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Border Visit By Leader’s Spouse Thwarts Alien Invasion

Border Visit By Leader’s Spouse Thwarts Alien Invasion

Letter from Llanaber

I was unfortunate enough to have been with Mrs. Dorothy Binky’ Trim in the café on the sea front having a quick cup of tea when who should walk through the door but none other than Mrs. Winfrey, the official village gossip. Despite not being invited she came straight across to join us for a ‘chinwag.’ As soon as her fat butt had settled on the seat next to Mrs. T’s she came out with the following, and I quote verbatim:

“Did you hear that Melanie Trump has joined the space cadets and has been sent to Russia to get pregnant by a footballer for a lifetime’s free burger supply, but she can’t get back into America because she keeps her undocumented kids in a cage?”

Of course I knew it was all twaddle, but Mrs. T’s eyes lit up.

“Free burgers for life, you say?” she said.

“Yes, but no soft drinks,” replied the wrinkly old gossip.

I quickly moved Mrs. T on to what I believed the true stories were, once separated from the conflated verbal vomit spewed out by ‘wander-brain’ Winfrey.

Of the three stories, Mrs. T homed in on the one concerning Donald Trump’s gastric banded robot faced wife, Melanie.

“I believe her visit to the Mexican border to see how illegal immigrant children are being looked after is being broadcast live on the TV as we speak,” I told her.

“Then let’s get to a telly,” she said.

Unfortunately it was a day when the perpetual fog had lifted and there was TV signal. Together we watched as the ‘lingerie model potential’ wife of the President sat bored stiff, pretending to be interested and, after painfully long silences, asking inane questions like ‘do they eat stuff?’ and ‘do any of them have cloven hooves?’

Mrs. T could not draw her eyes from the set. When the embarrassing PR stunt at last came to an end, Mrs. T slammed her fist on the table and barked, “It should have been me!”

She went on to say that ‘Mel the Belle’ had pulled off the PR stunt of the century turning defeat into victory, reversing all the bad press her chubby-hubby was getting by foregoing her face exfoliation that day to schlep down to Mexico to sit about looking as if she gave a toss.

Simply brilliant!

“Why?” I asked in all innocence.


She looked at me with her cold eyes and said, “Kids and puppies, dolt!”

I understood straight away. Anything that looks as if you care about these two things is a sure-fire PR winner. There is an election coming at the end of the summer, and I know Mrs. T has been racking her brains for a dead cert PR story to bolster her waning popularity.

Now since the disastrous experiment earlier this month to improve safety in our schools by arming the five year olds with knuckledusters, Mrs. T has been dottle-scared of schoolkids. So it was no surprise when she barked out a string of orders at me concerning puppies. Her instructions were as follows:

“Nick some cash from the village hospital budget then nip to the pet shop in Druidellau and buy ten puppies. Stick ‘em in a suitcase. Take ‘em all to the clifftop on the border with Spanibont. Hide in the bushes and wait for me there.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Leonard is going to rescue them in front of the world’s press! I’ll call you on my cell phone to let you know precisely when to let them out of the suitcase.”

With that she was gone, off to organize Leonard’s part in her little ruse, no doubt. She disappeared off at such speed that I didn’t have the chance to point out the obvious flaws in her evil plan.

Firstly, there isn’t a pet shop in Druidellau. The nearest one is in Spanibont but it only sells sheep.

Secondly, were anyone able to contact the ‘world press’ I can’t see that they would be interested in covering a ‘fake news’ story about puppies being rescued on the Llanaber / Spanibont border. As scoops go, this would rank alongside ‘man found dead in graveyard’ or ‘vandals steal wheel off abandoned stroller.’ The best that could be achieved at short notice is the village newsletter. But as I write that, and I would be hiding in the bushes with a suitcase full of puppies, that’s a complete non-starter.

Thirdly, Leonard is a human disaster when it comes to dexterity. He is obese, half blind and dyspraxic. Let him loose near puppies on the clifftop and he’ll trip on one, roll over and flatten the rest then plummet over the cliff edge to an early death on the jagged rocks below.

Last, but not least, I don’t have a cell phone. The only person who owns a cell phone in the village is Mrs. Trim herself, but it’s useless. The village doesn’t have any cell phone signal coverage. However we have been promised by the county council that it is expected to be available within the next 20 years. The puppies will have grown old and died before Mrs. T can call me with the order to set them free.

The secret to all successful disasters is in delegation. I ran as quickly as I could to the school playground. I was lucky. I arrived just in the nick of time. Old Thomas the gravedigger (honorary) was just being released from the hastily assembled cage behind the swings. As he was dusting himself off and signing Solly’s crippling NDA, I nodded politely to him whilst tugging on Mateo the Knife’s sleeve. You may recall Mateo has recently been appointed head of the new village space force, ‘Protection from Extra Terrestrials Service (PETS).’ Mateo followed me over to a secluded spot underneath the slide with a perplexed look on his face.

“Mrs. T has a very special project for you,” I told him. Then I tapped the side of my nose and said, “Hush-hush, top secret!”

His eyes lit up like fog-lamps as I told him his new mission. 

I modified Mrs. T’s original plan thus:

Mateo was to steal ten sheep from the field over the border in Spanibont. He was to paint them all green and tie bunches of twigs to their heads to look like antlers. Then he was to take them to the headland and set them free as soon as he spotted the massive bulk of Leonard Trim wobbling towards the cliff edge. Then he was to leap out, wave his arms in the air and chase the sheep back across the border into Spanibont shouting, “Well done Leonard. You’ve thwarted this invasion. These undocumented alien deer / sheep hybrids from space are too scared of your wife, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, to illegally settle in Llanaber.”

The guy is as dumb as a brick (where have I heard that phrase before?). He didn’t even question the ridiculous orders. Like Trump’s skinny daughter in front of a camera he trotted off, grinning like a chimp, to buy a pot of green paint before heading for Spanibont to do a spot of rustling. 

For my part, I grabbed my camera, notebook and pencil then made my way at a leisurely pace towards the border clifftop.


To cover the event for the world press, of course.

That’s it for now.




We've uncovered another Letter from Llanaber:

U-Turn in Llanaber! End of Zero Tolerance Policy

Some good news from the village for once. The late (thank heavens) lady Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Margaret Thatcher, once said, “The lady’s not for turning.” Not so here in Llanaber. 

Yesterday Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, the boss of the parish council, called an extra ordinary council meeting at midnight. When we were all assembled, and I must confess, trembling in our seats (the old bag’s gone a bit dangerously potty recently) she made the following announcement, and I quote verbatim:

“I have decided to reverse the recently introduced zero tolerance policy towards illegal immigration and anybody that dares defy me. I have ordered the head of village homeland security, Mateo the knife, to release old Thomas from the cage I had hastily erected behind the swings in the school playground. Further I’ve also released Thomas’ parents from the village clink and given them each a £1 coin for their bus fare back to Bogmouth with the proviso they sign one of *Solly’s special ‘non-disclosure no comebacks’ agreements, which they have both done.”

My ‘fruit loop’ of a leader then went on to say with venom, “It was all old mother Clinton’s fault. When will people realize what an evil old cow she is, and what’s more she’s a crook! There is NO extra butter in her fudge. I’ve seen the recipe.”

The sycophants and toadies in the council chamber rather embarrassingly immediately started banging their chairs and chanting ‘lock her up.’ 
After about five minutes chanting, Mrs. T raised her hand, a signal for them to stop. She then eyeballed the councillors and said, and again I quote verbatim:

 “Old mother Clinton wants open borders between us and Spanibont, let all the rowdies come in, let them pour in... She doesn’t care about the impact of uncontrolled rowdies on your communities your schools, your hospitals, your jobs or your safety. She puts rowdies before Llanaber citizens, what the hell is going on?”

It was then I noticed it. As she spoke, she kept glancing down at her hands. She was slowly trailing a string of ticker tape through her fingers and reading what was written on it as she spoke. These were not her words. These were not her original thoughts. Some other idiot had made them up first. In a flash I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Mrs. T had raided the waste bin in the news feed room. I decided there and then to get a padlock for the ticker tape room door.

The old girl thundered on;

“With immediate effect I am re-allocating the homeland security team (Mateo the Knife and his two thugs) to form a new special force, the village ‘Protection from Extra Terrestrials Service.’ I’ve reallocated funds from the village hospital budget to buy them each a silver ‘onesie’ with the logo ‘PETS’ printed across the chest. They will patrol the village 24/7 hunting down all the undocumented extra-terrestrials, ripping their kids from the parents’ tentacles and throwing them into the cage behind the swings. The green skinned, bug eyed parents will then be fired from the village catapult back to where they came from.”


She added whilst surreptitiously reading from the ticker tape, “We have the air force, but now we’re going to have the space force, the PETS. We need it! We need it!”

I very nearly raised my hand to point out we don’t actually have an air force, but thought better of it. I’m not entirely convinced her zero tolerance policy is over and I didn’t want to give Mrs. T an excuse to accuse me of being an extra-terrestrial.

When the meeting was over I nipped up to the ticker tape machine. There I rummaged through the waste bin. Yes, there was a strip of tape with a chunk missing. It was the report on the cheese-ball headed anorexia denier Donald Trump’s rally in Minnesota. I read what was left of the report and quite honestly believe that Mrs. T had plagiarized the only sane part of his speech.

*Solly Weinstein (no relation) Mrs. Trim’s lawyer, the village amateur video maker and pervert, has a ‘special form’ he makes people he has over a barrel fill in and sign. This entitles Solly not only to what is required of the signatory but also a free go on any females involved.

It came through on the US news feed that as the Duck and his entourage entered Speaker Ryan’s office in the Capitol, someone on the other side of the Capitol rotunda, they suspect a male intern, yelled, ‘Mr. President, F you!’

What is it about Mr. Trump that people think is so sexy? 

I must confess, I can’t see it. To me he just looks like an orange headed fat bloke with a terrible comb over, tiny hands, and a mouth he can make look like a chimp’s butt. Not so to this particular young man, obviously. But the callow youth can’t have been familiar with the courtship rituals of those of the ‘differently ugly-bumpers’ (DUBs) persuasion. You don’t just yell out, ‘Hey sexy! I want to F you!’ DUB courtship is more subtle than that.

Also, the young lad should be aware that, whilst this particular President is easy oasy when it comes to sexual harassment in the workplace, the law nowadays comes down like a ton of bricks on foul-mouthed horny cretinous no-hopers like him for this kind of behavior. 

Having said that I was very surprised that, in these enlightened modern times of ‘Me Too’ back-shafting the powerful that made you rich, the legal eagle and consigliore from the Godfather, Rudi Giuliani was never prosecuted.


For making public his now famous sexual desires towards 'Chinaman' Kim, saying that he wanted to see (Kim) ‘on his hands and knees begging for it.’ I suppose that because Chinaman Kim is a foreigner, Giuliani’s homo-erotic comments don’t count.

So, my advice to the young lad hanging about on the rotunda for a glimpse of his sex fantasy is to take a box of tissues to the restroom and get the President out of your system. He’s way out of your league. Also, he’s married to the beautiful gastric banded ‘lingerie model potential’ robot-faced Melanie. Further, Trump may not be of the DUB preference (although he does allegedly hold men’s hand in public, especially French men).

If you can’t, then get another job, or keep your loud face-cave shut and stop embarrassing your President with your unwanted sexual advances. As a last resort try popping round to see ‘Old Harv.’ He’s always frisky and not that particular nowadays.

That’s it for now.




And here's a bonus letter:

PR Stunt Disaster Follows Trouser Slogan Nightmare!

It is often the smallest of details that can turn a PR victory into an unmitigated disaster. This is certainly the case for President Trump’s ‘not quite living in the real world’ wife, the robot-faced Melanie. Her trip to the Mexican border to sit around pretending to care was a master stroke had it not been for the unbelievably stupid coat she wore to travel down there.

What a dufus!

Unfortunately I have a similar story to tell. You may recall that I was given instructions by the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, to fake some news. To cut a long story short, I was to arrange for Mateo the Knife, the head of PETS, the new space force in Llanaber, to steal ten sheep from across the Spanibont border, paint them green, tie twigs to their heads and hide them on the clifftop next to the Llanaber / Spanibont borderline. There he was to hide in the bushes and await the arrival of Mrs. T’s roly-poly husband, Leonard. As soon as the lard-butted spouse of my esteemed leader approached the clifftop, Mateo was to leap out and scare the green sheep back across the border into Spanibont, whilst shouting loudly about how Leonard had ‘saved Llanaber from the illegal immigration of undocumented extra-terrestrial deer / sheep hybrids.’ I was to cover the event for the world press.

Unbelievably, everything went like clockwork. This ridiculous ruse worked like a charm. Mateo had done a first class job with the sheep, although his choice of gloss rather than matt paint wasn’t his smartest move. The false antlers, on the other hand looked very convincing indeed, though yet again, I think it was a mistake to nail them onto the sheep’s heads.

All in all, the event was carried off both convincingly and successfully. I took plenty of snaps, wrote the thing up for the village newsletter and published it this morning, popping round the village and slipping a copy of the newsletter through every letterbox.

So it was a shock when Mrs. T burst into my office, slapped a copy of the article onto my desk and yelled at me, “WHAT THE HELL!”

She was pointing at the photograph I had taken of her pear-shaped spouse’s rear end as he wobbled up the hill towards the clifftop.

I picked up the newsletter. I studied it carefully. I could see no problem.

“What?” I stupidly asked.

“Look at his BUTT, you moron!” she screeched at me.

I picked up my magnifying glass and studied the photograph more closely. It was then that I saw what was wrong. My heart sank. I had erred. But in my defense it wasn’t my fault. It was her husband, dottle-for-brains Leonard, who had decided on that day of all days to wear his ‘jocular keks.’ Leonard has several pairs of trousers which he names thus. Each pair has a ‘comedy slogan’ printed in luminous ink on the seat of the trousers. In the photograph the slogan was clearly visible. I reproduce it for you verbatim. The legend read:


Leonard’s trousers are vast across the butt. The phrase was written in one single line starting at the far left of his left butt cheek, and finishing on the far right of his right.

I pride myself on being professional, so I felt humbled in front of my esteemed leader for my massive, unforgiveable error. I also knew that the mistake was irreversible. It was too late to recall the newsletter. The photo was already in the public domain. Further, there would now be no chance that we could re-create the little vignette at the clifftop. As soon as the green painted, twig antlered sheep were driven back into Spanibont, the poor uneducated ignorami over there fell upon them, thinking they were a new breed that combined both the meat and the vegetables into one animal. They would now be all gone, served up in a paint flavored mutton stew of some sort, no doubt.

I just thank my lucky stars I didn’t publish the photographs I had of Leonard taken from the front. Across the crotch of his novelty trousers that day was printed the phrase:

‘Who gives a toss? NOT ME!’


There has been a ‘development’ following the imprisonment of old Thomas the gravedigger (honorary). You may recall Mrs. T had Thomas bundled from yesterday’s parish council meeting by her new space patrol henchman, Mateo the Knife, for showing descent, i.e. pointing out she was drinking cold tea, not coffee. 

The poor old duffer was frog marched to the village school playground and thrown into the cage that Mrs. T has had hastily erected there. Old Thomas has now been ‘pardoned’ and released. But whilst he was incarcerated the Druidian paparazzi must have been tipped off. A video has emerged of old Thomas sitting in the cage sucking his thumb and asking passers-by for a chicken sandwich. The Druids would do anything to blacken the character of our council, even though Mrs. T is as thick as thieves with their leader, Benjy Yahoo. There has been a long standing enmity between the two councils ever since we asked them to clean up the blood, limbs and dog-dottle from the beach after a particularly heavy ‘re-education’ session of the Travelers’ kids by the Druids’ henchmen.

There will no doubt be a scandal. The village will be portrayed in a terrible light on the world stage. I must confess the sight of old Thomas in the video, sobbing and pleading for a coronation chicken wrap brought tears to my eyes, and I know him to be a useless old bugger.

As I write this newsletter I have just received a note tied to a magazine, tied to a brick that has just been thrown through my window. I will deal with each in turn. 

The brick: At first glance this appeared to be a brick shaped chunk of Bara Brith, a confection made from bread ingredients and sawdust popular with the villagers which has the specific gravity of lead. On closer examination it was not. It was, in fact, concentrated devil-dog-dottle compressed into a brick shape.

The magazine: This is a copy of the weekly gardening magazine published by the Druids called ‘THYME.’ On the front cover was a cleverly mocked up photo. This shows Mrs. T standing upright against a scarlet background. Unfortunately the photo they used is the one of her when she attended the Druids’ ‘not-Christmas’ fancy dress ball when she went dressed as Adolf Hitler. She is looking down upon old Thomas, reduced in size so he looks child-like. He is crying, and has his thumb in his mouth. Superimposed over this is a picture of her hastily erected cage. The strapline to the picture reads:  ‘Welcome to Llanaber.’

The note: It consisted of letters cut out from a magazine and pasted onto a sheet of A4 paper. The message reads as follows:

“Start bad mouthing the Travelers or we publish the mag and upload the vid to YouTube.”

It was signed, ‘A Friend’ but I suspect it’s from the Druids. 

What the hell’s a YouTube? 

Whatever it is it spells more trouble for the village, I’m sure.

That’s it for now.



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