'Death in the afternoon'

Sunday 22 September 
Sundays easy Metro train into the city on a very clean, efficient and punctual train service. Lady P has a shopping mission and Flashy tags along behind looking out for gypsies and pickpockets. As it is a Sunday, the streets are crowded with both tourists and locals and the security in central Madrid is obvious. Apart from the normal municipal police, there are the National Police and the riot squad, all very heavily armed; some dudes in blue berets and even the good old SES equivalent in their orange overalls. Shopping proves to be unsuccessful, so Flashy is secured in a nice bar with a little note around his neck saying “Vino tinto. His mum will collect him in half an hour.” Watching the passing crowd, Flashman notes the following. The Spanish are very short. This probably explains why Lady P's shopping has been unsuccessful – she was looking for sandals and all she could find was very high wedges- obviously designed for very short Spaniards. Some also have big bottoms. There is no nationally recognised dress – you could be in almost any capital city in the world with denim and branded runners everywhere. Waiters work very hard and nobody seems to tip them but they still smile and crack jokes. There is a universal male body language that transcends spoken languages, particularly when a pretty woman walks into the bar. Lady P returns and gives Flashy another half an hour. Oh, well another vino tinto. Eventually, as the sun drifts to the horizon, We train it to the famous Madrid bull ring.

This is a spectacular brick stadium in the Moorish architectural style and as we enter, you can smell the excitement. Our seats, booked on line, are in section 7 in the shade and we settle in with two cushions for our bottoms and a large gin and tonic. If you have been to a packed MCG, seen a good game of ice hockey at The Garden, or a world title boxing match, then you would get the expectation of our death in the afternoon Spanish cultural treat. Unfortunately, the crowd is small. The pomp and ceremony is still colourful and noisy and then out comes the first bull. Now, we know that the bull is going to lose. He may get in a few good punches, even a TKO, but in the end he's steak. Out comes the first one and out come the toreadors, which gives the bull a fair go, as he's fresh. Then the picador comes in, sitting on top of a well padded, blindfolded horse (well, if I was a horse, about to be charged by a very angry bull, I'd bloody well want to be blindfolded.) Kerthump, go bully, give him the left hook, we yell). He almost unseats the picador but gets a jab in the back with the picador’s lance for his trouble. Now he's rightly pissed off. Next, up to three toreadors or bull fighters, (banderillos, they're called when they do what I am about to describe) walk out to the bull and taunt him to charge them. The bull obliges. The banderillos charge the bull. Brave little blokes. Just before the bull can rip their guts out with his sharp horns, they throw two  barbed sticks into old bully’s back and dart away. Only now, when the bull is feeling pretty tired, does the matador (this means killer of bulls), prance out in his skin tight, colourful costume.

Mick Jager’s got nothing on these tall, skinny, handsome Spaniards. They play the bull, some with bravery and skill, but by now the bull is pretty stuffed. In the end, they drive a sword into his back into the heart, instantly killing him. Only, in the six bulls “fought" today, none were cleanly killed. There was a moment when our side looked like scoring, when good old bully caught a banderillo in the leg with his horn and tossed him into the air. Luckily, Flashy’s cries of “that's the way matey, gore the bastard. Come on, dig it in!” a) were not understood by the Spanish speaking crowd an b) were drowned out by the shouts of “oh mierda" by the audience. He was rushed off and not seen again, but we believe he was only scratched . We stayed until the end but were underwhelmed by it all. Perhaps it does not travel well down the decades. Bullfight Madrid – tick. I think it's a dying art (yes, metaphor groan).