"I’m not as punk as you think I am," he chuckled, then immediately realised his mistake. "Drunk! I meant drunk!" he cried, but it was already too late. The illusion had been shattered. She turned and left the room, and also his life, forever.
The seagulls in my neighbourhood (I live by a river) are always walking around. Marching up and down the thoroughfares on their blindingly yellow legs, as though they’re just really short hipsters in trendy chinos.
And I’m not talking about those ridiculously fluffy juvenile seagulls with the dark feathers that haven’t learned how anything works yet, who stand around blinking stupidly while I point at them and sing “teenage SEA-GULL! duhn DAHHH!” to the tune of Teenage Wasteland. I’m talking big, threatening, trash scavenging, grown-ass seagulls.
I’ve been sitting in the living room window, or at least in the nook type thing that turns the window into a pleasant arm rest if you position yourself correctly, watching this local gull try to cross the road for ten minutes, darting into traffic then retreating to the pavement in a huff because there’s no break in the flow of cars that will give him adequate time to waddle awkwardly to the other side.
It has yet to occur to him that he can just fly over entire buildings whenever the hell he wants.
If he hasn’t figured it out by ten o’clock I’m just going to pop down and ask him if he wants to go to the pub and grab a beer.
— Phil Harrison, in a Quietus review of Utopia.