Seagulls.

Tonight I watched The One Show (I know, but there was nothing else on and I was feeling indolent) in which they did a bit about towns infested with seagulls. Apparently one of those suffering the worst from these flying sea-rats was the inland town of Gloucester (though the description ‘inland’ has to be used rather ironically lately). The seagulls, apparently, feed on the local landfill, then nest on the town’s buildings. Certain measures are being taken. There’s a guy going round putting false eggs in their nests so they incubate them all year rather than laying new ones. Then there’s another guy with an eco-beard and probably recycled underpants, who feels the problem needs to be studied at length. Obviously an ecological balance needs to be struck. Certainly, it would appear, the residents need to learn to live with and love these birds.

Fuck, right, off.

There is no need for study. The birds fill themselves up from the mounds of discarded food at the landfill, then they come into the town to rip open dustbin bags in pursuit of their preferred diet, to fuck noisily, nest on top of the buildings and drop half a pound of shit on the nearest parked car, and each year their population increases. I know. I’ve stayed in Hastings and listened to them shrieking while they shag at four in the morning, I’ve seen the torn-open dustbin bags and my car, parked for two days, must have used half a gallon extra of petrol when I drove home with the extra weight of guano.

What is needed here is a very simple approach, with a shotgun. But of course that’s never going to happen with councils and government involved. The simple expedient of slipping a local farmer a few quid to bring down the gull population would never happen in over-managed and fucked-up Britain. Risk assessments would need to be made, the HSE would have to be involved, the local animal-rights dicks would be there with their placards and fire-bombs addressed to the farmer, a manager or two would need to be employed the perhaps a police cordon set up while the farmer did his work.

It’s all so unutterably tiresome, and when anything ever does get done it costs twenty times as much as it should. To the people of Gloucester I say, try to find and employ some ex-army guy fresh out of Afghanistan with a night-sighted rifle, and after he’s shot your council and the animal-rights protesters, get him to start on the seagulls