Gullsville: Episode III—Revenge of the Grist*

(~5 minutes to read)

News item: “Drunk gulls found ‘stinking of alcohol’”

A couple of years ago, inspired by gull-related BBC stories, I wrote two pieces about a Mr. and Mrs. Gull. In the first one, I portrayed Mr. Gull as a beer-drinking, curry-loving, amoral, red-necked gull. In the second one, he met his demise while playing chicken with a lawnmower. A kittiwake named Kyle subsequently shacked up with Mrs. Gull and helped raise her eggs.

It struck me that the drunk gulls in this latest BBC story might well have been the fruit of Mr. and Mrs. Gull’s loins. (Do birds even have loins?)

Gary Gull (“Gazza” to his newly-acquired drinking buddies) was feeling under the weather. Fact is, he was scared of heights and therefore reluctant to fly above the weather.

But Gary (I’m not one of his drinking buddies, so I don’t call him “Gazza”) was also feeling hungover. He and several other gulls had discovered a skip (dumpster) containing brewery waste and had partaken.

With gusto. (If there’d been pizza available, they would have partaken with that, but gusto was all there was.)

At first, he hadn’t liked the taste of the brewery waste. When he was a teenager he hadn’t liked the taste of his first beer either, but like most teenagers, he’d persisted until he enjoyed it. He therefore assumed that his taste buds would acclimatize to the brewery waste.

And they did. Either that, or they upped and died.

Anyhow, after a bellyful of brewery waste, he was pretty sure he shouldn’t be flying, so he and his buddies set off on the waddle to the landfill. He wasn’t entirely sure what his Mum and stepfather would say when he showed up with five drunken friends, but it’s amazing how brave and uninhibited a gull could be on a skinful.

When they finally reached the oil drum that served as home to the Kittiwake-Gull family, there were approximately one-and-a-half fewer drunkards in tow. Two of their number had got hit by a car on the way, and opportunists that they are, the survivors, who really fancied a kebab, decided that gull pancakes would be a good second best. But their hearts weren’t in it (they’d stuck to the tread of the tires) so they’d picked at the food a little, found they’d lost their appetites, and moved on.

They announced their arrival with singing and belching. Mrs. Gull looked over her pince-bec glasses at the silhouettes in the entrance, shook her head and returned to her painting. To those who didn’t know her, the picture looked like a poor attempt at splatter paint art, but her confidantes all knew that since her husband’s demise at the blades of a lawnmower, she had developed an obsession for recreating the death scene—tens of similar paintings adorned the wall of the oil drum.

In the corner (and if you’ve ever spent time inside a topless oil drum, you’ll know there’s only one corner), Gary’s stepfather fumed.

He took his pipe out of his beak, set it on the upturned soup can end table, and surveyed the scene.

“Just like your father,” he said.

“Now, now, Kyle,” said Mrs. Gull. You promised you’d never compare Gary to his father. He never met him, and I’m pretty sure drunkenness isn’t passed on in the genes.”

“How much did you drink, son?” asked Kyle.

“Nothing, I swear!” replied Gary.

In the background, his new buddies, sensing disharmony in the drumhold, were slowly losing their enthusiasm to continue the party chez-Gazza.

“Don’t lie, Gary dear,” clucked Mrs. Gull. “It’s obvious that you and your… friends have over-indulged in something alcoholic. And it was the death of your father.”

“No it wasn’t, Mum! It was a bloody lawnmower that killed him!”

“Language! I won’t have you swearing in front of your mother like that. And yes, while it was a lawnmower that finished him off, it was the booze that got him in front of the lawnmower in the first place.”

“Just tell us how you got in this state, dear,” cooed Mrs. Gull, adding pigeon to the list of birds she could imitate.

“We found this skip with a bunch of wet barley and hops and stuff on the top. It smelt like beer, but we thought it was just a different kind of muesli.”

“Oh Gary, that was brewery waste,” said Kyle. “That’s what they make beer from.”

Gary turned to his buddies. “Did you know what we were eating?”

“Course we did,” said one. “You don’t think we’d willingly eat muesli otherwise, do ya?”

“I think your friends should leave now,” said Kyle, moving out of the corner and into the light. (Actually it was merely less shadow—gulls aren’t capable of rigging up electric lights.) Despite the silvering of the feather tips, he was still a fearsome sight with his long, rapier-like beak.

“Eff me, it’s a kittiwake!” mocked the largest of Gary’s buddies. “Come on then, Grandad, make us leave!”

“I should warn you that I’m a black collar karate expert,” said Kyle.

“It’s true,” confirmed Mrs. Gull. “You should go, if you know what’s good for you.”

Kyle moved to the entrance and looked the loudbeak in the eye.

“Go. Now. If you know what’s good for you.”

The drunken gull lurched forward in an attempt to head-butt the kittiwake, but Kyle easily dodged it, and ten seconds later, there were pieces of gull strewn all over the area in front of the drum. The stink of semi-digested alcoholic muesli wafted in. Of the other “buddies” there was no sign.

“Wow! That was amazing!” said Gary.

“They didn’t call me ‘The Karate Kit’ in my younger days for nothing,” said Kyle.

“Kyle the Karate Kit kittiwake,” sighed Mrs. Gull. “My hero.”

“Shall we eat?” said Kyle.

“I don’t think so,” replied Gary. I think I’ll go bed with a cup of water and a Tylenol.

“Sorry dear, there’s none left,” said Mrs. Gull.

“Why not?” asked Gary.

Kyle and Mrs. Gull looked at each other and smirked, then said in unison:
“Because the parrots ate ‘em all!”

(If you don’t understand the punch line, look up the name for acetaminophen in most of the world outside north America.)

[* This article was originally titled “Gulls’ Night Out”. It was renamed as the Gullsville series developed. I can’t claim originality for the original title. It was an RSPCA officer, Clara Scully, who came up with the pun.]