A Gullible Seaside Dispute
Before you start complaining about it, let me state, calmly and for the record, that the gull is innocent. Not innocent in the legal sense. No one who has made prolonged eye contact with a gull over a parcel of chips would argue that. But innocent in the broader, philosophical sense. The gull did not create this situation. The gull merely arrived, assessed it, and behaved accordingly. If anything, the gull is the most honest participant in the modern seaside town.
We accuse gulls of being loud, aggressive, thieving opportunists.
Which they are.
But so are we, except we have worse table manners and a complicated relationship with packaging.
Observe the gull in its modern-day natural habitat. The car park. The promenade. The bins behind the chip shop. This is not a creature out of place. This is a creature that followed the food. And the food, through no fault of its own, has relocated itself from the sea to the pavement.
We like to imagine gulls wheeling gracefully over sunlit waters, delicately plucking fish from an abundant ocean. The truth is we have pillaged the sea with the same greed we employ as we barge and shove through a bargain clearance sale. And then expressed genuine shock when the gull turns up in a Tesco car park like a disappointed dinner guest. The sea is depleted. The gull adapted.
We call this menacing.
The seaside town complains constantly about gull behaviour while behaving in a way that would cause any sensible species to intervene.
We complain about gull racket, then spend entire nights drunkenly bawling at one another outside pubs, holding takeaway boxes aloft like offerings to the goddess of the sky. We complain about the filth, then drop pizza, curry, chips, boxes, napkins and other takeaway meals with casual disdain. We complain about gulls stealing food while eating outdoors, distracted, arms extended, eyes on phones, daring nature to make a point.
The gull, meanwhile, is running a tight ship.
There are meetings. I have seen them. Senior gulls stand on lampposts supervising, while younger ones practise low level intimidation techniques. The sidelong stare. The strategic step closer. The sudden wing stretches designed to make humans panic and relinquish onion rings. This is not chaos.
This is logistics. Somewhere, a gull is keeping notes.
Tourists are ranked. Children are high risk, high reward. Adults are ideal. Slow reactions. Divided attention. Emotional attachment to battered food. Ice creams are time sensitive. Sandwiches are a long game.
We put up signs: DO NOT FEED THE GULLS and surround them with sustenance. This isn’t mixed messaging. This is performance art.
And let’s discuss rubbish. The gull didn’t invent single use plastic. The gull did not decide that polystyrene boxes should be both wind catching and impossible to hold securely. The gull did not design bins that overflow before noon on a warm day. The gull simply noticed that we have created an all you can eat buffet. Frankly, I would do the same. Given how badly we treat gulls, I might excrete well-aimed bullets on the litter droppers too. We accuse gulls of lacking shame. But shame is a human invention, and we abandoned it with the first dropped chip.
As I see it, the gull performs an essential ecological role. Waste management. It has learned that humans are loud, leaky animals who eat rudely and reveal an inspiring commitment to the perils of excess. Evolutionarily speaking, it would be impolite not to take advantage.
If the gull were a person, we would admire its efficiency. Its adaptability. It is bold. It understands systems. It identifies weakness. Us. And exploits us with admirable consistency. Truth hurts. The gull is not the problem. The gull is the consequence.
We want the romance of the seaside. The idea of wildness. Without accepting that wildness responds to opportunity. We want nature to behave politely while we behave like spoilt toddlers’ mid tantrum.
Yes, the gull will take your chips. It will scream at dawn. It will stare into your soul with the confidence of something that knows exactly how this ends. And when it does, remember this. The gull did not come to town to ruin the seaside. The seaside invited it.
And as I sit in the car to eat my fish and chips during another torrential downpour, I look above me. On the rain-splodged sunroof stand a pair of perfect, pink webbed feet.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull, or whoever you are I salute you.
