Reports have been flooding in of a new elusive criminal terrorising the beautiful town and beaches of Deal. The nimble thief has been stealing baked goods, pastries and, in particular, sausage rolls from the very hands of his victims. He’s not picky, he shows no loyalty to residents or visitors. He would snatch the crown from the Queen’s head if it took his fancy, and if it was edible, perhaps made from sausage meat. So, ‘who is this reprobate?’ I hear you cry. ‘Who is this much feared, most wanted, foul-mouthed wretched criminal, scouring our beautiful holiday spot? Who is it that has the whole town up in arms, talking about the daily comings and goings of the infamous thief to have ever dared intimidate our men, women and children?
This is our call for revolution, on the seagull that’s robbing everybody of their half cut sandwiches, fresh from the bakers. He snatches sausage rolls from your fingers, before you can even get one bite. Who knows if they’re any good? The seagull does. He swoops in from behind and catches you off guard, in a split second you’ve had a face full of feathers and you’ve lost your lunch. You might laugh, but this is serious. He’s the talk of the town, lapping it up like he owns the place, behaving like Robin Hood feeding his merry little men. Every meal time is a risk. Will you get to eat what you’ve just bought, or will he?
Life in Deal can’t go on like this. There will be crying children and hungry tums in every direction and is this really where the torment ends? Where there’s one, there’ll come more. How many other seagulls are going to come looking for a piece of our pie? Do we really want Deal to become the next Cornwall? Do we want our sausage rolls of the east to become the infamously snatched Cornish pasties of the west? Where will the madness end? Who will save us from this monster?
If you’re feeling heroic, or fearing for your life, look out for him. He’s easy to spot. He’s a seagull for a start. Pristine white, like the Mr Whippy 99 ice cream he steals out of your hand from ‘The Parkour.’ If we can rid ourselves of this villain, we only run the risk of balaclava clad, moped riding, sledgehammer wielding, London gangs moving in on his turf. They only want to pinch your phone, not your ham salad sandwich. For goodness sake, think of the children.