Toreros? Faggots!

It wears pink stockings in ballerinas, has pearly white teeth under toupee-like hairstyles and dances chuggingly in circles? Clearly: gay as the night is black. The Spanish, however, consider their toreros to be male heroes. The three of us have our first corrida. We were expecting blood – and got a slaughter.

In front of the arena there is a car with “Carnices” written on it. Surely just a coincidence, because the old Spaniard next to me later says that the bulls are not eaten. We enter the arena on the sunny side. The sun soon sets, and that’s a good thing. We unpack our wine in the shade. It will soon be needed.

The first bull is pushed into the arena. The assistant toreros shoo him until he is panting. Fortunately, half a tonne doesn’t take long. Only then does the serious business begin. A heavily armoured horse with an armoured rider enters the arena. The bull charges. Even before it hits the horse, the lance pierces deep into its shoulder. As soon as he lets go of the rider, the torero pounces on him with the banderilla spears. They cost less blood, but make him run even faster.

Then the high “art” of the toreros begins: he dances around a creature that is no longer fit to fight. They call it corrida. Pink stockings, ballerinas, glittery glamour, Colgate tooth whitener and freshly waxed hairstyles from the local hairdresser over tippy-toes simply mean: gay! Without end. And every gay man is more masculine and usually braver than a torero every day.

Torreros are regarded as superheroes, especially here in Andalusia. The execution follows strict rules. The rules give the bull no chance. The hero is a glittering dude, and he prefers to throw his dorky cap to smart young men in pink T-shirts after his “victory”. What else is fighting, what else is “man”? Man, I obviously have no idea.

The first five executions go halfway according to plan. The plan is: first incite, then stab: the death blow is delivered with a 60 cm long sabre across the back and into the bull’s heart. At least that’s the plan. But some of the torero chicks are clearly already dreaming of their lover’s bollocks at home. This results in five failed attempts in addition to sabre strikes to the bull’s flank.

The fifth bull screams his misery loudly into the audience. We are the maladjusted sissies, and as such irritated by the suffering. The crowd is no longer really united in screaming for more. The sixth bull is a tornado. It almost spears the lance rider’s horse from below, lifting it and its rider into the air. The lance pierces deeper than any other bull before.

When the bull lets go of the lance rider, it is nothing more than a walking lawn sprinkler. Fountains of blood spray into the sand, you can smell the blood, the whole arena smells of iron and carrot juice. The bull collapses before the torrero can deliver the final death blow. But not without trying three times first.

That was enough. Once and never again. That is not to say that I think I have ever eaten an animal whose life we would have caused less suffering. Until the corrida, every bull certainly has a much better life than any animal for slaughter. But this suffering: it’s just so fucked up. Fuck tradition! Spaniards, start the Schuhplattln! I’m out….

It wears pink stockings in ballerinas, has pearly white teeth under toupee-like hairstyles and dances chuggingly in circles? Clearly: gay as the night is black. The Spanish, however, consider their toreros to be male heroes. The three of us have our first corrida. We were expecting blood – and got a slaughter.

In front of the arena there is a car with “Carnices” written on it. Surely just a coincidence, because the old Spaniard next to me later says that the bulls are not eaten. We enter the arena on the sunny side. The sun soon sets, and that’s a good thing. We unpack our wine in the shade. It will soon be needed.

The first bull is pushed into the arena. The assistant toreros shoo him until he is panting. Fortunately, half a tonne doesn’t take long. Only then does the serious business begin. A heavily armoured horse with an armoured rider enters the arena. The bull charges. Even before it hits the horse, the lance pierces deep into its shoulder. As soon as he lets go of the rider, the torero pounces on him with the banderilla spears. They cost less blood, but make him run even faster.

Then the high “art” of the toreros begins: he dances around a creature that is no longer fit to fight. They call it corrida. Pink stockings, ballerinas, glittery glamour, Colgate tooth whitener and freshly waxed hairstyles from the local hairdresser over tippy-toes simply mean: gay! Without end. And every gay man is more masculine and usually braver than a torero every day.

Torreros are regarded as superheroes, especially here in Andalusia. The execution follows strict rules. The rules give the bull no chance. The hero is a glittering dude, and he prefers to throw his dorky cap to smart young men in pink T-shirts after his “victory”. What else is fighting, what else is “man”? Man, I obviously have no idea.

The first five executions go halfway according to plan. The plan is: first incite, then stab: the death blow is delivered with a 60 cm long sabre across the back and into the bull’s heart. At least that’s the plan. But some of the torero chicks are clearly already dreaming of their lover’s bollocks at home. This results in five failed attempts in addition to sabre strikes to the bull’s flank.

The fifth bull screams his misery loudly into the audience. We are the maladjusted sissies, and as such irritated by the suffering. The crowd is no longer really united in screaming for more. The sixth bull is a tornado. It almost spears the lance rider’s horse from below, lifting it and its rider into the air. The lance pierces deeper than any other bull before.

When the bull lets go of the lance rider, it is nothing more than a walking lawn sprinkler. Fountains of blood spray into the sand, you can smell the blood, the whole arena smells of iron and carrot juice. The bull collapses before the torrero can deliver the final death blow. But not without trying three times first.

That was enough. Once and never again. That is not to say that I think I have ever eaten an animal whose life we would have caused less suffering. Until the corrida, every bull certainly has a much better life than any animal for slaughter. But this suffering: it’s just so fucked up. Fuck tradition! Spaniards, start the Schuhplattln! I’m out….