In Part One of Chapter Seven, Baz and Gaz helped create the largest bird table of grain in the World and Rory impersonated Valera to increase the food orders for the hungry bulls. Ed
That afternoon Valera happened to pay a visit to one of the farms to select the bulls for his next bullfights.
“Ah, amigo. What mean-looking creatures have you got for me this month? Are those bulls from England ready yet? Where are they? Let me see them.”
The stud-farmer led Valera out to the field, where the biggest bulls appeared to have gathered in the far corner, leaving only some scrawny types eating and drinking from long wooden troughs closer to his gate.
“Watch it!” called one of the thinner bulls to the others. “That’s Valera. He must have come to select bulls for the bullring. Quick! Look sick and feeble.”
“Surely I have better looking bulls than this Amigo? Called out Valera. “I can’t send them into the ring. The crowd will lynch me.”
Hoping to prove his unsuitability for the bullring, one of the bulls limped forward with his head bowed low. Strange objects stuck to his body.
“What’s happened to that bull?” yelled Calvera. “Why is he wearing a wig? And why has he got two rubber gloves full of water hanging below his belly?”
The farmer quickly uttered, “Oh, er, I think one of the men must have been playing a joke Senor. Yes, I know it looks crazy – a bull with a purple wig, long eye lashes, red lips, and false bazookas.”
Valera walked into the field to view the other bulls and his spirits lifted. “Ah, Amigo. These are much better. Some of these bulls will do very nicely.” Valera thought again of the funny-looking bull with the purple wig. It gave him an idea. “I’ll take those three bulls over there for the special bullfight on Saturday, plus the one with the false bazookas. The crowd likes to see something different now and then. And that’s different alright.” Tommy, Dud the Stud and Interesting Bob gulped when they saw Valera’s finger point at them. Kenny or Jenny fainted.
On both sides of the Mediterranean, the last day of preparations began. Baz and Gaz helped to hijack a third lorry load of food for the mountains. Special food deliveries were also made to the farms. Margarita’s outside broadcasting unit was set up next to the Moorish ruin. The helicopter flew practice flights. Advertising posters were pinned to every telegraph pole and noticeboard. The espionage team prepared their pots of black makeup, and made final adjustments to their bags of tools. The townspeople washed and pressed their finest clothes. Valera trimmed his moustache, and for the first time since the last bullfight – also brushed his teeth.
In the mountains, the farms, the rancho, and everywhere else where teams were positioned ready for the assault, the sun slowly drifted across the sky, and finally set in the west – far beyond the Rock of Gibraltar. As the light disappeared, ten large radios were switched on for the teams to listen to. One radio was placed in the middle of each bull field, and four radios were put in the mountains for the birds. Margarita and the rest of the SSPCA gathered at the rancho to listen to Rory, who was perched close to the rancho with a tall radio microphone just touching his beak. In words that everyone could understand, he began to speak – in a voice sounding just like a famous Shakespearean actor quoting from Henry V.
“And birds in England now-a-bed, shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, and hold their birdhoods cheap whiles any speaks, that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”
The groups around each radio roared, crowed and cheered, drowning out Rory’s voice for several minutes. When the noise subsided, he made one last speech – this time impersonating that famous wartime leader, Sir Winston Churchill.
“What Dickie Bird and Mucky Duck called the Battle of the Birds is over. I expect that the Battle of the Bulls is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of all bird and bull civilization. If we can stand up to Valera, all birds and bulls may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, the whole world will fall into the abyss of a new Dark Age. Let us therefore brace ourselves for our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if this story is re-told for a thousand years, birds and bulls will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’
A great cheer greeted the end of Rory’s final stirring speech, then the feasting began. Enormous feasts in every place, all consisting of the same menu – dodgy prawn curry, cabbage, baked beans and sour milk. Good ammunition for tomorrow’s battle.
