Running with Spanimals ...

When Ernest Hemingway wrote in Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises that "They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together" I'm not sure if he was talking about the Bulls at Pamplona or the Spanimals.

Well known for the Running of the Bulls, Pamps, as I'll affectionately refer to it, is a pretty insubstantial town in the north of Spain. Landing on Saturday morning, drinking through the night and running fearlessly away from 3-ton flesh-eating herbivores requires a strong constitution not to mention a gratuitous use of hyberole.

Running with (or away as the case may be) from these maddened cattle while exhilirating doesn't match actually wrestling their (only slightly smaller) siblings in the rings. Ultimately, however, it's a no-win contest, as the bulls alway going to run over/through you resulting in some rather difficult-to-explain facial scarring.

Going out in 'Pamps' the night before is the truly terrifying part of the experience though. Having to deal with the multitude of drunken Spanimals (half Spanish - half mullet) downing such amounts of sangria that, and I have this on good authority, would terrify a Cracksoc President and throwing glass bottles up into the air to celebrate requires rather more balls than running very quickly away from an essentially peaceful animal.

Mullets: Terrifying - Boobs: Not So Terrifying

Knowing that you've made it through the Running of the Bulls provides a sense of achievement. Knowing that you've made it through the Running of the Spanimals provides you with a sense of divine protection - making staying up all night to drunkenly stumble ahead of the seemingly tame herbivores seem the easy option.

As Hemingway said "The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta."