GAA must sell its great games — but never its soul

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. So, while on holiday in Madrid a few years ago, I did as the Madrilenos do and spent a night in the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas watching bulls getting slowly but surely stabbed to death.

One by one, big, brooding, broad-shouldered beasts came pawing and charging into the amphitheatre. And, one by one, they left on their flanks, legs tied, dragged by horses to the nearby abattoir.

I wouldn’t say I was overly enamoured by the spectacle but I thoroughly enjoyed the deep sense of tradition. A summer’s evening among 25,000 Spaniards. The cheap seats in the sun, the rich people sitting in the shade. Everyone talking, pausing only when the next bull entered the arena.