My dad, he was a professional fighting midget. Can you imagine the disappointment that I must have been to him. I took after my mum although not a giant I am normal sized. My dad went to Saville, not to run with the bulls but to fight one. And unlike those cowards he wasn’t using a sword, red cape or a dude on a horse with a big mucky spear. No it was classic midget fighting bare fist to rock hard bull skull. The day came and there was my dear old dad looking like a Greek Adonis in the Spanish sun. Out came the bull and My dad went to work. Shazzam, bazzam, kabboom. My dad hit that bull 10, no 20 times. Claret was flowing thick and fast. The bull was dazed and my dear old dad turned to wave to the crowd. It was at this point that the bull regained consciousness. It ran at my dad and planted two huge horns in his kyber, lifting him up and hurling him over the arena wall. They searched for four days and couldn’t find him. Until the fourth day and he was found in an orange tree dead of his wounds and heat stroke. All he wanted was for me to be a professional midget fighter as well. He’s be rolling over in his grave if he saw me today.
