Seagull : - A True Story

[non capisco]

2008. There was a seagull going garrity at people on Carnaby Street. Screeching out a blood curdling noise akin to the screams of the panicked masses after the last trump, divebombing and pecking at arbitrarily chosen Soho heads, punctuating its assaults by flapping dementedly in mid-air for a bit before choosing its next victim. I stood transfixed near the open doorway of a Leons, willing the diabolical creature to attack the annoying charity mugger who'd tried to make me part with my money by physically comparing me to Tintin. Come on, my lovely bird! He's there! Cowering by The Shakespeare's Head! Swoop, my pretty!

Someone to the left of me said "This is like Albert Hitchcock." And it was. One musclebound young hotshot laughed at the bird to show off in front of his nervous girlfriend. Almost instantly he received a terrifying close-up visit from the aggrieved beast and lost all composure, going "aoooww, fucking hell!" in a Frank Spencer voice. This feathered fuck was a leveller. Young and old, loud and reserved, rich and poor, all of us united in terror. "If you run it'll see you" I heard someone say. Come on, he's over there! Clipboard, tabard, curly hair, GET HIM!

I saw now disgraced DJ Tim Westwood milling in the throng. Your bomb sound effects won't help you now, sunbeam. This is Vietnam.

Work are calling. 'Where are you?' 'I'm on Carnaby Street. There's a mental bird'. 'We need you back.' I couldn't say I wanted to stay and see it peck the charity mugger. I didn't want to paint that petty a picture of myself. 'If I run it'll see me.' 'What?! Come back for fuck's sake.' GET HIM! HE'S GONE IN PRET! FLY INTO PRET! PECK HIM!!!

Someone from Mother Mash had come out and was trying to lure the beast away with stale stock. Westwood saw his opening and ran. Westwood pushed. Westwood jostled. Westwood sprinted. Mother Mash man sustains a pecking and runs. He's lured the diabolical dicky bird away from its true quarry. Charity guy is now laughing with one of his tabarded toadies. FUCK YOU. I'll give you Tintin, you clipboard clutching cock. Come back, my skybound beauty!

I think it went and bothered some people down the road then, on the appropriately named Beak Street.