ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
Introduction
The Discovery
In England, in the County of Cornwall, on the Roseland Peninsula lies a magical secret cradled between Pendower and Porthcurnick beaches: a hidden inlet I call Curgurrel Cove. It is a place of quiet enchantment, just below my house, where I often wander down to with my paints to capture the scenery and the sea life that thrive there.
There, on the edge of the beach, half-veiled behind a rock, dwells a curious apparition: an aged seagull, weathered by salt and time, seated on a rickety wooden rocking chair. I catch glimpses of him from time to time. His feathers are worn to tatters, leaving him gaunt and bare, yet he dons round black spectacles and large blue woollen slippers, as if he has chosen eccentric retirement from the sky.
At one moment when the wind shifted to an easterly, he dragged his chair into the open for shelter. Suddenly, he was in full view.—an improbable figure, both comical and solemn, as though conjured from a dream.
What fortune! I slipped a piece of slate from my bag and began to paint, desperate to seize the vision before it vanished. The seagull regarded me with wary glances, suspicion flickering behind his lenses, but soon returned to his stillness. I worked swiftly, half-afraid he might rise and depart—though his slippers seemed to anchor him to the earth more firmly than wings ever could.
As dusk descended and the light thinned to silver, I had sketched and blocked the scene, fixing his peculiar dignity in my mind. Breathless with excitement, I hurried home, where I refined and finished the painting you can see here—a testament to the strange magic of Curgurrel Cove.
First Sighting
Curgurrell Cove
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
Introduction
The Meeting
The next morning, I awoke early as the sun was rising over the sea, casting an orange shadow towards Curgurrell Cove. There was an air of something extraordinary, fantastical—I had to go back there.
I was amazed to see the old seagull still sitting there, unmoved, still writing. The only difference was a butterfly that had landed on the end of his pen, which he seemed oblivious to. I captured this moment in another painting, finished later, which you can see here.
I needed to get a closer look. I moved slowly towards him, like a tentative tourist approaching a seal pup. A gruff, raspy voice fluttered through the breeze:
“Ah, so you’ve come to meet me at last. Don’t mind the smell of salt and chips—it’s my aftershave. I’m Flapjack, veteran of the skies, scourge of pastie stalls, and survivor of three near-fatal encounters with deckchairs.
Sit down, deary. I’ve got stories that’ll make the tide blush and the gulls squawk with envy. First rule: never trust a crab named Clive. Second rule: always aim for the chip, never the napkin. Third rule… well, you’ll learn that one the hard way.”
He leans back, beak drooping into a grin.
“Now, tell me—are you here for wisdom, or just to laugh at an old seagull who once mistook a roundabout for a nest?”
““Did we not meet before?”
“Don’t think so. I’m sure I would remember that.”
“One thing I’ve still got working—the memory. Not always a good thing, as all the naughty things I’ve done come flooding back.
You look like a young lady who once taught me art on the beach here. Lovely little thing she was. I wanted to marry her, but that was before all these same‑sex marriages and such were allowed, so it wasn’t possible.”
''What are you writing?” I asked.
He taps the side of his beak with a claw, eyes narrowing like he’s sizing up a storm cloud.
“My memoirs…” he mutters, voice gravelly with pride and regret.
He rummages under his chair and pulls out a battered notebook, pages curled like seaweed in the sun.
“Chapter One’s called The Great Flake Chase—involves a rogue ice cream, a wind gust, and a pensioner named Maureen who still sends me hate mail.”
He flips a page with a flourish.
“Chapter Two: Beak First into Trouble. That one’s about the time I tried to court a pelican. Didn’t end well. Turns out she was just here on holiday.”
He pauses, eyes twinkling.
“I write it all down, dear—the victories, the humiliations, the philosophical musings on chip density. Because one day, when I’m just a squawk in the wind, somebody may find this and I may become posthumously famous.”
His voice then changed. Wearily, he muttered, “Tired now. Time for my morning nap.”
He threw a blanket over his head, and all was silent.
I left him there, resting, and walked back up the hill to home. What an amazing experience. I could not wait to hear more of Flapjack’s adventures.......
Meeting
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
Introduction
The End of the Beginning
The next morning I awoke excited, but it was raining, and sadly the rain continued all day, so it was far too slippery to get down to the Cove. The following day was beautiful, so after breakfast I set off.
I took my Labrador, Prudie. She likes birds. Once, we found a baby one on a footpath that had fallen from its nest. She carefully picked it up in her soft mouth, moved it to the undergrowth at the side, and made it comfortable with some straw from the hay bales in the field. Sweetest thing I ever saw.
When we got to the beach, there was an eerie silence. The tide moved with a slow, steady breath, and Flapjack’s old chair sat exactly where it had been when I left two days ago, facing the horizon as if waiting for him to return. But this time, it wasn’t him I found.
His large blue slippers sat in front of the chair, but there was no Flapjack in them. Five books were stacked neatly on the chair, marked Flapjack Memoirs I–V. A piece of paper on top simply read THE END. There was also a note tucked into one of them that said FOR YOU. The headstone sat beside the chair. I was expecting some crazy epitaph, but it simply said: ''FLAPJACK THE SEAGULL FINALLY TAKES A NAP''
The sea rolled in gently, as if mourning too. No squawk, no chip theft, no dramatic monologue. Just the hush of waves and the echo of laughter that once was.
Prudie sat next to the chair, sensing something was missing and some ghostly presence, as dogs do.
As I opened the note to read, the wind seemed to carry Flapjack’s gruff voice to me:
“Right then, you’ve found the note. Excellent. I was worried it might blow away and end up in the beak of some illiterate pigeon.
Now, before you start blubbering like a walrus with hay fever, let me assure you: I am absolutely fine. I have simply… upgraded to Version 2.0: Flapjack Celestial Edition.
The angels turned up to bury me. These are the ones who had boring, quiet lives, who never moved from the church, never pooed on anyone, and now fly around with halos over their heads. Not for me—no fun. I’m counting on them giving me a nice headstone, which I hope does not say ‘Here lies Flapjack. That bastard bird.’
No buffet. No guests. Nothing. Just a sick pigeon with a sore throat trying to play The Last Post. Sounded worse than my old granny farting.
Anyway, I’ve left you my memoirs. All five volumes. Yes, five. Turns out I’ve lived quite a life. Some chapters are educational. Some are inspirational. One is technically illegal in three counties.
Your job is to tell the world. Make them laugh. Make them gasp. Make them wonder how a seagull managed to get arrested for trying to have sex with a traffic cone.
There’s no copyright, so you can keep the royalties—though I guess you are not royalty. Just don’t tell the tax man.
Right, I must dash. The angels are trying to fit me for a halo. It will make a nice frisbee.
Farewell, you magnificent human. May your chips remain undefended.”
Signed,Flapjack the Seagull
As instructed, I carried the books home. Prudie took one of the slippers; she always steals shoes from beaches.
The Beginning of the End
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
VOLUME 1
BIRTH
That night in bed, I flipped through the first volume. They all appeared to be short stories about his crazy escapades and farcical adventures. There were dozens of them, and there must be hundreds across the five volumes. What an amazing life he must have had!
They were in no chronological order—just written as they surfaced in his memory—but the first one is definitely the first one. It is reproduced here for you to read.
I was born on one of the old pine trees in Curgurrell Corner Looking back, it must have been a posh neighbourhood for birds—elevated views, sea breezes, and enough pine needles to cushion even the most dramatic of entrances. We must have been rich.
I remember my birth as if it were yesterday—though it was, in truth, all our yesterdays ago. And technically, I was an egg at the time, so my memory is more artistic interpretation than factual recall. But indulge me.
My eggshell was a modest beige number, speckled as though a painter had sneezed on it mid-masterpiece. Inside, I was preparing for my debut. Tap, tap, tap—like a drummer warming up for the encore. I wanted the world to know I was coming.
When I finally cracked through, I emerged with all the grace of a collapsing soufflé. My first sight? My mother, staring at me with the expression of someone torn between awe and the dawning realisation that children are expensive. My father, meanwhile, was nowhere near the nest—he was out stealing chips from tourists, muttering something about “providing for the family.”
I stretched my wings—tiny, floppy things resembling damp napkins—and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Flapjack has arrived.”The other chicks eyed me as though I were the runt of the litter, which, to be fair, had some truth to it. They were already fluffy, coordinated, and irritatingly smug. I still had eggshell stuck to my head and the general aura of someone who’d been born into the wrong tax bracket. But I was determined. I practised my squawk until it sounded less like a squeaky hinge and more like a trumpet heralding royalty. I strutted around the nest, tripping over twigs, convinced destiny had big plans for me.
Then came the defining moment: my first attempt at flight.
I leapt from the nest with heroic conviction… and immediately landed on a telephone cable that nearly castrated me. I slid down the wire—more sledging than fledging—hit the wall of the house it was attached to, and tumbled into the lap of the eccentric lady who lived there. She was sitting in her deckchair, blissfully unaware of my near-death experience.
"Whose been a naughty boy again?" She said as she carried me in the house and stuffed me in a cage with a parrot called Keith.
But that, dear reader, is another story.
My Birth
PINE TREES AT CURGURRELL CORNER
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
VOLUME 1
MY FIRST CAR
Part 1
My auntie Mabel left me £50 and a packet of Rich Tea biscuits in her will. I ate the biscuits, but the £50 was destined to buy my first car.
The local garage was run by a crab called Clive—the sort you wouldn’t shake hands with, but there were no other options.
The first car I saw was green, gleaming, and rusted at the corners like a well-aged sardine tin. A convertible. My convertible.
Clive scuttled over.“Looking for something sporty, something sleek, something that screams ‘I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing’?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s uncanny. How did you know?”
“Years of experience. I can spot them a mile off. Anyway, jump in, sir, see how it feels.”
The driver’s door wouldn’t open.“The door’s stuck,” I said.“I did say jump in. That means jump over the door. Don’t worry about the sticking—a bit of WD-40 will soon fix it.”
I doubted that. It looked welded shut to stop it falling off. Still, I leapt over and sank into the seat—literally. A pool of rainwater soaked my bum and private parts. Too embarrassed to complain, I sat dripping.
“Sorry about that, sir. Lot of rain last night. Forgot to close the roof.”
I wondered whether it even had a roof. The steering wheel sat slightly off-centre, forcing me to tilt sideways. When I started the engine, it made a noise like a depressed goat.
Still, it was a nice-looking convertible, and I wanted it.
Then came the haggling. He must have heard about my inheritance, because when I asked the price, he immediately said, “Fifty.”I said, “Forty.”He said, “Forty-nine—and I’ll throw in a packet of Rich Tea.”
''Done.''
Continued Below
My First car
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
VOLUME 1
MY FIRST CAR
Part 2
We set off. The car gave an almighty roar, leapt to 50 in a heartbeat—then whimpered, collapsing to 20.“Built-in economy device,” Clive announced smugly. “Saves petrol.”
The car lurched left, then right, then left again, as though dodging invisible phantoms—or reliving some unspeakable crime from a past life.
At last it steadied, though with a relentless drag to the left. I gripped the wheel, both hands straining on the right, fighting to keep us straight.
“The car’s crabbing!” I gasped, chest so tight I could barely breathe.
“Yes, of course it is,” said Clive. “The wheels have been aligned perfectly by my mechanic brother Jeremy. It’s dead straight—for a crab.”
“But I am not a bloody crab!”
“That’s not my fault,” said Clive
Can I check the brakes? I asked, checking I had my seat belt on Clive did not, this law had just come into force and he was one of Those that believed that anything he was told to do was an infringement of his human rights. So be it.
I got her up to 50 and gently applied the brake pedal, the car tried to make an immediate dead stop whilst spinning violently left. We ended up in a hedge and Clive ended up in the glove box.
Clive finally emerged, brushed off a few leaves, and said, “Well! She handles beautifully!”
And because I was young, impressionable, and possibly concussed, I believed him. And that’s how I bought my first car.
Buying the Car from Clive the Crab
LOOKED LOVELY, ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE
DEC 25
SOME OF FLAPJACKS PICTURES THAT I HAVE MADE PAINTINGS FROM
I have to admit to preferring painting to writing so these are some of Flapjack's pictures I have painted for sale in the shop here PRESS 'VIEW'
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
VOLUME 1
MY RASTAFARIAN EXPERIMENT
Part 1
Back in the early ’70s, I was going through my emotionally impressionable period — a sort of spiritual adolescence, like puberty but with more chanting and fewer instructions. I’d already tried the Jesus Freaks, the Divine Light Mission, and the Hare Krishna crowd, but they all seemed full of half‑asleep weirdos muttering cosmic nonsense and handing out leaflets printed on recycled disappointment. One bloke tried to convert my haddock. Another attempted to enlighten my left boot. A third insisted my aura was “slightly beige” and offered to repaint it for a small fee.
That’s when I decided I needed something different. Something with rhythm. Something with feathers.
Then something magical happened.
That afternoon, a whole flock of black Rastafarian birds came swooping in from the West Indies, dreadlocks streaming behind them like spiritual spaghetti. They circled Gerrans Bay and landed on Porthcurnick Beach.
I was on the sand at the time, trying to sell ethically sourced seaweed to tourists who didn’t want it, when the lead bird strutted up to me. He wore a tiny knitted beanie in red, gold, and green, and had the confident swagger of someone who’d once shared a cigarette with Bob Marley himself.
“Blessed morning, bredren,” he said, in a voice smoother than coconut oil. “We come for de Bob Marley concert. Dis beach got good vibes?”
I blinked. “This is Cornwall. We’ve got fog, pasties, and a man called Trevor who thinks he’s a lighthouse and keeps spinning around. That’s about it.”
The bird nodded solemnly. “Perfect.”
As the sun began to set, the music started. The beach filled with thousands of black birds in green, gold, and red beanies, dreadlocked feathers swaying, bobbing, flapping in perfect time with the music.
Something inside me shifted — like a haddock discovering jazz. I too was moving with the rhythm, and it felt… surprisingly cool.
The lead roadie, Raz, flew over and perched on my shoulder. “Greetings, bredren, wah gwan?”
I had no idea what he meant, but I heard myself reply, “Mi deh yah,” which I later discovered meant “I’m doing well.”
“Nuff respect, Flapjack. Yu large. Ya one of us now. Come meet Bob — but first, let’s get ya into de right gear.”
I felt so laid‑back I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out of first gear again.
Five minutes later, I had the reggae beanie, the dreadlocks, and a new name: Rasta Flapz.
Raz led me to meet Bob Marley — my chest puffed out, my dreadlocks bouncing like confused spaghetti. I was absolutely convinced I was about to be welcomed into the sacred circle of reggae enlightenment.
My Rastafarian Experiment
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
VOLUME 1
MY RASTAFARIAN EXPERIMENT
Part 2
We got to the stage just as he was about to perform '3 Little Birds'
Don’t worry… ’bout a thing…”
At which point the entire flock — all 9,847 of them — immediately burst into song.
“🎶 ’CAUSE EVERY LITTLE BIRD—”
And that’s when the problem became obvious.
There were far too many little birds.
The song was written for three. Three! A manageable number. A polite number. A number that doesn’t cause structural damage.
But when nearly ten thousand birds all tried to sing the same line at once, the sound wave hit the cliff, bounced back, and knocked over Trevor the Lighthouse Man, who’d been rotating heroically nearby.
The crabs panicked and formed a conga line.
A puffin fainted.
A seagull achieved temporary levitation.
And Bob Marley Bird, bless him, tried to keep going, but every time he sang “three little birds,” the entire flock shouted back:
“WE’RE HERE TOO, YAH KNOW!”
Then he winked, strummed an invisible guitar, and carried on singing as if nothing had happened — while thousands of birds attempted harmonies so chaotic they could’ve been classified as weather.
It was more like an Avian riot than a concert, but Bob finished the song said simply 'Tank Ya Bredren' and turned to me.
I’d even rehearsed my greeting:
“Ya mon… bless up… irie… respect… an’ all dat… I is Rasta Flapz… da… erm… seagull of spiritual… flappiness?”
“Oh, ya be Flapjack,” says Bob.
“Na, Bob — me Rasta Flapz.”
Bob Marley looked at me with the calm, cosmic patience of a man who has seen too many confused seabirds in hats.He sighed, smiled, and said:
“Flapjack, mi friend… you’re a lovely bird, but you’re tryin’ to be somethin’ you’re not. You’re a seagull in a reggae costume — a feathered fellow wanderin’ in the wrong chapter of the script.”
He tapped me gently on the beak.
“Rasta isn’t about hats or dreads or pretendin’ to be someone else. It’s about truth. And your truth is… you’re a brilliantly bewildered white seabird from Cornwall.So go on now — take off de hat, shake out de spaghetti‑dreads, and go back to bein’ yourself. Dat’s where your real magic is.”
And with a warm grin he added:
“One love, Flapjack. But one self, too.”
So there ended my Rastafarian experience and all other searches for divine enlightenment. I resolved to live simply, be nice to all animals — with the possible exception of crabs, who remain shifty little sideways bastards — and avoid any spiritual path requiring a hat heavier than my own head (65g).
Raz got sacked as a roadie for trying to bring an outsider into the flock and spent the rest of his years in Veryan, living with the other religious rooks above the church, preaching mellow vibes and questionable theology
With Bob Marley 3 Little Birds
ADVENTURES OF FLAPJACK
My First Experience with Alcohol
ILiving in Portscatho, I’ve been watching The Plume of Feathers for years.
From the chimneys.
From the roof tiles.
From the top of the recycling bin, where the wind gives you a lovely lift under the wing.
And every time I look down, I ask myself the same question: why do no birds ever go there? It’s called The Plume of Feathers. Feathers! That’s us! That’s me! That’s Nigel and Susan and every gull from here to St Mawes. Humans don’t even have feathers. Not one. Not even a decorative plume. And yet they sit inside, sipping Tribute, nibbling crab‑flavoured crisps, and pretending they understand the majesty of moulting.
Well, I’d had enough. We should have more right to drink there than anyone.
That night I arrived with my usual gang:
* Nigel — a bad leg from what he always blames on a skiing accident, though he actually flew into a No Entry sign — monocled and moulting like a sofa being attacked by a vacuum cleaner.
* Susan, who insists she’s a puffin and therefore claims her feathers are “artisan”.
None of us had ever tasted alcohol. We were innocent. Pure. Untouched by the dark arts. That was about to change.
We strutted in — chests puffed, wings fluffed — ready to claim our rightful place. Clive the landlord stared at us like we were three pigeons applying for a mortgage.
“Feathers. In The Plume of Feathers. Brilliant.”
We ignored him and ordered three pints of Tribute.
The First Sip
I will never forget it.
It hit my beak like a rogue wave.
Bitter.
Bubbly.
Burny.
Confusing.
My entire tongue tried to retreat into my skull. My feathers stood on end. My left eye watered. My right eye tried to leave the pub entirely.
Nigel took one sip and immediately declared he could see through time.
Susan said it tasted like “fermented betrayal.”
But then — THEN — something magical happened.
Warmth.
A glow.
A rising sense of invincibility.
I felt taller.
Wider.
More aerodynamic.
I felt… powerful.
By halfway down the pint, I was convinced I could speak fluent philosophy.
By the bottom of the pint, I was convinced I had invented philosophy.
Nigel began giggling at his own reflection in a spoon.
Susan tried to preen the jukebox.
We had no idea what “drunk” was. We assumed this was simply what humans felt all the time — dizzy, emotional, and convinced they were excellent dancers.
Just as I lifted the second pint to my beak — still unsure whether I liked the taste or was simply committed to the lifestyle — the entire pub suddenly plunged into darkness.
For a moment I thought I’d gone blind from alcohol poisoning.
Or enlightenment.
Hard to tell.
Then a spotlight snapped on.
A mirror ball descended from the ceiling like a glittering alien egg.
Coloured lights began strobing across the walls.
And a voice — oily, smug, and dripping with self‑satisfaction — oozed out of the speakers.
“Hellooooo, my beautiful Wednesday Nighters… you lucky, lucky people…”
The Wednesday Night Disco had begun.
Suddenly the pub doors burst open and humans streamed in wearing identical T‑shirts that read:
I’M A WEDNESDAY NIGHTER
I had no idea what that implied.
A club?
A cult?
A support group for people who can’t handle Thursdays?
But the shirts were bright, bold, and attention‑grabbing — everything I aspire to be — so naturally, I bought one.
It hung awkwardly over my wings like a deflated tent, but I felt magnificent.
TO BE CONTINUED
