It is a crisp, clear sky-blue thinking kind of morning. My face is numb under the frozen sun, as I step out of the front door to pick up my Script from the local dispensary.
I am reminded of the winter days I spent in New Zealand. A time when I could breathe easily and fortuitously, when life walked at a relaxed pace, and the future looked a rosy wine colour. New Zealand, where you can soak up the clean air and natural vibrations, where the natives are spoilt for their Island Sounds, shrinking glaciers, and occasional chilled glass of Marlborough vino paired with monster green-lipped mussels.
I pass by a ransacked council bin, where a flock of seagulls are ram-raiding the ripped-up rubbish sacks – lords of the sky, scavengers of the earth – indigenous seabirds with anti-social attitudes. I leave them tearing open crisp packets, yanking on half-eaten chewy sweets, and pecking each other over scraps of stale bread. With a disdainful tut and roll of the eyes, I keep on moving.
I am reminded of the Great Brighton Bin Strikes of the new millennium, when the seagulls were the only victors in the titanic political clash of mounting wastegate. Apocalyptic scenes in abundance, radiating rubbish piles on the tourist heavy streets of the City, with the rodent seabird’s beak deep in half-eaten tins of ravioli.
Seagulls, who take all the spoils from the picnic of life.
Seagulls, who would be the only surviving wildlife critters, along with cockroaches, in the event of a nuclear winter holocaust.
Walking under the huge gnarly tree canopy of Buckingham Park, I brush shoulders and stare deep into the fierce pupils of a local character known for his public hooligan rants and enraged love of Brighton & Hove Albion FC.
Today, he is unshaven, pumped-up, and dishevelled in Albion get-up – hat, scarf, gloves and quite possibly soiled football underpants.
He starts aggressively chanting Seagulls! Seagulls! – at the footsloggers, motor traffic, random cyclists and anyone who will listen – as the seabird’s dive and soar in an ironic fashion over his head, a million miles away from the frozen empty seats of the locked-down stadium in Falmer.
Legend has it that the Albion took up the ‘Seagull’ nickname and crest, after an ‘M23’ derby in the early 70’s with fierce rivals Crystal Palace, when the Albion fans cunningly matched the Palace fan’s chants of ‘Eagles!’ with ‘Seagulls!’. The rest, as they say, is history. Either way, it was an upgrade on the traditional dolphin crest. Fish and football never mix, like oil and water.
Script exchanged, I stash the meds away in my jacket pocket, for a rainy day of the soul. And follow the flight of the seagulls back to the ranch, wondering where they all come from, these immigrant coastal birds.
They land on our shores in droves, shit on our picket fencing and patios, and snatch the only remaining sandwich from our plates.
Now, seagulls, you scavengers of the earth. Fuck off back to where you belong!