BAN THE GREYHOUND. IGNORE EVERYTHING ELSE.

Marcus Aurelius spent his life wrestling with war, plague, borders, law and the general inconvenience of trying to hold together an empire full of lunatics. One suspects that if he could peer through time and see the modern Scottish Parliament, he might expect debates on growth, crime, public services, transport or the small matter of whether the state can still perform basic functions without bursting into flames.

Instead, he would find MSPs solemnly outlawing greyhound racing. A sport that died out in Scotland nearly a year ago. Thats right lets legislate against something no longer active in Alba. The Greenishes have some power so lets waste it on a dead stadium, just in case there is last scrap of enjoyment and fun left in the Kingdom of Swinney.

And you do have to ask: do these politicians not have enough to do?

Because whatever one thinks of the sport, this is not some national emergency. It is not an invading army coming over Hadrians Wall. It is not inflation. It is not the ferries. It is not the health service. It is men and women taking part in a long-established sport built around one of the fastest, most athletic dogs on earth doing what it was bred to do: run. Fast. Enthusiastically. In front of people who enjoy the spectacle and, yes, sometimes have a flutter on the result. This used to be called leisure. Now, in the scented chapel of devolved moralism, it is treated like bear-baiting with Wi-Fi.

GREYHOUND RACING IS NOT JUST A HOBBY. IT IS A WORLD

And this is what the cardiganed crusaders never understand. Greyhound racing is not merely a dog going round a track. It is an entire little ecosystem of owners, trainers, kennel staff, breeders, punters, spectators and local communities. It provides routine, purpose, employment, social life and, for plenty of ordinary people, simple enjoyment. That matters. The modern political class sneers at that sort of thing because it cannot be expressed as a wellness retreat or a cultural festival with grant funding. But ordinary pleasures are still pleasures. In fact they are often the best sort, because they don’t come with a TED Talk.

A day at the dogs is not a meeting of international gangsters in a drainage ditch. It is usually people having a laugh, meeting mates, watching beautifully conditioned animals do what they are phenomenally good at, and escaping for a few hours from the administrative swamp Britain has become. There is excitement, competition, expertise, tradition, banter, and a whole body of knowledge about dogs that the average MSP, who probably thinks a greyhound is some sort of Victorian email setting, does not possess.

And let us also say the impolite thing. Greyhound racing gives dogs a purpose beyond being infantilised furniture. The modern pet world increasingly treats animals not as animals but as emotional prosthetics. Dogs are wheeled about in prams, dressed like minor aristocrats and talked to as if they were toddlers with tax concerns. Greyhound people, by contrast, tend to regard dogs as athletes. Working animals. Capable creatures that benefit from training, routine, exercise, handling and care aimed at performance. That is not wicked. It is, in many respects, more honest.

THE GREENS KNOW NOTHING, BUT THEY KNOW IT SUPERIORLY

Naturally, the Greens are in their element. This is exactly their sort of issue. Not one where they must build, fix, deliver or administer. Heaven forbid. Not one involving competence. No, this is a symbolic issue, which means it can be approached with the full, ecstatic confidence of people who know almost nothing but feel it at enormous volume.

The Scottish Greens have a track record of fuckwittery that would embarrass a village committee. Consider Lorna Slater’s deposit return scheme, which took the fairly straightforward proposition of returning a bottle and turned it into a bureaucratic opera of confusion, delay, collapse and self-righteous nonsense. Only this lot could look at a lemonade bottle and produce an administrative farce worthy of Fellini. They are not fit to run a pronoun.

So when they now appear, flushed with moral grandeur over greyhound racing, one is entitled to be sceptical. Because these are not wise stewards carefully balancing competing goods. These are people who think saying “compassion” in a grave tone is a substitute for understanding a sport, the people in it, the dogs in it, or the likely consequences of driving activity elsewhere rather than improving standards.

IF YOU CARE ABOUT DOGS, REGULATE PROPERLY

That, surely, is the sane position. If welfare standards need tightening, tighten them. If there are bad owners, ban them. If there are poor tracks, improve them or close them. If there are injuries, insist on tougher veterinary oversight, licensing, transparency and enforcement. Be serious. Be practical. Be grown-up.But banning is what people do when they are too lazy, too ignorant or too theatrical to regulate properly.

And that is the sting in all this. Supporters of the ban speak as if they have chosen the morally difficult course, when in fact they have chosen the easiest one. It is much simpler to outlaw an activity than to understand it. Much easier to puff out your cheeks and denounce than to do the boring, adult work of building a framework that protects welfare while preserving freedom, jobs, tradition and lawful enjoyment. Because greyhound racing, like every animal sport, should be judged not by slogans but by standards. A well-run sport with strong welfare rules, transparency and accountability is a perfectly civilised thing. Indeed, it is often better for animals than the sentimental chaos of the pet economy, where dogs are bought on impulse, bred for fashion, pampered into dysfunction and abandoned when the owner gets bored or broke.

THEY DON’T REALLY HATE CRUELTY. THEY HATE THE WRONG PEOPLE HAVING FUN

These people do not mainly hate cruelty. They hate the wrong people enjoying themselves.

They hate ordinary recreation that doesn’t flatter their view of themselves. They hate any pastime that looks too working class, too betting-adjacent, too noisy, too unapproved. They cannot stand the sight of pleasure that hasn’t been sanitised, grant-funded, diversity-audited and accompanied by focaccia.

That is why they look at greyhound racing and see barbarism, but look at a cockapoo in a knitted jumper being spoon-fed treats in Stockbridge and see love. One dog is an athlete. The other is a hostage in knitwear. Yet only one is deemed scandalous. Why? Because one belongs to a world of tracks, punters and ordinary people, while the other belongs to the social universe of people who write “dog mum” in their Instagram biographies and think this constitutes moral seriousness.

So let us be honest. This is not a brave stand against evil. It is a superiority display by amateur politicians with too little perspective and too much time on their hands. They cannot run the country, but they can certainly ruin someone else’s Saturday. Marcus Aurelius, faced with plague and invasion, wrote about discipline, proportion and duty. Holyrood, faced with national underperformance on almost every front, has chosen to preen over greyhound racing.

The Romans had lions. We have Greens.

And somehow I think Marcus got the better deal.