It being the last day of San Fermin in Pamplona yesterday, Reb and I decided to hop into the fergoneta and drive over to the Bar Deportivo in Sahagun to grab some genuine Spanish culture and colour by way of pay-per-view on the telly, like the locals do.
The day was hot, and we had already taken a trip there in the morning to shop for essentials such as bread and gin. I don't really know why we felt the need to wallow in blood and sand, but it's almost certainly a Freudian revenge compulsion directed from the depths of the id at builders from Leon.
Along with everything else, the corrida is not what it used to be. Yesterday was no exception. Bulls are eternally noble, men are eternally not. Botched kills every time, whistling and hooting from the hydra-headed mob, much posturing and shameless showboating from the toreros, accompanied by plenty of nervous skittering away from the bulls, meanwhile pretending to seamlessly engage them in the ageless ritual dance of man and beast as the shadows lengthen across the arena and the trumpet, like the bell, tolls its plaintive note for thee...Death in the Early Evening, sit down Anastasio, I can't see the bleeding screen
My god, what the hell am I drivelling and gibbering about - now I am getting a compulsion torunallthewordstogether.Ernestwouldn'tcareforthisonebit, Manoletewouldalsohavehatedit,thingshavegonetothebow-wowsinaBigWaysincetheirday.
Phew. That's better. So, no more bullfights until Seville. Not too much tonic in that, please.
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