Tempting though it is to pretend otherwise, turning up in Manchester with a student grant and a new teenage bride but minus a place to live, diverted my attention well away from greyhounds. Looking back I don’t think I had even begun to realise that I was stepping into an equally lively and thriving scene.

Once again, lady luck had already intervened to help get me properly back on the straight and narrow. Jobless, bored and reluctant to travel all the way to the City, I decided to look for temporary work nearer home. After an early lunchtime pint or two in the Spotted Dog, I wandered into a recruitment agency in Barking to sign on as a temp. Even back then the town could never be mistaken for a job magnet, but they did have a permanent clerical post that had come in earlier. The bad news was that it was in Dagenham and an annoying bus ride away from the station meaning a barely reduced commute. The compensation came in the form of my potential employer. No-one in the agency had a clue about the company, but when I heard the immortal words ‘Joe Coral Head Office’, I recognised at once that my many good deeds in previous lives had not been in vain.

My year at New Road between 73 and 74 was an education in many ways, some still best left unwritten. What it gave me, apart from a steady stream of accurate information from stables across Southern England, were the contacts to guarantee weekend work as a Saturday settler as soon as I set foot in Manchester. The income this ensured from day one was enough to just overcome the well founded misgivings of my other half, albeit after a long and agonising photo-finish, and pretty soon a new chapter was born.

At the time there were three NGRC circuits in the Manchester area, each with a very distinct character and as far as I could make out not much in the way of overlapping clientele. I spent little time at Salford for two very compelling reasons. First it was the ‘real doing racing mans’ real dog track. To say facilities were sparse is to do it a significant kindness. Second, it was very clear that incomers from Manchester were not a hugely welcome breed. Quite where that left Cockneys needs no illumination. Salford was responsible for developing my continuing affection for handicap racing, both as a spectacle and a punting medium. I could only venture there in safety with either a huge, one-eyed Irish professional poker player or a local with a car repair business that sometimes involved an unfortunate accident with a crusher. It was in other words a rare treat.

Manchester White City was where I spent most of my time. Although not far away as the crow flies it had all the trappings of a proper stadium. To be strictly accurate, it had all the trappings of a once-proper stadium already fading towards an inevitable sad end, even down to the daytime BAGS contract. But it had heritage, and so it had the faces, and I soon I felt like I was back at Romford minus the lights. By now I was working holidays and weekends at a Manchester independent in Chorlton. Two of the most colourful young female counterhands possible made it a unique working environment, but the customers were of more interest to me. It wasn’t long before the incredible bond that is the greyhound follower meant I was being invited to join in.

My entry was through a kind veteran Scot known to everyone as Jock. Even his huge grey Homberg had seen many more meetings than me, and the value of his sparse dialogue was reduced to me by it being in his broad native dialect. But Jock got me my seat, and vouched for me as ‘sound’ with a leading figure in the kennel of Ron Humphreys. With the same sense of ritual as Romford, we sat in seats at the far end of the bottom tier of the grandstand not far from the first bend. I never once got a tip as such though the polite but cool kennel insider would, only once mind, quietly opine to ‘Jock’ what he thought might run well that day, knowing that I was within earshot. The words Blackpool were a particularly helpful clue, though I never doubted the reference was to a nice evening meal in the town!

It was through this route that I got my first taste of ownership. Out of the blue I was told that a brindle in the 4 making its debut was for sale at £400 and I could come in for £100. I was honoured to be asked naturally. Ron had a kennel favourite in red in the race, a grader called something like Tadghs Treasure I think, whose early pace won him his races. It seemed pretty clear that he was well expected, perhaps having enjoyed the sea air, and a pony or so would do the job for free. ‘Ours’ was one for the future. Having committed enthusiastically to making the purchase and the gamble to finance it, needless to say ‘we’ got up on the line to foil the plunge despite taking a walk out to 8-1. Completely unabashed the trainer came up a couple of races later to confirm the price had not changed. Our new pride and joy proved to be top class, sadly though only as a thinker, somehow winning twice in the next six months. It was the first time through no-one's fault that the tantalising prospect of a bargain purchase had proved a bit of an illusion; it was far from being the last. As they say, that’s greyhound racing.

I’ve saved Manchester Belle Vue until last. I can’t say I had much affection for the circuit for two reasons neither of its making. It was a difficult two-bus ride from home and, worse, I could never back a winner there; a feat I find time has done nothing to alter on the rare occasions I continue to think I’ve spotted one on the BEGS. Ironically, it was to prove the venue for the best plunge I have ever seen to this day.

Across the road from our house was a corner newsagents owned by a lovely couple called Gwyn and Rae Hughes. Their children were not many years younger than us, but we hit it off and spent several great days out horse racing. Gwyn had great contacts across North Wales and was a fearsome punter. Probably the only thing we seriously disagreed about was dog racing; Gwyn just couldn’t see the point. It was particularly strange, therefore, when he sauntered over about 5.30pm one Saturday evening to ask if I was going racing that evening. I wasn’t, but knew enough to lie in a greater cause. Some friends, I never knew who, were anxious to get a bet on a dog that evening. How much, I said, knowing that he might have £100-£200 as a maximum. Oh, he said casually, a few hundred or so. I immediately rang an old Coral pal who fortunately was still cashing up and got him to meet me there. Getting the bus with the wad of £20s was bad enough stuffed in four pockets of an old anorak. The dog was in blue in an early race. I was by then working in the Chinatown shop of the independent, the clientele a small but high staking population of club owners and the like. One, strangely also Welsh by origin, had come in early that day and asked if we’d take a £100 on his dog ‘on the quiet’. We had a great GM in the firm, not least because he let me borrow his Green 3 litre GTI Capri automatic, and a quick call was all it took to confirm. It was in the 5 in the same heat and naturally I mentioned this to Gwyn. ‘Oh’ he said in full lilt, ‘I don’t think they’ll be too bothered about that’.

The race duly arrived and we were briefed to take first show come what may. That turned out to be 4-1 but only for a few seconds. With us standing like statues it was quickly replaced by 5-1. We relaxed; there was no urgency after all. Soon it was out to 6s. We stood smugly debating when to go in. All of a sudden bedlam; we had missed the six and were desperately playing catch up with other people’s pot. Belle Vue was a strong market but with a couple of minutes to go; it was 4/6 best and ‘no offers’ generally. We still had nearly £100 to get on and some serious explaining to do. Graham was my lifesaver. Over to the tote window in a flash, the operator asked how much he wanted. ‘Just keep pressing until the machine stops’ he replied. I meanwhile bought a £20 straight forecast to beat the club owner’s dog.

We turned round just in time to see the job come out 2 lengths behind; we looked momentarily at each other and by the time we looked back it was 2 clear and hurtling towards the bend. Instantly, we had become ‘faces’ as we collected all round. The Manchester Evening News on Monday reported a gamble from 6-1 to 5-4; the returned SP. The brave soul that chalked that up at the off is unknown to this day.