Friday, 11 July 2008

I don't care for Bullfighting....

...But when the bull fights back, I sense a moment's pleasure before it is finally dispatched as I am sure it always is.

Memories of Pamplona 1998, when I took my son then aged 13, for a week's holiday to Iruna and introduced him to the world of macho drinking, Hemingway's bars, the delights of Spanish eating and the sights of drunken men and a few women playing about in the arena after a night on the tiles and the breakfast running of the bulls.

We watched as one man in jeans and white shirt, waving his bottle of Jack Daniels' was hit from behind and tossed by a young bull, that trying to gore him, caught it's horn in the belt of his pants and flipped him again. The violence of the toss was such that the man's pants and shirt were torn and being "gored" or at least turned on the ground again and again, the remnants of his garments were soon torn away.

Other revellers nearby seeing what was happening had by this time run up and were whacking the young bull with rolled newspapers which distracting the attentions of it, allowed the tossed man to get up and quickly compose himself and holding aloft his bottle of Jack Daniels' show the baying crowd around the lower tiers of the arena that he had not spilled a drop...

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