By Phillipe, Best in Show, Crufts 2008
IT could be my superb posture, my beautiful coat or perhaps even my exquisite bone structure. But whatever it is, one thing’s for sure: I am The Balls.
The moment I walked through that door on Monday, I thought to myself, ‘I totally own this place’.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some nice dogs in here but they’re strictly amateur league, Sunday afternoon boys – you know what I mean?
Crufts is my cathedral. It’s my cockpit, it’s my surfboard, it’s my potter’s wheel. I work it. With effortless expertise I bend it to my will. Crufts is me. I am Crufts.
The Newfoundland had high hopes, bless him, but this is the big one, alright? It’s not some trot around the paddock at the county show, you gap-toothed hillbilly.
If you come to my house, you better be showing form. And I don’t mean a red rosette, a tickle under the chin and a book voucher for that tubby cow on the other end of your lead.
Crufts is about class, it’s about attitude. It’s a place for serious dogs. It is not a place for a nicely brushed American Cocker, prancing in here thinking I’m some kind of arsehole, before I get my thing working and send them prancing out of here looking like a DICK!
I have to admit the Samoyed was looking pretty tasty for a bit, but was I worried? Was I fuck. Let me tell you a little something about heelwork: You don’t ‘learn’ it. You have either got it or you have not got it, and you my friend, Have Not Got It.
When that so-called judge walked up to me, I looked at her as if to say, ‘remember this – you only judge me because I let you’. I picked her up and played her like a finely tuned banjo.
So my friends, the next time you buy a ticket to my back end, remember this: that’s the heady aroma of a champion. Sniff it.
