In the south-west corner of the NEC, Birmingham, I am surrounded by 70 red setters. One of them comes from Belfast, “So he still gets to take advantage of Schengen,” his owner chirps. Another is wearing a poppy. Either respectfully early or disrespectfully late. Rows upon rows of these lugubrious creatures – staring at me with their mournful eyes – are waiting to be judged until one is crowned Setter-in-Chief. This is Crufts – an aircraft hangar in the Midlands where dogs demand to be taken very seriously indeed.
Around 18,600 dogs passed through the NEC on the weekend of 5-8 March, at the annual meeting of Labradors, retrievers, cocker spaniels and friends. I watch a slew of gun dogs compete for one prize, judged by women more officious than drill sergeants. Last year a whippet from Venice was crowned ultimate victor – Best in Show. This year, it was a Clumber spaniel called Bruin (“the picture of balance, the picture of substance, the picture of elegance”). Sting’s Irish Wolfhound, Murphy, came home with a small prize too. England, so goes the cliché, is a nation of dog lovers. That doesn’t capture the feeling here, in canine Mecca; this is dog loving, in the superlative.
“All dogs have potential for heroism but it seems to be bred into this naturally strong swimmer,” one commentator notes, as a bear-like Newfoundland wobbles around the ring. I look about and see nodding heads, I hear a light muttering of assent, a crowd united by all-out seriousness. I wonder if I have ever been anywhere so earnest – Model United Nations, the Covid inquiry? Whatever it is, it’s contagious. Yes! All dogs do have the potential for heroism, so write that down.
Over at the main arena – away from the moribund Red Setter Village – the turbo-earnest programming continues. When asked by the adenoidal emcee what it means to win the agility contest at Crufts – that’s dog showjumping to you – one pundit didn’t even blink when she responded “literally everything”. Literally everything? Congratulations are in order, then, for Banana the winning border collie (with commiserations to Banter). Of course, if the pundit is right in her assessment, this moment is more seismic than a garden-variety border collie could ever comprehend.
Speaking of which, it only takes a cursory glance at that breed to realise they have a tenuous grip on sanity. And so, as you might imagine, putting 50-odd of them under the same roof has a predictable effect. Lovers of voluble barking, apply here: tickets for the “Flyball” finals. It’s kind of like dog relay racing: I am watching owners launch their border collies like they are ballistic missiles across the arena. “There is no bigger stage in the world for Flyball!” the increasingly hysterical emcee enthused. And sure, it’s not a comment I am minded to argue with. Where else have you seen dog relay racing?
Parsing the crowd at Crufts is a process of binary distinction so easy I think my parents’ Labradoodle, Dougal, could handle the task. In the Royal Kennel Club members’ room – a fluorescently lit office deep in the bowels of the NEC – they are drinking screw-top Pinot Grigio out of thick-stemmed wine glasses with an obvious seam. It looks like a meet-up for the Women’s Institute, the Chelsea Flower Show committee and fans of 101 Dalmatians. This is rotary-club conservatism, women in frocks, rosette city. Hyacinth Bucket with dog hairs stuck in her brooch. I don’t think anyone in here has ever told a joke. Dogs must vote Tory.
Meanwhile, away from the Royal Kennel Club and its gilet-ed staff is the other type of Crufts-goer, who turns out to be a much more exotic character than the mere small-c Beagle owner. Here – on the shop floor, navigating Labrador Town or taking ringside notes at the cocker spaniel show – is the swivel-eyed enthusiast. The dog fanatic. These people think about dogs so much they are happy to drive to a convention centre on the outskirts of Birmingham on a Sunday night to watch the Grooming Championship; to form an opinion on the dangerously polarising question of whether Viking the Tibetan mastiff was robbed of a potential title. The sort of person who might show up under your bed with a knife.
Much is said about Great British Cynicism. We inhabit a nation in which nothing works. And so the prevailing attitude is that everything is worthless. I can tell you one thing: everyone at Crufts missed that memo. When the emcee roused the crowd into choruses of “Sweet Caroline”, they responded without a dose of embarrassment; and when he described Crufts as the “Holy Grail of dog agility” it elicited not one snigger from the thousand-strong audience. And why should it – if you don’t take yourself seriously, then who will?
On the approach to Crufts a banner shouts at you: EXPERT ADVICE IN CANINE CASTRATION HAS CHANGED. OK, good to know. Onwards – through the vast and labyrinthine halls flogging merch. There are more than 500 vendors here. I wonder about the economics of this endeavour – wouldn’t an enthusiastic owner at Crufts already own a dog bed? Does Lennon (John), the Shetland pony-sized Great Pyrenees I met in line for a cup of tea, really need more collars?
Never mind. I am accosted by a man trying to sell me dog food. It’s air-dried, then rehydrated and very finely milled. He was keen to demonstrate that last point by repeatedly rubbing it through his fingers and then mine. Salmon and pea flavoured. Next, someone makes an enthusiastic case for a career change – had I thought about dog grooming? No, but can I borrow your hand sanitiser? I tried to explain to another lady that I had no need of a water bowl because I do not own a dog and I drink water out of cups. The concept of not owning a dog was too bamboozling to her and so she persisted. I leave with a realisation I don’t think I could have gleaned anywhere else: there really are people out there for whom dogs are neither just pets nor even hobbies, but the centre of gravity for their entire lives.
In 2008 the BBC canned its coverage of Crufts after an episode of Panorama – “Pedigree Dogs Exposed” – raised concerns about the welfare of the animals. And the event has long been a target of Peta protesters (but then what hasn’t?). The charge sheet is long and mutable but primarily concerns over-breeding: pugs that can’t breathe because their faces are too flat; dachshunds so long their backs can’t handle stairs; corgis so stumpy that it’s simply undignified. Parliament is mulling legislation that would ban certain breeding practices altogether – and with it, threaten the future of up to 67 breeds entirely. Or so say haughty members of the Royal Kennel Club.
More guardrails or not, it is unlikely that full-scale bans will ever be implemented no matter how many histrionic op-eds the Sun publishes about the woke plot to kill the corgi. Crufts can rest easy: Britain is more enthusiastic about dogs than it has ever been, pet ownership is up and there will always be a captive audience. Nation of dog lovers, and all that. On my way out I see a parade of red setters – some of the 265 that did not win Best in Class. My heart softens a bit at these otherwise contemptuously doleful creatures: they really do look beautiful in the light.
[Further reading: The special relationship is broken]
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This article appears in the 11 Mar 2026 issue of the New Statesman, The Great British Crisis
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Subscribe here to commentIf Crufts was about the welfare of the dogs, the industry would not be breeding dogs which cannot breathe properly or live lives without their joints or backs breaking down painfully.