It was over as quickly as it began.

The sky darkened over and, for a brief second, the end of the world seemed nigh.

I’d only gone out for a short run after a hard day at work.

And then, as I turned the corner off the seafront into a quiet residential road, I could hear the sound of something fast approaching me from the rear.

Whoosh.

I turned my head quickly but could see nothing.

I started running a bit faster.

Then a few seconds later, it happened again. Time briefly stopped.

And then it came again. And again. And again.

It was then I realised – I was in the middle of a gull attack.

They were coming at me from all sides. And all I could think of was how long it was going to last.

I tried running faster – but my legs just wouldn’t carry me.

And the more frantic I got, the harder breathing became.

I tried putting my hands in the air to deter the swooping birds.

But they just kept on coming, screeching, filling the air with hysterical hoots.

After what felt like a lifetime, I just couldn’t take it any longer.

I stopped, hands on knees, gasping for air, sheltering under a nearby tree.

My heart was racing, my mind was wandering, searching for answers: what had just happened? Why did they target me? Was my mint green running top really that offensive?

There was no response aside from the cries of the successful gulls.

Now followers of this column will know that a few years back I suggested the idea of the SAS, the Seagull Appreciation Society.

The argument back then was that the birds were genuinely misunderstood.

And rather than aim our ire at these beautiful, clever animals we should embrace them.

After all, they are the emblem of our city. Our football team is named after them. But still people blame gulls for everything that’s wrong in society.

Litter on the streets, sleepless nights, blocked drains – all are the fault of our feathered friends.

In fact, if you listen to some, they are the sole creators of Broken Britain itself. It’s easy to see why.

After my recent run in, I’ve adopted a genuine fear of Hitchcockian standards. Every time I leave the house and I hear the calls, I look skyward with one eye searching for the birds; the other stays horizontal searching for a hiding place.

When visiting a pub garden for a relaxing bite to eat after work, I remained on edge throughout, opting to move an umbrella above my head so they could not swoop down and steal a chip.

Some of you may think this is a step too far, verging on pathetic.

But I know they will do it again.

And this was reinforced when, a couple of days later, I saw them at it again – this time swooping on a Dalmatian which looked so scared it was about to lose its spots.

It’s no wonder then that some believe the gulls should be given a taste of their own medicine.

This mob-mentality has come to fore this past week after it emerged that seagulls were responsible for the death of a couple of dogs in the south west.

David Cameron himself has entered the fray, calling for a “big debate” about the “murderous” animals. The comments have sparked a host of comments about whether the protection currently bestowed on the birds should be lifted and a cull introduced. Given the response then, it seems that this would be a very popular idea.

Some of you may think that given my recent encounter I’d be joining those who are waving pitchforks and flaming torches in the air. But killing is not the answer.

The reality is that it’s us – the human being – that has created these monsters of urban life. We are the ones throwing food at the gulls, encouraging them to come near.

We are the ones who leave bin bags lying on the street overnight with an open invite for them to attack and leave litter across the streets. We are the ones who then turn nasty, sparking a very animal instinct of defence in these very normal animals.

Even after my run in, I know that the issue is with me, not them.

I still don’t know why they attacked me. Perhaps it was because a baby gull had been blown off the roof and they thought I was going to capture it.

Perhaps they confused me with a high-vis wearing worker who was about to evict them from their rooftop. Perhaps it was because they thought I was a big jar of mint sauce and the meat they had just scavenged was a bit dry.

Whatever the reason, I still believe the only way of dealing with them is by calling in the SAS – the Seagull Appreciation Society.