No life
Talking bulls
Jeremy Clarke
At Taunton the train was going to be half an hour late and the platform was in cold shadow, so I went outside and stood in the sun. I stood with my back against a warm Victorian brick wall and read some more of D.H. Lawrence's didactic, com- plaining, free-style poetry. Looking up from my book once, between poems, I saw George Melly go by wearing a turquoise zoot suit and a beige fedora. He went and stood a bit further along the wall, then turned his humorous old tortoise face to the sun. Occasionally he took a long, greedy pull on a king-sized cigarette. Nobody knew when the Railtrack gang was going to let our train through — our guess was as good as his, said the station manag- er — and we stood with our backs to the wall like this, George Melly and I, for rather a long time. And that was my Sun- day morning: D.H. Lawrence, George Melly, glorious sunshine and lateness.
In the end, though, I wasn't that late for the lunch. I arrived at the sun-filled central London rooftop restaurant just as everyone was finishing their prawn cocktails and still on their first glass of rioja. The lunch was being given by the Club Taurino of London to honour the 150th anniversary of the house of Miura, breeders of a strain of Spanish fighting bull known as the 'black legend', a tag that has arisen because Miuras have killed more horses and mata- dors over the years than any other strain. I have only ever been to one bullfight, and the bulls that day happened to be Miuras. I knew nothing of these bull's rep- utations, but the sound of 15,000 Spaniards taking a sharp intake of breath as the first Miura came careering into the ring, look- ing right and left for something to get his horns into, told me that now was the time to start paying attention. All six Miuras `You need a good rest, so I'm going to recommend a waiting list . . charged horse and man with a courage that was unearthly. Bull number two, called Bombito, attacked the horse with such determination that they couldn't get him off for nearly ten minutes, in spite of his being repeatedly lanced and having three men in tight clothes tugging on his tail with all their strength. The following day I saw a respectful obituary to Bombito in the local paper.
Although I doubt if I will ever become a fully fledged aficionado of the corrida, I am a big fan of Miura bulls, and I thought the lunch would be a good chance to show my appreciation for the expert breeding that must have gone into such brave and beauti- ful animals.
My guest, a lady whom I'd been corre- sponding with on the Internet about the Spanish poet Antonio Machado, had thoughtfully ordered my main course and kept me back a prawn cocktail. Annie and I had not met before. Her e-mails had been so wise and intelligent I assumed she was nearing the end of her life-span. I was slightly amazed, therefore, when I sat down beside her, to find that she was in her thir- ties and that I very much liked the cut of her jib.
The guests of honour were arranged in a line along the top table: ganadero Antonio Miura, matador Ruiz Miguel (who, unusu- ally for a top matador, fights the unpre- dictable Miuras regularly), and a ranch manager whose name I didn't catch. All three were impeccably dressed, socially adroit, beautifully tanned Sevillians. Spread out panoramically through the picture win- dow behind them was West London, look- ing old and bleached in the afternoon sun, like a great pile of filthy old bones. Chain smoking and beaming modestly at the applause, the three Sevillians listened uncomprehendingly to the succession of adulatory speeches. By the time they were presented with a specially commissioned sculpture of Estopeno, a famous Miura bull from the 1980s, the setting sun was making halos around their heads.
It was a boozy affair. The rioja was flow- ing like, well, like the River Oja. And I'm sorry to say that, in contrast with the calm, modest, urbane demeanours of the Sevil- lians, we British were like a load of hicks.
Even while we were still on the ice-cream one man was making a terrible nuisance of himself by wandering about the room and making sarcastic comments about the speakers, even heckling with foul language.
Later on, when he came over to our table and started his heckling again, I stopped snogging with Annie for long enough to tell him him to 'shut the f*** up', and then another man from our table, originally from Somerset, I gather, took this as his cue to grab him by the scruff of the throat and threaten to punch his head in. And then everyone on table two was rearing up, and there was some pushing and shoving, until a very attractive, well-dressed lady, whom I assumed was the drunk's wife, came in to extricate him. 'You're all just a bunch of c***s,' she hissed as she led him away by his tie. I learned later, from an Italian man on our table, who got out a fresh £50 note every time he paid for a bot- tle of wine, and had a mad laugh, that I should watch myself because the drunk was in fact a chief of police.
And that was my Sunday afternoon: Senor Miura, Annie Dot-Corn, roast beef and rioja, and still more glorious sunshine.
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