A seaside town in Belgium has built an annual event around one of the least romantic sounds in coastal life, with dozens of competitors dressing as seagulls and shrieking at each other in a pub while judges score realism, performance, and physical resemblance to the bird.
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The European Seagull Screeching Championship returned to the Belgian seaside town of De Panne this weekend, drawing more than 70 contestants from across Europe. The premise is not metaphorical. Participants wear feathered costumes, bird masks, and wing-like capes, then attempt to mimic the cry and behavior of seagulls in front of an audience and a judging panel that, by all indications, takes the task very seriously.
It sounds like a dare that got out of hand sometime around the second beer. Instead, it has become an annual event with structure, scoring, and a mission. Organizers say the contest was partly created to improve the public image of seagulls, birds that spend much of their human-facing time stealing fries, screaming over boardwalks, and behaving like tiny airborne extortionists.
A ridiculous competition with real rules
There is a difference between a novelty gathering and a functioning contest, and De Panne appears to understand that. This is not just a room full of tourists making bird sounds at each other. Judges reportedly award up to 15 points for the accuracy of the call itself, plus another five for stage presence and visual resemblance. That scoring system says something important: this is not only about sound. It is about becoming the gull.
That means contestants do more than shriek. They hop, flap, posture, and commit physically to the role. They arrive in costume. They work on timing. They train. In one of the clips circulating from the event, participants speak with the sort of semi-earnest intensity usually reserved for sports interviews or fringe performance art. Apparently there is “field work.” Apparently there is feedback. Apparently some people are using showers as rehearsal spaces.
All of which is exactly what makes the event feel legitimate in the way only deeply unserious European contests can.
Why seagulls needed a public-relations campaign
Seagulls have a rough reputation, and not entirely without cause. They are loud, territorial, opportunistic, and unnervingly confident around food. Beach towns depend on tourists. Tourists do not generally appreciate being dive-bombed by an animal that looks like it has already decided the sandwich belongs to it.
In many places, seagulls are treated as pests with wings. They are mocked, resented, and blamed for everything from stolen snacks to sleepless mornings. Turning them into the center of a playful championship is a clever reversal. Instead of fighting the bird’s reputation directly, the event leans into the sound people love to hate and turns it into theater.
There is also a practical brilliance to choosing the screech as the focal point. A seagull cry is instantly recognizable, slightly awful, and funny in a way people can understand across languages. You do not need to know Belgian culture to grasp what is happening when a grown adult in white feathers throws back their head and lets loose in a crowded room.
The appeal of very specific public humiliation
The championship’s charm lies partly in how narrow the premise is. This is not generic cosplay. It is not a broad animal-impersonation festival. It is one species, one sound, one mood. That specificity gives the whole thing a kind of perverse elegance.
There is also the small thrill of watching adults commit fully to something with no obvious dignity built into it. A pub full of people taking seagull realism seriously has the same energy as competitive worm charming or air-guitar championships. The absurdity works better because nobody involved appears embarrassed enough.
That confidence matters. Events like this collapse if participants treat them as irony from start to finish. What makes them memorable is the presence of people who have decided that, yes, there are better and worse ways to sound like a gull, and they intend to prove they know the difference.
Tourism loves a bird with a gimmick
For coastal towns, unusual festivals do more than fill a calendar. They create identity. Seaside communities across Europe compete for attention with familiar formulas, beach, seafood, views, summer crowds. A seagull screeching championship slices straight through that sameness.
It is easy to picture why families, tourists, and local media would show up. The event is visual, loud, and short on explanation. It gives photographers something immediate to work with and gives visitors a story they can retell without much setup. “We went to the beach” is forgettable. “We watched a Belgian seagull screaming contest inside a pub” is not.
That is how odd traditions stick. They start as local amusements, then become the thing outsiders associate with the place. Before long, the event is no longer a side attraction. It is part of the town’s personality.
The sound itself is the whole joke and the whole challenge
Plenty of animal competitions depend on visuals. This one depends on committing to a noise people usually want to escape. That makes it a little more brutal and a little more honest. Anyone can buy feathers. Not everyone can produce a convincing gull shriek without sounding like a strangled toy or an upset dog.
That distinction appears to matter. According to the reporting discussed on-air, some contestants impressed immediately while others sounded less avian than hoped. The line between brilliance and total failure is apparently very thin in seagull work. That only makes the winners more compelling and the misses more entertaining.
The whole thing ended up getting attention from Distorted View Daily, the adult comedy podcast where strange competitions and highly specific public humiliations tend to flourish. Fair enough. A contest that asks adults to become angry beach birds for points is already halfway into the show on its own.
Why this one lingers
The best bizarre events leave behind a perfect mental image. This one has several. A spotlighted contestant in a beaked mask. White feather boas under pub lighting. Arms flapping as judges evaluate tone and posture. Someone delivering the screech of their life while an audience claps in approval.
It also benefits from having no real downside beyond temporary loss of dignity and possible vocal strain. Nobody is getting arrested. Nobody is swallowing diamonds. Nobody is ruining a town. They are just making a tremendous amount of irritating bird noise with full ceremonial commitment.
And perhaps that is what gives the championship its odd purity. In a culture full of cynical spectacle, here is a contest that offers exactly what it claims: grown people trying very hard to sound like seagulls. No twist required.
😈 Distorted View Take
The show’s first response was immediate and not especially supportive.
“I fucking hate the noise those things make.”
Then came the grudging respect:
“That’s a pretty good seagull. I recognize that as a seagull.”
And eventually, a personal crisis:
“Holy shit, I discover something new I’m bad at.”
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