Grabbing the Bull by the Horns.

Back in April, a choice selection of the Spanish Glitterati got together to support a campaign to gain Unesco World Heritage status for their controversial past time, bullfighting.

Before I incite a heated dinner-party discussion or even ignite a riotous round-table rant, some ground rules must be firmly drawn in the sand. Firstly, in Spanish newspapers, bullfighting actually appears under Arts, not Sport.

And secondly, before the bovine-loving activists amongst you cry out that if the hounds are now on the dole, then the matadors should be too, let me point out the fundamental difference between the hunt and the fight. It is this. If you ask any Brit, young or old, rich or poor, city-slicker or country bumpkin to describe those typically involved in this pastime, their answer would be both instant and unequivocal- the Lords and Ladies of the Manor, the Hooray Henries, the Hoi-Polloi. However you label them, hunting is and always has been perceived as a spiffing sport for the wealthy demographic, a frivolity for the filthy rich.

Ask any pure-blooded Spaniard to set the scene at Sunday’s “corrida” however, and his list will go something like this. From the little village priest to the local beauty queen, the prize-winning pig farmer to the mayor’s burly house-keeper. With scant regard for the ban on under-14’s, the excitable crowd is a seething mass of babes in arms, rebellious teenagers and hobbling grannies. To miss out would be down-right sacrilege, or even social suicide.

When boiled down to its essentials, rather like the perfect paella, a bullfight is quintessentially a celebration of all things Spanish. The locals gleefully sit there, bums on cushions brought from home, chomping away on their chorizo sarnies, swigging their luke warm Rioja and hurling endless abuse and profanities that would make an Englishman’s toes curl.

As for the action, there is no denying the fact that there is blood. And suffering. And sometimes the odd impalement or two. Perhaps even with an emergency trip to the make-shift surgery thrown in for good measure. And when the bull’s bacon’s up, the moment of truth is not always a particularly pretty sight. Moreso when an incompetent “butcher,” for want of a better word, takes several attempts at the final, fatal coup de grace. But then this is not supposed to happen, neither is it celebrated. Quite the contrary. The Spanish spectator knows no bounds when it comes to verbally berating a bad’un.

And these “toros bravos,” or fighting bulls, are bred exactly for this purpose. Until they walk the final green mile through verdant pastures and towards the ring, they live cared for and cosseted in the equivalent of a five star hotel with all the trimmings. Roaming free across the hills, these magnificent creatures have become a symbol for Spain and all things Spanish.

Local bullfighters become local heroes carried out on the shoulders of the villagers, and local heart-throbs pinned up on the walls of many a señorita’s bedroom. Banning bullfighting in Spain would be like banning football in England.

So rather than harping on about outlawing this truly Spanish tradition, what your average John Smith should do is try to look beyond the guts and gore and see the whole spectacle as just that, a cultural extravaganza. The theatrical performance of a bullfight is a perilous, thrilling, sensual dance with death, more than the simple culling of half tonne monsters on a sweltering afternoon in July.

And let’s not forget, after the magnificent carcass has been dragged out of the ring, his meat is to be found on some of the best tables in town, and every Juan and Juanita gets to try a bit. So pull on your sombreros, grab the nearest white handkerchief and practice your “olés.” Next time you’re in sunny Spain, get yourself down to the nearest bullring, wiggle your hips to the beat of the Paso Doble and let the fiesta begin.