I’ve always been a bit ambivalent about the ‘sport’.. The crowd screaming, the poor half dead bull standing there waiting for what the matadors call ‘El momento de la veridad’. Pretty sickening on one hand. On the other: I guess if I was a bull I would rather die in a towering rage with the chance of getting a horn stuck into one of the pestilent, fancy dressed wimps giving me grief than be poll-axed in some greasy building smelling of death. The next door neighbour was a press photographer. He invited me to the local Plaza de Toros and got me a seat by the barrera. It was all very exciting. Then the Torero had his ‘momento’ right in front of me. Not exactly a precision kill. His blade went into the poor beast’s lung instead of its heart. It stood there snorting frothy blood, mutely shivering until its knees gave out and it keeled over. I was having my own moment. Whimpering and generally falling apart. My friendly photographer took a picture of me in full flood. It appeared the following day on the front page of El Pais. Film director, Ana Mariscal, phoned to say she was shooting a film called Los Duendes de Andalucia about a mad, drunken American woman who falls in love with a Torero and from my photograph she thought I was just what she was looking for. I hardly spoke a word of Spanish but a friendly Torero took my education in hand and before long I was spouting like a native. Being surrounded by the bull fighting fraternity it was easy to take on a bit more than was wise. At first it was just an entrance with the Equipo dressed in the appropriate gear. This became a little tame after a while and when somebody suggested I might like to ride in on horseback, dressed as a Rejoneardor, I was up for it. The big day came. I was introduced to a tall skinny horse bedecked with tassels and spangles over the sort of skirt that the mounts of knights in armour wore into battle. My part in the proceedings was explained to me. I was to ride into the arena, circle close to the barrera waving to the crowd while the blokes who were going to do the business saluted the President and did their dedications. When I was at the farthest end of the arena, near the exit, I was to stand absolutely still and watch the fight. I felt sick and was trembling like an agitated blancmange. At the end of the corrida, when everybody who could still stand lined up for the walk down, one of the handlers brought me my horse. It was the last thing I wanted but I could see the others watching me to see how I would take it so I scooped up a handful of savoir faire and allowed my man to heave me on board. It was a satisfying experience. I was cheered and had flowers presented and I was able to act as if it had all been part of the corrida. Very satisfactory. But I was never tempted to repeat the act. Ingrid writes every week at Den Of Geek. Her last column is here.
