Football, Boisterous Bovines And Meteor Showers

It’s back!
The football season started Saturday.
Thank all that’s Holy.
My summer depression has lifted!
My beloved Spurs were involved in the first match against Sunderland and lost in the 93rd minute.
On the whole the game was shite.
I can’t look at Martin Jol. If ever a man had a face for Middle Earth, it’s him. I can’t put my finger on what he looks like, but he looks like ‘something’.

Last night, armed with a bottle of wine and a torch, M, Jessie and I sat in the middle of a Wiltshire field and awaited the Perseid Meteor shower.
I had a joint and laid back to stare at the sky.
It was a bit early but I still saw the occasional streak of light.
Then, as it was almost pitch black, out of the gloom appeared a herd of boisterous bovines.
They charged us.

I was on my feet and using the trusty maglite torch, I turned Jedi Knight, swinging the beam of light at them as we headed for the gate.
They still kept coming and charged the moment we turned our backs.
Thank G-d I had listened to The Archers omnibus that morning.
William Grundy taught me how to cope with charging cows. (Well, The Agricultural Story Editor did!)
You stand your ground, apparently, and they stop. I took it a stage further and ran AT them, waving my arms and growling.
I’m a Taurean after all!
I still don’t know what the growling achieved but it helped me.
Not something I’d like to do again while stoned and half pissed!

To quote Hemingway:
‘Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honour’.