The Bull

Gordon Proven

Thank God it was Thursday.

As we drove home to Benghazi in our dusty Fiat 146 Sport, we were all looking forward to our home brew pint and tomorrow at the beach. Midsummer Libya is warm - but we had been commissioning Benghazi Power and Desalination plant this week, and had spent all day on top of a giant Turbine Bypass Steam valve; we were hot, sweaty, dusty and bothered.

Approaching the Benghazi ring road dual carriageway we saw a GIANT Charolais Bull trotting along the side of the road. Obviously in charge of the Bull was a miniscule curly headed swarthy chap in a very short stripy dish-dash that looked more like a Cutty Sark; his giant black wellies came well above his knees and the red chafing rings around his thighs showed he had come far.

We slowed to have a look. The farmhand obviously wanted the Bull to turn around and go back home, and had a big stick to persuade it; trouble was he couldn't get in front of the giant ( and who would want to? ) so kept hitting the backside, which did nothing but increase the trot speed towards Benghazi. The Bull's testicles, probably due to the warm weather were slung remarkably low, and as he trotted they would sway into a violent pendulum action and crash into his sides; which did not appear to improve his temper.

We unanimously decided to delay our pint in favour of the promise of ensuing entertainment. The Bull, seeing a bus shelter full of people this side of the ring road loped into a gallop straight for the shelter; the Cutty Sark got a couple more whacks in before falling behind. Much to the relief of the folk in the shelter the Bull attacked the structure first, giving the gathering a chance to scatter before he went after them. This was rush hour and the people scattered into the traffic to hide. The traffic came to a halt as the Bull charged in.

One of the ubiquitous large grey Fiat Tipper Trucks decided to confront the Bull, he turned to face it like a proud matador. The Bull charged and put two horns into the radiator; the Truck withdrew bleeding steam and water. The commotion and traffic jam brought a motorcycle policeman into the fray; he drove up on his gleaming White and Chrome Harley, dismounted and drew his Pistol. Maybe the Bull thought this white clad guy was a friend; he stood still while the gunslinger walked calmly up to him and shot him point blank in the head. The only effect was a change in Bull's demeanour. Now being chased by the Bull at full speed, the policeman headed across the road and dived head first into the salt pan over the embankment, to join a bloating dead donkey. Bully did not fancy following, so resumed his trot towards town.

Next on the menu was a detached block of flats with an array of wooden stalls outside selling vegetables, bread, clothes. Bully made straight for the outside of the stalls, the customers ran behind for shelter; the Bull tossed the stalls in the air; the people formed a running funnel into the central entry passage in the block; after worrying the stalls a bit more the Bull followed. Very shortly dozens of people appeared on the balconies above; was the Bull going upstairs? Then a smaller phalanx of crowd ran back out of the close, shortly followed by the Bull; a few more stalls tossed up and he looked quite proud.

A large pick up truck then appeared with some guys in the back wielding scaffold poles. They backed up to the Bull and started a scaffold tattoo on his head. For the first time he withdrew and ran to some waste ground round the back of the block; the pickup followed. The Harley White Knight joined the scaffold gang in the truck and they careered backwards around the yard after Bully until they cleverly trapped him against a wall with the back of the truck. More scaffold beating, the Knight emptied his pistol into the head and the Bull looked miffed! The truck pulled away, the Bull perked up and charged after it; but not for long, his knees went and he went down just as the Farmer and Owner turned up in his Toyota Land Cruiser. The Cutty Sark was nowhere to be seen!!

We carried on home for that pint in a muddle of Mirth and Chagrin.