At the front, in the ring of boxes, are two dogs. I imagine they were once terriers of a sort, wide-shouldered and bull-necked, but now it is hard to tell. They have been duelling, leaping and tearing at each other with claw and tooth, until now the flowing blood has rendered them into identical demons composed of nothing more than moving jaws and hanging flesh. With each new crescendo of shouting, the dogs once again tense and leap. Around me, money is changing hands as each new collision causes a fresh wound and a fresh gout of blood on the wooden boards. A closer look and I finally spy the difference. Round each neck there is a length of rope. On one dog, this rope is black, and on the other it is red. This is the only visible difference between the animals as their fighting has rendered them into identical mounds of ripped meat.

A catch in the back of my throat makes me notice that I am shouting too, though when I started I don't know. I have not yet chosen a favourite from the dogs, so there are no words to my exclamations, merely incoherent grunts and gasps of excitement. Red leaps and fastens his jaws on the muzzle of the other and I feel my chest grow along with those of the men packed in around me, and we all bellow, encouraging the dogs to new atrocities.

The energy in this room is intoxicating, my head is spinning with the power of it and it is almost as if I can feel myself growing taller, feeding on it.