In different circumstances, I would totally recommend it: three course meal; £10 worth of free bets; your own table from which all races can be viewed, and waiting service throughout. Our experiences, however, were not at all pleasant, and as a regular Saturday morning player I feel quite strongly that we need to rally round and do what we can to support a fallen comrade, Mr. Ross Caws. I am genuinely fearful for him.

Early in the evening, Ross was his usual, chirpy self - lots of banter, plenty of jokes and a plastic wallet full of pound coins. It was a genuine pleasure to see Ross back a winner in the first race. His little face lit up at the prospect of not only collecting his winnings, but also enjoying the bragging rights that he would have for the rest of the evening. Whilst the rest of us were discussing what food to order, Mr. Caws was sitting quietly, grinning to himself, clearly relishing his beginners' luck.

It was not long after this that things took a turn for the worse. Ross backed another winner, and another, and, inexplicably, another. As the winnings came pouring in, I began to notice some (initially) subtle changes in Ross's body language, demeanour and general attitude. All banter began to subside, and anyone wanting to make a friendly joke would be countered with a frosty stare. Whilst placing bet number three, his hands were visibly shaking, and when I tried to have a look at his ticket, merely to see which dog he had gone for, he snatched up his fork and slammed it down, sharp end first, missing my hand by a whisker. Shocked, I looked up at him, and was horrified by what I saw. His eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, were cold and dead, and his face had turned a deathly white. Clearly struggling to keep his voice under control, he whispered - "Don't...touch...the...Master's... ticket".

If all of this was alarming, then what followed was almost too distressing to relate. Ross's luck began to disappear, and after three wins on the trot, he then had three consecutive losses. After loss number three, his head slumped to the table, shoulders heaving, breathing erratic and irregular. His whole body was shaking, and by this point our entire party had become very concerned. A lady on the table opposite ours was talking quietly to her friend, and announced that, as she had run out of money, she would be making "no more bets". Upon hearing this, Ross jumped up, screaming in a way that was just not human:

"NO!" he cried. "I CAN TURN IT AROUND, I KNOW I CAN! PLEASE, YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'LL DO TO ME!"

As a silent and horrified restaurant turned to stare at him, Ross realised his mistake. Looking more deathly pale than ever, he mumbled something about "should be more careful" and sat down.

By the time we reached the final race, Ross had, to some extent, regained control of himself, although he was still uncharacteristically silent. As we made our way back to the cars, he walked, head down and shoulders hunched, some ten yards ahead of us. Just as we reached the exit, he suddenly spun round and confronted me.

"When's the next meeting here?"

"I'm not sure Ross, I'll have to..."

"WHEN'S THE NEXT MEETING HERE?!"

"Ross...please! Just let me look..."

"I'VE GOT TO KNOW! MY HEAD'S SPINNING, I...please, Joe, I'm sorry for shouting. I just need to know."

"Tomorrow, Ross. 7.30."

No sooner had I finished speaking than he ran past me, back onto the dogs track, and disappeared into the darkness, ignoring our shouts and pleas.


That was the last any of us have seen of him. We spent several hours searching, and even got some of the staff involved, but, apart from the occasional guttural scream echoing down the corridors, there was neither sight nor sound.

As you can imagine, I had a sleepless night, and was roused from a state of disturbed slumber at 7am by the manager of the track. He told me that a few minutes ago one of his cleaners had reported seeing a young man lying, foetal position, in the middle of the track, eyes wide and blood-shot, stroking an old tote card and repeating over and over "twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours..."

I am planning to drive over there this afternoon. I'm not sure if I'll make it back again. I fear him, for here, truly, is a great mind overthrown.