AS a seagull, my existence is inherently political. Consequently I have developed a radical consciousness that speaks truth to power and that is why I shat on the King.
We – I speak for the gull population as a collective – are the downtrodden of the UK.
Disparaged by everyone. Forced to live in deprived coastal towns and the victims of you putting your leftover chips in a bin rather than letting us equitably share them.
There seems no reason why. Rats, yes, I get why you’d hold the Black Death against them. But us? With our magnificent wings and our harmonious cries? It’s prejudice, pure and simple.
So for you to send an outdated representative of the discredited system of hereditary monarchy out here, to us? In Northern bloody Ireland, for God’s sake? That same King that recently cuddled up to Trump? No way, mate. Not letting that stand.
I took my proposal – namely, to swoop and eject hot guano at exactly the right trajectory to splatter his Anderson & Sheppard suit – to our action committee. We agreed this was no empty gesture.
‘They’ll recognise this is in solidarity with the Catholic population,’ Jerry said. ‘And against globalised capitalism and its environmental impact,’ added Conor. ‘Plus he’ll look a right twat with shit all up his back,’ said Sheryl, who’s not quite there yet with her Marx.
The motion was passed. So during his condescending little walkabout I commenced my low-level run and properly fired my excrement, with pinpoint accuracy, all over him. ‘That’s for the Boyne!’ I squawked though I knew the lapdog media wouldn’t report it.
A blow has been struck for the working gull and for all the oppressed peoples of the world. No way the British monarchy’s coming back from this. Has he abdicated yet? We don’t get the papers.
