Bull Bait

Autumn's well and truly setting in, with "grey and windy" once again becoming the height of meteorological fashion. In town, everything's hustle and bustle, especially down at the Bull Ring where shops are celebrating the tenth anniversary of its transformation from a concrete wart on the face of the city to a glass and metal wart on the face of the city. A bull-shaped metal structure has been erected nearby, and people are being encouraged to attach poems and other best wishes to it.

The bull is, of course, a potent symbol throughout Birmingham and the Black Country, given the area's extensive history of bull-baiting as a sport; long after the activity had died out of its own accord in other parts of England, local wakes persisted with the tradition, in spite of concerted efforts by authorities to stamp it out. From 1777 onward the Birmingham Constabulary recorded their attempts to combat the sport, "there having been great Disturbances in the Hamlets of Deritend, Erdington, Saltley and other Places, in or near this town, occasioned by Bull-baiting, and other Methods made us of to collect disorderly People together, to the great Annoyance of Publick Peace." The concern of those in power was not the cruelty inflicted on the animals, but rather how to keep control of the people gathering to attend (who I'm guessing were not the most easily reasoned-with folks in the world).

It wasn't until the early nineteenth century that the first moral objections began to be raised against bull-baiting by middle class observers; however, it's still unclear whether these objections were born of concern for the animals, or if it was a rather more timeless bourgeois distaste for the kind of people who involved themselves with the sport (as if watching bulls and dogs tear one another to shreds would be alright really, if only they could do it in family-friendly all-seater stadiums with expensive tickets and a bit of opera playing in the background). But whatever the motivations of those demanding its end, bull-baits didn't just persist; they actually flourished in the face of opposition from authorities. No matter how many prosecutions were made, organisers went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that fairs and wakes had a bait as their main spectacle. Middle class reformers cited this as an example of the complete moral bankruptcy of the working class, but in actual fact, it seems more like stubborn resistance by common folk to perceived outside interference in their affairs; to paraphrase Rage Against The Machine, a "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me" reaction. (I encountered something similar this weekend when mentioning to a fellow fan the current "rainbow laces" campaign to show support for gay footballers - after reacting with contempt, he explained gruffly: "I don't mind if a gay bloke wants to kick a ball around a pitch; I'm just fed up of being told what I should and shouldn't be doing.")

No single stratum of society has a monopoly on morality, and I'd hazard a guess that there were some labouring men at the time with their own aversion to blood sports, but of course, no one was clamouring to record their views on the subject. Nevertheless, the people of Birmingham and the Black Country had chosen to fight their us-against-the-world battle over something that was, by the 1830s, viewed as an archaic abhorrence by the rest of the nation, and it couldn't last. When the Cruelty to Animals Act was passed in 1835, it explicitly outlawed bull-baiting, and by the 1840s, the sport was all but gone. Fox-hunting, on the other hand - which was equally cruel, but mainly practised by people with seventeen surnames and a lot of friends in Parliament - remained legal for another 170 years. Four legs good, two legs bad.

Next time we Mercians decide to say "up yours" to the authorities over something, I only hope we can do it over something a little less untenable and indefensible than forcing animals to pull each other apart. In the meantime, here's a traditional Black Country folk song in which the bull gets his own back on the punters, performed by Jon Raven.


From Gornal and from Sedgley, likewise from Tipton too
The sportsmen crowded ter the town, they'd nothing else ter do
Oh, Fancy Dick from Wedgebury come, wi his good dog Shot
But Billy Ball dae come at all, fer being drunk, forgot.

In Perry's Croft the bull was staked, just as the clock struck five
And 'fore the baiting had begun, the streets was all alive
When all things were put ter rights, the crier cried his eyes:
"Bring out yer dogs and pin the bull, if they con, by the nose."

The dogs, once slipped, went at the bull - they went like raving mad
But that old bull, the cunning beast, he dae mean ter be had
He tossed one dog into the air and gid him such a whack
That when he dropped onto the ground, he'd broke his bloody back.

Another one he gored ter jeth and turned him inside out
Which med Old Paul from Willenhall begin ter rave and shout
At last they set six dogs at him, at which bad lumps begun
The dogs all yelled, the crowd all roared, ter see such ripping fun.

Dog after dog went sailing up, like birds into the air
And when they dropped they fell down like cripples at a fair
At last they set old Shot at him, and when he'd had two goes
He sprang upon the weary bull, and pinned him by the nose.

The bull he roared, the bulldog growled, his owner bit his tail
But 't'wor a bit of use, you see, the time you can't gi bail
At last the bull, wi sudden toss of his big gory yed
Flung Dick up, his flesh and all, and broke his cord and fled.

Right through the crowd he rushed away, and gored em as he run
Which med the rascals cuss and swear, fer they dae call that fun
And up the town he rushed along, mad wi the pain and fear
Followed by every barking cur, but none of em went too near.