The following otters are open to Clyde

Card holders only. DEKH RAHEll

llAIll llAlll Tino tickets lor the price of one lot llaya Theatre’s liekb llahen llaln llaln (Eyes Are Watching) at Tramway on Friday 4 June at Cpni. Ticket from Tlcket Centre 041 221 5511 and all Tlcketllnk outlet.


Two tickets for the price of one for Glasgow Chamber Orchestra conducted by Peter Jones at Stevenson llall, BSAMD on Sunday 5 June at 7.30pm. Tickets lrom Tlcket Centre 041 227 5511 and all Tlcketllnk outlets.

SASORAI. No ticket lor the price o1 one for llaya Theatre's Sasnral at Tramway on Saturday 5 June at 2.30pm. Tlcket troin Ticket Centre 041 221 5511 and all Tlcketlla outlet.


Tuto promenade tickets for the price of one for Berlioz Requiem conducted by Graham Taylor Glasgow Royal Concert llall on Sunday 13 June at 7.30pm. Tlcket from Ticket Centre 041 227 5511 and all Tlcketllnk outlet.


CHGB The ticket for the price of one tor Iaya Theatre's Charan lies Chor (Charon The Thiet) at Tramway on Saturday 5 June at Cpl. Tlcket troin Tlcket Centre 041 227 5511 and all Tlcketllnk outlet.

To take up one ol these otters present your Clyde Card to the venue box office. All otters sublect to

availability. CLYDE


1 1 5 2 A M listen to Clyde 1 and Clyde 2 for Lfurther details.


Gaght ina trap . ..

Beatrice Colin rubs shoulders with the pooch- fanciers and Tote punters at Glasgow’s Shawfield Stadium.

And here comes the bunny. zooming round like a hamster on acid and up go the traps. and there they go . . . six sets of legs and muscle, pulsating in jewel- coloured jackets. They run and run, greyhound for breakfast, dinner and tea. and flash past in a rainbow. Come on. COME ON . . . Number One wins. We sigh.

It‘s a dark Saturday night. The Shawfield Stadium race track is lit like a film set and a huge digital display blinks at one end. displaying columns of baffling figures. Every fifteen minutes, the sand is swept for the next race by a grinning boy in a tractor. Meanwhile, the crowds mill, buying pies and pints or pondering over the next six dogs.

Outside, BMWs nudge Ford Capris in the overflowing car park and here in the stand. there‘s everything from anoraks to mink, from cashmere to car coats. Kids in shell suits dart in between dating couples as their parents have a flutter. It‘s no den of iniquity, the acrid smell of cigar smoke mixed with ketchup giving the place a seedy glamour. a tacky kind ofcharm. It‘s the sweet and sour smell of money clutched in sweaty palms.

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Upstairs the stadium manager, a firm handshaking Mr Sheard, gives us a guided tour ofthe new ‘facilities‘. ‘lt‘s our own wee Las Vegas,’ he enthuses. We follow the blue and grey check of hisjacket into a packed lounge bar with a window onto the track and pass a candle-lit restaurant with a classy menu. ‘You want lobster, we can do it‘. he assures us.

‘lt’s no den of iniquity, the acrid smell of cigar smoke mixed with ketchup giving the place a seedy glamour, a tacky kind of charm.’

Real punters don‘t eat seafood and we prefer the chilly stand with the comforting crunch of discarded chip paper and sweetie wrappers underfoot. We jingle our change and scan the programme. I go for a name. Cocoa Powder. I put 50p on Cocoa Powder to win.

The dogs are paraded up and down like Crufts. Cocoa Powder wears a crimson jacket and is quite small. Maybe too small. He stops at the finishing line and pees. It‘s a bad omen. The queue for the betting office swells and judging by the odds displayed on the board, he's not popular. A rank outsider in fact. Crowds have gathered around the bookies too. Suitcases hang in front of their boards and money is

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thrust in handfuls in exchange for a betting slip. They all have names like unemployed pn'vate detectives and wear poker-faced expressions with carpet-bag eyes. One bookie changes the odds and a surge of lists rush towards him brandishing creased tenners.

Somewhere a bell rings. The atmosphere bristles. The dogs yelp and here comes the bunny. The gates are opened. I shout, l cheer, l grimace. Cocoa comes second.

After five races. I'm in financial ruin, well £2.50 down. My companion has a theory. We need a system. Go for the biggest because it's got the longest legs. We examine the dogs. We pick a slightly larger specimen. He also has a larger brain and couldn‘t care less about the whining bunny. He comes last. Then we try the dog with the nicest face, then the nicest colour of jacket. then the favourite, but Lady Luck seems to be in a bad mood.

By ten o‘clock. there‘s a manic gleam in most people's eyes. With only two more races to go. 1200 pockets are either rattling or bulging. I go back to my old theory and pick a name. Nonchalantly, I put the last of my money on Killiecrankie. He wins. I scream like I've won the pools. People

stare. I collect £l.44. (I ray/round racing: Shanfteld Stadium

Glasgow, 'I'uesday. 'l'hursday. Saturday. 7.45pm. Powder/tall Stadium. Edinburgh, 'Iiwsdqv. Thursday. Saturday. 7 .30pm.

82 The List 4—17 June 1993