A Rant About Seagulls

by Matt Triewly

Preface

Crap?


Sitting on the sofa (the one we're still paying for) with the footrest up. Sun shining through the patio doors, laptop on my laptop. In a bit I have to get ready for work.

How many times have I started my blogs this way? It's always the same as I start off by describing where I am and what I'm doing. What I'm going to do. I'm becoming predictable. Boring. More boring. It's becoming a kind of a 'Groundhog Day' type of blog.

Of course, there's no such thing as a 'Groundhog Day' (except as a film) because every day is different. Actually what I want to say is that everything that I see is composed of two aspects: that which is the same or common and that which is different. For instance, recently, I had to travel away each day for a vocational course (sounds impressive but though essential it wasn't anything too highbrow) and that meant using a bus and a train to get there. Now, one of the things about using public transport is that lots of strangers get thrown together - sometimes quite literally if you've got a rough bus driver - and I find myself studying, discretely, my companion travellers. I observe them, wonder about their lives, and speculate about their relationships. Are they happy? Are they having an affair? Are they dodgy? Are they grieving? Do they know the meaning of life, the universe and everything?

Na, nobody knows that.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder whether to start up a conversation with a random individual because maybe this person could be the one human being who could change my life. Perhaps they need someone for the business they've just started and I could be just that person they're looking for. I could become rich and powerful. I could have all the money I need to satisfy all my desires...

On the other hand I could end up lumbered with a tedious and spirit sapping individual who latches onto my like a leech who I bitterly regret ever making polite talk with.

Life's a lottery.

But on the basis that the pratts far outweigh the interesting people I, normally, I just look around and speculate, fantasise and make stories up in my head about these strangers. And yet in a way they're not that strange because even though every face is different there are also components that are the same. Different but the same. I'll have to think about that.

The sun's gone in now. Or rather it's been obscured by clouds. Clouds that are different but also the same. The seagulls are still squawking though. Cunts. I hate seagulls. Maybe one day I will stop hating seagulls. But not today. I hate seagulls because they're noisy and crap on my car. In fact yesterday I came out to move the car and there were three seagull 'strikes' on the bonnet. I then went into the house and got the mop and bucket to clean the shit off. As I started to scrub it off there was a 'splat'. Un-fucking-believable. I'd looked up to see if I could see the culprit but all I could see was blue sky and clouds. The thing that's really annoying is that only my car they shit on. Everyone else's is spotless. Spotless. Why me? I might just add that about a week ago I didn't drive the car for a few days and it was absolutely spotted with seagull poo. Cunts. I reckon they must have it in for me. I can just imagine Jonathan and Livingstone seagull in between sharing crumbs of bread on the seafront wall in hysterics about shitting on my car: "It was just so funny Livingstone, he'd just wiped it off and I managed to get it dead centre on the bonnet. You should have seen the fat old cunt waving his fist at me."

"Yeah, I'll round up the rest of the flock and plaster his car later. We could get a photo and stick it on FaecesBook. Anyway, shall we get a film out in the meantime? What about The Birds?"

Anyway, I did wonder about dusting off my crossbow and waiting for one of the fuckers but knowing my luck I'd probably miss and the bolt would hit the rotors of the air ambulance passing over and bring it down and then I'd had to live with the guilt of that for the rest of my life. Naturally, I wouldn't confess to it though I suppose eventually forensics would lead to me. Perhaps someone could make a film about it: The Silence of the Seagulls. Not that that is very likely. I can still hear the fuckers outside squawking in a mocking tone...

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