This Star has no twinkle

Ibiza is far behind us now and Christmas is just a short tearful call to Visa away. During this mid-autumnal slump the young Londoner is looking to economise on costs, but not on fun, so off he goes to one of the city's dog-racing stadiums.

Pub prices, spot of fresh air, and laughs a-plenty caused by simple pleasures, gambling and malign people-watching - a night at the dogs has it all. Even fine dining. At Wimbledon Stadium's Star Attraction restaurant you pay £28 upfront. For this, you get entrance, a race card and a three-course meal with coffee and mints. Tote staff come and take your bets at the table which looks over the finishing post. This is posh going to the dogs.

Brother William and photographer Dan came with. The Seventies-style menu had Dan - who likes plain food and beautiful women - quite excited. Melon with port wine, prawn cocktail, and cream of mushroom and leek soup to start were at the ominous end of unexceptional. But the mains excelled - at being terrible. Dan's supreme of chicken came with a white wine sauce wearing a thick skin, the brown gel-like substance had shrunk from the edge of the plate like low tide at Sellafield. Dan tasted the 'game meat stuffing' and said, 'You know that time when I was drunk and ate that dog food...'

Bro and I both had Dover sole, it filled us with nostalgia for the cream cracker-eating competitions of our childhood. Sole with the texture of Weetabix is a feat. It was so dry that it stuck to the back of the throat and had to be washed down with water. The flavour was fishy - but in the way of fish food rather than fish.

The Tote girl was sulky but pretty so my Bro and Dan plugged away at her until we were all fast friends and she insisted we should go visit her home, Freetown in Sierra Leone, for New Year.

One word of warning, placing your bets at the table isn't your best, er, bet. Unlike the trackside bookies, you only get the odds available at the start of the race and not when betting opens. Which defeats the fun of a reckless flutter on an outside chance. Far better to have your kid, or a borrowed one, down at trackside with a mobile phone putting bets on for you with the proper bookies. The evening died a bit for us when we realised a quid I'd put on a dog when it was 66/1 was actually only worth £7 when it came in, but halfway through dinner we all made a winning forecast - that pudding would be a loser.

The best thing about the evening was the Carling Black Label we ordered to try and keep the rapidly escalating costs down.

I won't focus on the headache carpet, the low-rent function-room furniture, or the lighting, which lent everything a betting-shop pallor. The cheaper Broadway restaurant (serving an identical menu) next door behind the starting boxes looked more temptingly lit and enticing. This was the worst food I have eaten in a decade or more. If I go back it'll be to eat chips at the trackside. I urge anyone else to do the same.

Star Attraction
Plough Lane, Wimbledon, SW17 0BJ