09 Aug 2022

The danger of bulls part 2

Well, readers, last week I laid out the first part of the Syd Sprong/Sebastian Sprongdango v El Bullo field fight.

Well, readers, last week I laid out the first part of the Syd Sprong/Sebastian Sprongdango v El Bullo field fight.

The real point in all the old exaggeration is that there is no more dangerous animal than our ordinary everyday cow comforter. No doubt many farm people have had ‘near misses’ with the creatures – I know of several who did.

Not that I’m trying to demonise the good Toro – he’s not so much different from the males of our own species: just the product of his inherited genes and lusts.

My mother – who had an intelligent and watchful respect for the enormous power of these animals – warned me to keep well clear of such beasts when I’d be out rabbiting, blackberrying, or mushrooming. She used to say: ‘If you and the bull were machines, boy, you’d be a Rudge bike – he’d be an Armoured Car.’ Having been raided by ‘Tans rampaging about in Crossley Tenders – she knew where the power lay.

Now, we’re back with Syd Sprong, who is under thunderous and vicious attack by Aylward’s bull. A magic relation from Barcelona – the hickory-handled ‘Sprongdango’ – has repaid a favour – and is now in Syd’s hands as he takes the fight to El Toro.

I’ll start this section with the last few lines from Episode One – and I’ll put those in {{double brackets}} - to lead in anyone who missed last weeks tale.

{{Knowing fine well I was finished – and that I was only postponing the coming mauling terrible end by a few last heartbeats - I slewed to have a cut at getting to the nearby oak tree. And there in front of me - floating – quivering – thrumming - was -- Sebastian Sprongdango! Radiating a misty silvery light - an aura! Like the most beautiful and graceful ballet dancer in the world, he hung suspended - balanced – spinning! The tips of his glittering rotating lyres barely touching the ground! Ullanova! Fonteyn! Nureyev! Nijinsky! Dance, my Shining Hero!…I grabbed the enchanted Silvery Sebastian – who clove to my hands like magnetic velvet - and whirled – armed - to face my destiny!}}

…. Now the mind-voice flashes in again for the second time – urgent - super-fast – but icy clear: “Rápido! Feint right - go left! Then’ give him the holly’ - into the b**ls! Toréro! Bailamos? Pasodoblé! Inta his mebs! Keep right up on him then – Tango me magic lyres right up the f****r! He gets that head in on ya, Senõr Syddo – yer did! Dead!! Olé! Fandango!”

Reader, it was desperate stuff! The above advice was given to me in a fraction of a second – which was all it took for the murderous beast to be around onto me again, in a roaring storming charge! But I thought I saw a tiny flicker of doubt in those big amber eyes: yes, reader – he was that close to me. But Bully O’Bull’d never expected the sudden arrival of Señor Galactico O Sprongdango! That wasn’t in his Death-to-Twolegs script at all. But Toro Aylwardo - and I - both knew that he only needed to get in just one shot with those terrible murderous horns: then it would be buenas noches and adios, Syddonia…

Sure enough, in the last jolting strides of his mad roaring charge, he switched direction - expecting me to feint the same way again. He was wrong: Sebastian was right. And as El Toro’s huge body and haunches hammered past, inches away - I buried the Noble Silver Iberian Implement into his cojones – and the roar that busted out of his huge mouth was like a thunderclap! I kept right into the back of him then, kept on stabbing him in the a**e, the thighs - into his n*ts again – anywhere - just to stop him getting those cruel death spikes around and into me. The presence of Sprongdango in my hands seemed to give me almost supernatural strength and speed, and I drove my would-be killer in front of me, keeping dead in line with his rear.

Then, at last - just as I felt my Sprongdango-inspired strength starting to ebb – he gave a final plaintive cowardly roar, and tore off towards the gate, with myself and Sebastian in hot pursuit. Toro shot through the ranks of his amazed {but no longer so-admiring} retinue of moo fems, straight through the wreckage of the gate, and kept going to the far side of the next field.

I knew I had him then. So, what did I, Syd Sprong, do? Go home, keeping near the high ditches, for safety? Climb the oak tree? Put the remains of the gate up, and go for the fork and dogs?

No, reader – none of those sensible things. Instead, I walked across the field, straight to where Mr Aylward’s infamous bull was standing, with his huge head lowered - the eyes now not nearly so full of calm gilded confidence as before. I marched straight to the front of that great curly brazen skull, and shoved the Spanish Silver Señor so close up to those deadly deceitful lamps that he flinched back. That he would still love to kill me was a given. Then, not caring whether he understood it or not, I spoke just a few words to him.

“You evil treacherous bastard. I fed you well, and never harmed you. And you tried to kill me in that field, back there. If you were mine, you’d have been factory fodder long ago – because I knew you had death in that wicked heart. Now, I’ve beaten you. With a little bit of help: meet Mr Sebastian Sprongdango - pal! Oh - you’ve met, have you? In the Oak Field? Well, I never!! Do tell! Would you like to meet him again? Would you like he and I to dig out your f*****g big dangerous golden eyes – right now? Come on - here we are – and we’re not quarter the size of you! Come and fight Sebastian and myself now - you cowardly big f****r! Lyres V Horns - Olé!’

The huge head dropped even lower. He was done. But showing him Señor Sebastian, and shoving that flying strange instrument right up to his monstrous hate-swollen face, ensured he would never again try for a triumph like he’d had in the Poet Ryan’s famous song. Maybe that brush with fame had gone to his head.

I walked away then, not even bothering to look back. There was no fear of him attacking me - or anybody - ever again. For the very short time he had left, the inexplicable appearance of Sebastian Sprongdango would be his worst nightmare. Any seemingly unarmed TwoLegs target he attacked now might suddenly produce a magical weapon - out of clear air! And next time - it could be the fatal Bang-Bang!

As a killer, he was as dead as Cromwell and Attila the Hun…

I was never to mention my close escape to the boss. I’d have had trouble explaining – and paying – for the damage to Bully Boy’s mebs. Anyway, Mr Alylward might never have believed I’d been attacked by his “quiet” bull - or that I’d beaten him. He was quiet now, was Toro. And he would never again give roistering romantic succour to the amorous fems in his sylvan seraglio. His future career path would conclude with a short factory tour + sundry bully beef tins…

Upon spying his wounds, Mr Ayl would probably conclude that a jealous moo caught Taurus unawares whilst in a vulnerable pozzy - maybe practising his lusty legal six-leggèd art on some rival milk-stunned lovie - and ‘gave him the holly’ with her horns! With which “incident analysis” I would innocently concur…

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