As a Brighton boy, I grew up with seagulls. They didn’t raise me, that would be weird, but they lived in the chimneys all around me and their barking is part of a comforting cacophony I like to call home.
It always surprises me when other people are surprised by the seagulls. My dad’s from London originally and when his friends would call the house phone they’d be all like, “bloody hell Bas what’s that noise?” It was old Steven Seagull, of course, chirruping like an angel on the roof outside.
Except, they’re not angels are they? Yobs of the sky, I like to call them. They’re merciless. One took half my hotdog out of my hand when I was a child and I’m still really annoyed about it. It marked me from far above, a helpless little human waving dinner around, and then it silently swooped and yomped it away before I knew what was going on. And they’ve only grown bolder since.
