Sid & Limpwrist: The Beginning

Most decent stories start with a spark.

Ours started with a shared moment raiding a beach BBQ on Great Western. We learned very quickly that rules were more like polite suggestions.

I don’t remember who divebombed first, probably me, but I do remember Limpwrist hovering just off to the side before swooping in to assist in the food raid. That was the beginning. Not a rivalry. Not of a vendetta. But of a long-term partnership built on poor judgment, sketchy decisions, and the kind of loyalty that only comes from knowing someone will help you hide the body…even if they’ll tell you you’re an idiot the whole time.

We were Cornish gulls (don’t fact-check that too closely), raised on salt air, dodgy choices, and the 90s excesses of tourists and locals alike. The era of picking at what looked like crisp packets…but often weren’t.

Limpwrist wasn’t always called that. The nickname came years later, after too many night raids and a few questionable arguments with the local Cornish Choughs. But it stuck, like most things in our lives: half joke, half-truth, full commitment.

Together, we did what most young gulls with too much energy and too little sense do:

Broke things.

Flew into misjudged missions.

Flew away with more than we bargained for.

And occasionally (just occasionally) we got it right.

If we were human, we’d have dressed like the bastard offspring of Pearl Jam and Billabong. We’d have kept all our valuables in a shared stash box. Instead, we consumed it all and took great pleasure in terrorising tourists and locals alike, leaving our mark on everything: people, cars, houses…and the occasional pet.

This is where it starts.

Not at the height of chaos, but somewhere deep in the roots. Where friendships are forged in fire and misadventure.

Where Sid became Sid.

And Limpwrist? Well, he’s always been exactly what his name implies, unexpectedly steady.

More to come...