A very nice piece on the terrier travesty that is Crufts by Jeremy Clarke from last year's edition of The Spectator:
When I was a committee member of the south-west terrier, lurcher and ferret club, I occasionally stewarded the terrier show ring at our summer shows: perhaps half a dozen battered terriers in each class, all probably related; half a dozen weather-beaten owners, all probably related. Orange baler twine was much in evidence: marking the extent of the ring, holding up trousers, or standing in for a lead. On the walk up and down under the judge’s eye to determine the terrier’s ‘action’, it was not uncommon to see both man and dog limping badly. The terriers answered to the name of ‘Badger’ or ‘Satan’ or ‘Nelson’ and such like. But the judge, usually a terrierman of a neighbouring hunt, was always most respectful and meticulous, spanning the animal’s chest with his hands, for example, to see how small a hole the dog could go down, which is most important. When it came to the business end of the dog — the teeth— he was a private dentist in a tweed cap.
In contrast, the Crufts judge’s inspection was laughably cursory: a quick fondle and at most the apprehensive baring of a canine tooth on one side but never the other. Here was the Sealyham terrier standing obediently for the judge. He cautiously lifted a curtain of braids and ringlets to see if there was in fact a dog of some sort under there, gave the whole a pat, and that was it.
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