Dear Association President


Do your goddamn job. Every morning I wake up to the screeching and cawing of a hundred thousand seagulls. They swoop around my house and fuck each other and cheer about it. I am outraged. I am furious. I am an angry, little, Jewish man who has had it up to here with this administration and its inability to deal with the simplest issues. You are responsible for my daily discomfort. I am holding you personally accountable for my avian-invaded REM cycle.

What have you done with your presidency? Smiled a lot? Walked around the Union? Wow. Good work. That means so much to me. I love seeing you just walking around and smiling. I look at you and I’m all like, “that guy – oh jeez, oh my, wow. He’s doing things. He’s got my back. And he’s so tall and blonde!” NOT! That was sarcasm! SARCASM. You’ve got my back like the Inuit of North-western Canada have desk fans. By that I mean, you don’t. Because they don’t need desk fans usually, when they’re hunting seals. There are no desks in that job, I don’t think. And similarly, you haven’t done squat about my seagull problem.

I know what you’re thinking, Freddie. You’re thinking, “What am I supposed to do about this kid’s seagull problem? I don’t have seagull powers. I don’t reign supreme over the seagull species like some kind of guy who reigns supreme over the seagull species. That’s not my job.” Well, okay, I say. I acknowledge that you think that. I acknowledge that you limit yourself. I accept that you think of yourself as that lowly. But wake up, dude! Do you hear that? That buzzing. That awful blaring sound. That’s your wake up call! It means “KILL THE GULLS.” Or, alternatively I guess, find somewhere else for them to be. Like, not near my house, preferably.

What I’m really trying to say is that we elected you. We chose you above other candidates as our Association President. We, the student body, had so much faith in you. Things were going to change around here. A new age of St Andrews was going to dawn. But now it’s obvious what has truly dawned – you’ve just kept things going the same as ever. It’s a new age of the same old thing. The same old seagull malarkey.

You obviously need some help. It’s clear this job has been too much for you to handle. So I’ll tell you what. I’m going to be nice. I’m going to tell you what to do. From this point on, I’ve got YOUR back. How’s that for a twist? How’s that for charity? After I’m done with you, you’re going to look at me and be all like “that guy – oh jeez, oh my, wow. He’s doing things. He’s got my back. And he’s so short and brunette!” And maybe I’ll say something smart, like “Just doing my job.” And you’ll be speechless after that. Because that’s what you should have said in the first place, after handling my seagull problem the first time around.

So here it is: the seagull solution. Get naked. Cover yourself in gravy and ketchup. Roll around in bird seeds. I want to see – here I use the word “see” not quite literally, you see – every part of you totally seeded. Totally. You don’t half-ass this.

What you’re going to want to do now is stand outside the University Store on Market Street and just scream. Scream so hard. Harder even than that one time that one guy did that one thing to you and you were so mad you screamed really hard. Yes, harder than that. This is about dedication to a cause. You know what I’m talking about.

The seagulls are going to flock to you. They’re going to land on you. They’re going to eat you. And they’re going to be far away from me, comfortable in my bed, dreaming of Costa Rican beaches and fishing boats with harpoon guns. And this is going to happen every morning.

This is the only way you can ever satisfy me, Freddie. Get to work.

The Editors wish to point out that seagulls are protected by UK law, and, unfortunately, Mr Fforde is therefore unable to “KILL THE GULLS”.

Update: Freddie Fforde responds.



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