Bullfighting and Burgers

A bull was slaughtered in Spain this week. There is nothing strange about that, you might say, except this one was shot dead in a busy high street in the glitzy coastal town of Marbella, on Spain's Mediterranean Costa del Sol, after escaping a bullring near the centre of town. You know the place I mean, a circular arena where a man in sparkling tight pants normally kills these magnificent animals, cheered on by an appreciative crowd sipping manzanilla and munching on Serrano ham sandwiches on a balmy evening.

I bring you this bizarre story because I was reading some of the comments on the internet as the news spread this week. There were angry attacks on bullfighting itself, arguments about cruelty, animal rights and bloodthirsty Spaniards. Mostly though, I got the impression that most of those who contributed to the debate had never been near a bullring, let alone into one. I can understand where they are coming from, but I don't share their views.

At least once every year, I go to see a fight. I'm not an aficionado by any means, but I go with people who are. One of them, in fact, is one of the most dedicated conservationists I know, a man who makes his living protecting the natural environment. Another is a veterinary surgeon. Go figure.

Of course it's cruel. This is about life and death. It is a violent theatre that rams home an inescapable sense of mortality. Watching a bullfight is a sad experience, but it is one that invites you to confront that emotion, to experience the thrill of a close call, overshadowed by the lingering inevitability of the final outcome. Of course I can understand why people get up in arms about this. It's not nice. The animal rights group People for the Ethical treatment of Animals describes it as "a ritualistic slaughter", a "tradition of tragedy". But I think it goes deeper than that. The buttress of history weighs in behind the bullfight and is ingrained deep into the psyche of many Spaniards. In Spain, the bullfight is considered an art form. Indeed bullfighting critics write in the art pages of the major national dailies.

To properly experience this spectacle, you need to have at least an inkling of what's going on, of the varying degrees of difficulty of each move as the matador engages with the bull. You need to at least be aware of, if not understand, the connection between the man and the animal, to look at the eyes of both, as well as the blood, to follow every flinching muscle, every smooth turn, every calculated sweep of the red cape. You need to understand that it takes a big pair of cojones to stand before 600 kilos of pure fury, and that although this guy is about to kill this animal in close combat, the relationship between them is intimate, close.

Remember, too, that it's not just bulls that die in bullrings. Men die too. And occasionally, a brave, honourable bull that fights well is allowed to live. It is allowed to leave the bullring, not to be shot in the street, but to spend the rest of its days in wild countryside sowing its proverbial oats. It's rare, but it happens.

And consider this. On average, a Spanish bull lives wild for five or six years before it is fought and killed. It lives in herds, roaming virgin fields and forests that are left untouched and undeveloped purely to breed bulls, an existence as natural as you could get. Now compare that to the life of your average mass-bred cow. You know, just like the one in your burger.