If you want to see blood-thirsty pack animals: tormenting, toying and torturing its victim then get yourselves to the many towns in Spain when the hot sun has them baying for blood.
The first time and last, I attended one of these despicable fiestas was in a small village, Jalon valley – a decade ago. They, as usual, erected steel bars to protect the doors and windows of local businesses and provide a safe place for the village idiots to stick their limbs out of.
The bull, which they usually have some kind of cute name for, was released and straight away darts were thrown at it – panicking the animal. Someone rushed by and prodded it with a sharp stick drawing blood to the cheers of his drunken peers. When the bull moved too close to the steel protection railings, cowards reached out and pummel the bull with bats and lengths of four by twos, more darts pierced through its skin.
This went on for hours until it finally and inevitably happened. A slowcoach chanced his luck, jogged near the bull. The desperate bated animal swung its horns catching the ass-clown. Tossed him in the air got a few swipes in and gave him a hoofing. Now he was no longer cute and fun bull, he was evil bull. You think he was being punished before, what comes next is despicable and makes you ashamed to be there and part of the same race as these heathens.
I’ve seen some bad things in my life and been toughened by experience. Watching drunk cretins risking their lives in the name of fun makes you sick and angry. Not all Spanish are like this and as I look around at certain Spanish people, deemed the more educated, you could see shame creep across their faces, not daring to protest for fear of reprisal, rationalising with self-talk – this is a tradition we have been doing this for centuries.