I NOTE with interest all the recent seagull stories which have been appearing in various newspapers including this one.

Now I know it isn't funny if a seagull rips your dustbin apart, or worse, swoops down and takes a chunk out of an unsuspecting resident (holidaymakers have to take their chances, after all they come for a bit of local colour). But it's an ongoing problem which is never any nearer to being solved.

It brings to mind a similar problem we had when I lived and worked in Brighton. In this case it was a pigeon problem and it took up many an hour of tedious discussion in council chambers, most of which I had to sit through.

As you probably know, Brighton is the home of the Royal Pavilion, built by the Prince Regent who had fairly exotic ideas when it came to providing a little pad by the sea. He spent something equivalent to the national debt, in fact he was the national debt, on a series of buildings with minarets and domes and various Eastern delights and filled it with equally exotic fixtures, fittings and furniture.

When the Pavilion was finished the Prince spent most of his time carousing with friends, one of whom was the dandy Beau Brummel until he uttered the now infamous words 'Who's your fat friend', referring to the chubby prince, and was banished from the court forever, henceforth to be known as 'all mouth and satin trousers'.

Nowadays the tabloids would have taken up the story with features of previous fat royals, warnings about being overweight, pictures (usually taken from the most unflattering angle) of the Prince and at least one exposé from a former chorus girl talking about her night of passion with the rotund royal she lovingly called Georgie Porgy.

Beau Brummel would have been snapped up by the Daily Express as its gossip correspondent with a column called Beau Peeps and the Prince Regent would have been heartily sorry he ever wore the pink silk pantaloons.

But enough flights of fancy. The point being that pigeons were pooping on the Pavilion (and everything else) and residents were demanding action.

For several weeks the matter was discussed, usually under 'any other business' which I thought was fairly appropriate. There were divided opinions about how to deal with it.

The retired military members seemed to favour something involving high explosives, the early environmentalists wanted to try to persuade the pigeons to move elsewhere (they never said how they would achieve this) and others had a variety of unworkable suggestions. All they agreed on was that something must be done.

Then came the idea of giving the birds birth control pills. Someone had read somewhere that it was possible and so one evening the press bench was filled to the brim with national newspaper reporters as well as we locals all waiting for what looked to be a good story to come out of the inevitable pigeon debate.

We all had to sit through the meeting until the item was reached, so we spent the time thinking up headlines for the coming story, most of which began with Coo, or perhaps Coo Coo , although one tabloid journalist favoured 'sexy birds pop pills on the rates'.

My paper would, I knew, have something eye-catching like 'Municipal bid to curb pigeon population' with not a Coo in sight.

The idea was, or so it seemed, fairly good. Pigeons would be fed the pills, their eggs would be sterile (or perhaps they wouldn't lay any, I can't remember), there would be fewer and fewer young and eventually the population would be reduced to a few aged pensioner pigeons unable to fly high enough to mess up the Pavilion or anything else.

All this was theoretical but the members took to it in a big way and were just about to vote in favour when someone pointed out that there were a few, just a few, snags. How, for instance, were the birds to be provided with the pills? You could hardly just sprinkle them around willy-nilly in places were pigeons hung out.

A lady member, blushing furiously, said that birth control pills had to be taken regularly or they didn't work. How could it be ensured that pigeons took their pills on time or was there a 'one off' pill? Nobody knew.

Then one of the environmentalists jumped up and asked how could it possibly be arranged so that only pigeons took the pills. How about other birds? Nobody, he said, would want to be on a town council of a town which had managed to wipe out its entire bird population in a year or so.

Enthusiasm began to wane after this and eventually the vote was to make further enquiries about the matter and defer it to a later date. Which usually meant forgetting about it.

As I moved shortly afterwards I never heard more on the pigeon saga. Were they allowed to go on breeding at will, usually in full view of the population? Were they still decorating the Prince's pride and joy? Had a bird population control (pill section) officer been appointed?

Or had the moustacheoed retired Brigadier had his way and nuked them all one rainy Monday morning?

This sort of problem doesn't seem to occur on the Continent, certainly not with pigeons, because they eat them. And a lot of other birds too.

The only exceptions are fish-eating birds because their diet makes their eggs and flesh unpalatably fishy. But seagulls are now inland birds too, so presumably the fishy taste has been replaced with chicken vindaloo and Cornish pasty flavours. The only fish they are likely to get is usually accompanied by chips.

Seagulls, therefore, could find themselves on the menu if they aren't careful, served up with a nice little wine and cream sauce.

All we need are a few recipes. Perhaps Rick Stein would oblige and solve the problem once and for all.