Gone to the dogs.

My younger brother turned thirty this week. I can't tell you how old this makes me feel. Well, I just did. He was going to have a big 'do' i.e. hire a room, shit DJ and have a buffet, while my family destroy the room's carpet with fag-ends. That idea got nixed, but he wanted to do something different for his thirtieth. I suggested he doesn't punch anyone for the whole evening, but that's just crazy talk, so it was decided we spend an evening at the dog track in Hall Green. I've only ever done it once before,at a different stadium, at a friend's stag night (God, we're wild up here in Brum!) and while I had a nice time, I decided it wasn't really for me. So I set off with trepidation last night.
But it was a good laugh. I won on the first three races, which might have coloured my mood for the rest of the evening, even though I subsequently won fuck all.The whole notion of grown men and women shouting at dogs in a vain effort to make it run faster makes me laugh. The fact they try and encourage it by shouting "Come on, number two!!" which isn't even the dog's name, it's just what the animal leaves behind. I was also surprised at the amount of young attractive ladies that were there. (I wasn't looking too hard, promise!) The last time I went to the dogs at Perry Barr, I wasn't sure if we were in the bar or in the kennels. The women there were that rough they brought their own rohypnol with them. I digress.
Afterwards,we went to Broad Street, which, if you don't know Birmingham, is the main road for pubs and clubs for people who like that sort of thing. This was rubbish for me as I hate standing in a crowded bar shouting at the person next to me because the music's too fucking loud. I told you I was feeling old. Besides this, It was a good night, and the birthday boy didn't hit anyone, but his mate did.