Modesty aside, I am already an expert. That is to say, a loose guy who, in the name of his fans, is handing out fights to the ignorant people who enjoy the show in question, without subjecting it to criteria of demand and purity.
They are understood everywhere. I thought that the worst specimens inhabit operatic arenas, crouching in the dark like snipers, waiting for the tenor’s first gurgling to display his coldness or ipso facto emit a sign of disapproval –a nod is enough– made to condition the rest of the audience. viewers.
The bad thing is that I have not become an expert in wine, feminine psychology or the theater of Arniches, but an expert in bullfighting, an animal that not even cows trust.
The matter is even more serious. As an expert, he began to contradict everyone (as if he were married). There they were, standing, more than 20,000 people in the bullrings of Valencia on Friday and Castellón on Saturday, airing white handkerchiefs to ask for not one but the two ears of two bulls stabbed by Roca Rey. What enthusiasm! How you could tell that the ears weren’t his or his mother’s!
As an expert that I am, my thing is the defense of the truth, the jar of essences and watering down the wine.
–The bull was a birria!
The public of all shows pay to enjoy and the connoisseur pays so that others do not enjoy themselves excessively, except, of course, when there is no but, in which case they do not enjoy at all. Is it fair for a couple of lovebirds to give their opinion on French farewells or the advantages of marriage?
Before being an expert, I would have carried Roca Rey himself, the glory of Peru, on my shoulders instead of calling him a taxi or indicating the best route to get to his hotel or the Turia riverbed on foot. Now, on the other hand, I make the behavior of the local residents ugly, I lower their enthusiasm and I threaten them with going to Madrid if they want to see real bullfights and meet other connoisseurs of lies.
So many years enjoying on the lines for this!
