Car headlights get very hot. This makes sense really, being as they are basically huge light bulbs. But you tend not to think about these things until your battered face is propped up against one. This was the position I found myself in one particular December evening. Sat on the floor of a car park listening to the drip-drop of my blood hitting the tarmac. Having failed miserably in my first foray into bareknuckle boxing, I should have been annoyed that I'd lost. I should have been in pain. Instead, I was grinning from ear to ear. I couldn't have been happier.It's something about that sensation of being feral, half way between free and afraid. That wild current that surges through us once in a while, often when we're doing something that we ought not to be. I still remember feeling that rush of blood for the first time. 18 years old and as stupid as every other testosterone-fuelled kid. Following in the footsteps of countless British teenagers before me, I booked a discount flight to somewhere warm for a "lads' holiday".What followed was 10 days of nothing more than sunning ourselves in the Spanish heat, and getting wasted on a surprisingly good (but disgustingly cheap) beer known as Argus, the consumption of which has long since blurred those days into one extended drunken haze. Despite this I still distinctly recall two momentous discoveries: the first was just how well tequila goes with a slice of orange and a sprinkle of cinnamon; the second bucked the trend of the trip and was completely free of alcohol, though it does include an angry bull and a cheering crowd.Spain, more so than many countries, loves to blur the line between animal cruelty and good old fashioned family fun. The best example of this is the Spanish pastime of pissing off bulls in a variety of ways. Stupid as we were, and as I may still be, we were eager to experience this brutality first hand. We didn't have to look far, with every other wall adorned with posters advertising the bull run taking place in a neighbouring town. We were a long way from Pamplona though, and it showed. Instead of standing regally in the ceremonial white and red of the famous run, we found ourselves in a backwoods fishing town, dressed in tank tops and swimming trunks just like everybody else.Read more on VICE Sports.
Advertisement