Last time I was on a beach, I dropped a fry and a seagull grabbed it.

Obviously, I didn’t want a fry covered with sand, so I didn’t mind. However, I discovered that the seagull who got the first fry would chase off any other seagulls that came to bother me. Each time I saw him doing that, I’d “drop” another fry.

I hired a seagull body guard with French fries.

That bird was absolutely on top of that situation. After a little while, the other seagulls all gave up and left me alone, so he didn’t even have to do any more work for the fries, just stand watch.

Edit: Of course, this was on the US East Coast, and seagull relations are a little different on this side of the pond. I understand there might still be some sore feelings over there after the seagull wars. Some wounds take longer to heal.

You do not know about Bri’ish Seagulls.

Vicious creatures.

These gulls began as simple scavengers circling around fishing vessels, picking off the small fish thrown back from the boats before they reached the docks.

Beginning in the Victorian age, when the newly forged middle class emerged from the industrial cities to travel by train to the seaside towns of Blackpool, Llandudno, and Scarborough.

They built sea-steaded monolithic piers of pleasure and amusement, grand hotels by the dozen, and sea-front shops a-plenty, all to cater to the new summer tourists.

The food scraps are now strewn across the shoreline like a driftwood from a tidal surge. No longer must they exhaust themselves flapping above tempestuous waters praying and squabbling over a toss-back from the fisherman’s trawler.

For many decades, a steady stream of seasonal sun-seeker families kept the gulls fat for the winter, they grew accustom to scavenging man’s processed food discards.

They learnt to hunger for the sweet swirls of vanilla ice-cream atop a delicate wafter cone, so easily torn to shreds by their flocks when an unfortunate child happens to stumble and let it slip from thier grasp onto the ground.

The newspaper bouquet of cripsy, fluffy, potatoes enough to feed a flock orbiting above observing, waiting for the opportune time for one to fall.

Or a chance to swoop and take straight from the source when the bountiful pile is left unattended for a moment.

Then in the 1960s, the holiday makers dwindled slowly at first but then rapidly as the pasty common brit chose to invade the shores of Spain, France, and Greece bringing unsightly sunburnt skin, bad fashion sense and horrible drunken choices.

The scraps dried up. The gulls became ravenous. They grew bolder. No longer able to perch idly by the rooftops and fences for droppings from the masses, they started to approach them begging for a little morscle. The council and RSPB saw the signs of what these birds might become and hung warnings not to feed them, lest they become dependent on humans.

But it was too late.

They now dive-bomb and shriek at the families who can’t afford to EasyJet over to the continent for a week.

They fight over the scraps, yearn to snatch food right from your hands, and salivate to swarm the unattended child, and bite the ice-lolly from their little fingers.

They’ve grown past the drive for food, they now crave the hunt. Who knows, soon they may crave the flesh.

*shouldn’t ‘ave

Who cares? It’s just a damn bird. It risks being killed by predators every day; humans are just one of them.