Pamplona? You know what they do there, right? Bulls. Many many bulls, are released onto the streets, in a state of some agitation, where no attempt is made to placate them.
And you’re in front of them of course: running. For the hell of it.
The paper yesterday called them ‘revellers’, which mean someone who ‘is engaged in lively and noisy festivities.’
Make no bones about it: I and a few of my friends have been known to revel from time to time, festivities of fun and noise are enjoyed, occasionally we may partake in a beverage or two, and it has been rumoured that a run down a street is not something that we are totally opposed to. In principle at least.
Bulls are rarely involved.
I can count on one hand the number of times I have been gored to death while revelling. So can Daniel Jimeno Romero from Madrid. Except he needs fingers to do so.
Well possibly not. I’m not sure there’s even any fingers left on the guy’s hand. As we speak, a Darwin Award is well on its way to his local graveyard.
“In 11 years as Mayoress, nothing like this has ever happened before.” Woman, I think you need to think about your sentences somewhat. Nothing like this? Nothing at all? Are you sure? No bulls have been let loose on your streets at all? And, well, of course, no one would even think to place themselves in front of these bulls that have never been on your streets before. For God’s sake, you just had those streets paved the other day!
And where did all this damn alcohol come from? You’d swear it was some kind of annual festival.
Fine, grand. I’m just a crazy Bulls and People apartheid supporter with regards to this matter, but meh, let them run through your streets if you want. And why not run along side, whooping and howling like you just been given your daily slice of crazy pie by the nurse. The buxom lady who also has intimate knowledge of how your incontinence affects your daily psychiatric care schedule.
I’ll continue to just eat the bastards.