Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel safer already. If Dynamic Dave, our man in Number 10, has announced that we are going to have a big debate about something, well, I just know matters are being taken seriously, things are being dealt with and, by jingo, something will be done.
And not before time. This menace from the skies must be dealt with. They come screaming into town, causing mayhem and being chased away from the front doors of pubs, like Nigel Farage on the campaign trail in Edinburgh.
Seagulls, the enemy above. A plague here in Leith to bin fillers and car washers for a long, long time.
But now that Dynamic Dave has got involved, well, everything is going to be fine. It’s remarkable, really, you’d think he’d be up to his eyeballs sorting out rampaging migrants, stomping on poor people and forcing himself to laugh at Angela Merkel’s jokes to be bothered by the seagull menace, but no, he has personally weighed in to let the feathered fiends know that they are messin’ with the big boys now.
The seagulls of Leith are every bit as gallus as you’d expect from a bird that’s trained on a diet of Greggs steak bakes, and I’d have put them up against all comers for sheer cheek, until we met the Gulls of Whitby.
It was only two weeks ago in that fair town that the Yorkshire husband bought me a tub of whelks from a stall on the quayside. I like whelks. He chose mussels. Be careful of the gulls, said the young lady behind the counter.
Haha, said I, foolishly, we survive the seagulls of Scotland.
Well, our birds might have power on their side, but these clever screamers have brains. No sooner had the Yorkshire husband moved into the sunlight than a gull swooped down behind him and smacked him on the back of his head, causing him to chuck the mussels out of the wee pot.
What happened next made the high-speed aerobatics of the Red Arrows look like those paper gliders you used to get free in the Dandy that couldn’t fly straight and always wound up behind the telly.
Gulls fired in with the speed and precision of the Rebel Forces taking out the Death Star. Only two mussels hit the deck, and even they vanished faster than a peer’s reputation.
A Yorkshireman was separated from his seafood. You are so right, Dave. Something must be done.