The Seagull Catapult  
Travel Writing
E-Mail me
Back To Front

Picture the scene:

St Ives, a charming, picturesque fishing village on the English Riviera. It has a tranquil harbour, scenic ocean views, fresh seafood vendors, Cornish Pasty sellers hawking their wares on every corner. Little children splash in small tide pools between beached fishing ketches, Cornish clotted ice cream drips over a pretty girl’s hand and somewhere a church bell rings out from a tall steeple.

However, an evil current of electricity runs under the skin of this innocent, peaceful town, for this town is cursed. It is cursed with



I was taken aback to become one of their victims. Me, a tall, strapping lad who fears no dark alley. A man who can kill with his thumb, the man who survive the mosh pit at a Michael Jackson concert.

I was enjoying my traditional Cornish Pasty with good friends by my side, the sun in my face and the ocean breeze in my hair. All was good with the world when suddenly a terrifying grey shape blazed into my peripheral vision. Before I knew it half of my delicious lunch was ripped mercilessly from my hand, almost taking several fingers with it. I thought to myself … well, actually I can’t repeat what I thought to myself – this is a family show after all!

In the aftermath it became clear as to what had happened. The first clues were the squawking masses that arrived within seconds, demanding their share of the booty. Then there were the chuckling locals who have seen this all before .The final clue was that I no longer had anything to eat. Oh the shame, the indignity, the humiliation! The hunger!

Mugged by a seagull.

Oh you laugh, who have never been savaged by Larus Agentatus, foot-long razor sharp beak, wingspan like a condor, capable of making off with small children and other animals; if the avian world had delinquents with rings through their noses, smoking behind the bike sheds, it would be the seagull.

What can be done?

Enter Ross! (Strikes heroic pose, stage left). I have come up with a cunning plan to make the bastard seagulls pay, and to protect the town. If everyone follows my patented method, we could rid this sleepy village of 98% of the crime experienced there within 6 months (cow-tipping and sheep-molesting is a different matter entirely, that’s tradition).

Here’s how it works:

1. Buy a delicious pasty from the nearest pie shop.
2. Eat three-quarters of aforementioned pastie (very carefully – remember there be beasties here!)
3. Strap on the old steel-toed boots.
4. Balance on your left foot, with right foot extended behind you.
5. Looking defenceless and gullible (a bit like one of the inbred locals, then) extend the hand holding the left-over pasty. (Handy Hint: a small amount of drool hanging from one corner of your mouth will complete the deception.)
6. Await the inevitable approach of one or more flying garbage cans.
7. Tempt the little blighter closer.
8. Swing right foot forward with all the force you can muster, ensuring a good, solid connection with aforementioned gull’s hindquarters.


9. Watch with amusement and satisfaction as the terrified avian makes off with a desperate screech of pain and humiliation.
10. Wipe gull poop from tip of boot.
11. Finish off pasty before it gets cold.

I call it the “SEAGULL CATAPAULT ™©®” (Patent Pending). You can thank me later…

Back To Top