By James Stone

Andalucia is said to be one of the many homes of Spanish bullfighting and being in Seville for a few days during the summer months, it was decided that heading to a bullfight would be an interesting experience.

I was extremely nervous about the whole affair and not at all certain that I wanted to give my consent to what looked like an extremely painful and undignified treatment of a poor animal. However, there was a large part of me that was intrigued to see the event for myself. I had heard that watching the crowds was as entertaining as watching what the matador was up to.

There was no denying the incredible sense of anticipation that was in evidence as we took our seats just four rows from the front. The arena was tight and the locals were highly charged for what would be an unforgettable experience.

Huge cheers rang out as the day's two matadors appeared for the afternoon's event. The sight of these two, superbly dressed yet wiry characters filled me with admiration for their bravery. I simply could not imagine how I would feel were I to be placed in front of a crowd demanding to be entertained, knowing that I would be required to risk death in order to do so. Our two matadors were flanked by a sizeable team that would assist them.

After a few trumpet sounds, the crowd hushed and the tension was palpable as the first bull, a ferocious looking beast, trotted in to the arena. I was expected the lone matador that remained in the arena to unfurl his cape and get things going. Instead, he stood intently watching the bull as his banderillos did all the cape swirling. This, I was told, was so that the matador could gauge the particular characteristics of the bull: which horn he liked to lead with and whether he ran straight for capes or whether he took a more elongated route. While this was no doubt very useful to our matador, it was his poor assistants that I was worried for, but nobody seemed concerned that they might be gored while the main man was sizing up his foe. At long last Mr Matador moved in action and did a spot of gown twirling of his own but while the bull still seemed intent on doing someone an injury, he never seemed to break out in to anything that could be deemed more than a lumber.

Then two horsemen came out, and the blood began. The bull was incited to attack the two padded horses, who remained largely impassive to the imminent danger that they were in, that was until our bull attempted to lift one of the horses and the horsemen up. While he did this, he received a spear to the neck for his troubles, followed by another one, apparently to alleviate some blood pressure so that he did not sufferer a heart attack. Then the banderillos returned and stabbed the bull with some colourful banderillas before the gallant bullfighter reappeared armed with cape and sword. After a few more passes, in which the bull looked to be growing steadily more weary, the final pass took place, in which the animal was stabbed through the chest. The bull was on its side in seconds. The man next to me said that the matador was a good one because he had killed the bull without it suffering. Normally, he said, the matador had to be handed another sword to cut its spine.

The sight of the forlorn animal, who had entered the ring so aggressively just half an hour before, was too much for some of my party to bear and I certainly did not think that there was much here that could be called entertainment, apart from the baying of the crowds. I did not hang around to watch the second act.