Drunken Blab Reveals Putin’s Secret ‘Master Plan’ for America
Letter from Llanaber
Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
What I thought was going to be a quiet lunch in Trevor the Trots’ local café today turned into a nightmare. It wasn’t that what I was afraid would happen, happened, i.e. one of the villagers pointing at me and screaming, ‘You’re not welcome – anymore, anywhere – we’ve got to get the children connected to their parents, the children are suffering.’ It was something far more sinister. Let me set the scene for you.
At ten o’clock in the morning (lunchtime in Llanaber) I donned a false beard and dark glasses, and sneaked out of the office and went across the road to Trevor’s Trattoria for my free bung, a free go at his ‘all you can eat’ spaghetti buffet (it’s just spaghetti). As I loaded my three plates I looked around the restaurant for somewhere to sit. There was only one other diner, a fat bloke in his sixties, grey mullet, wild crazy eyes. He was staring at me. As soon as our eyes made contact he waved me over, shouting, “Come and sit by me y’all!”
He was an American.
This is not unusual for this time of the year in the village. During the dark days of the leek famines many folk from Llanaber bailed out on the poverty stricken village and took the decision to seek their fortune in ‘the new world.’
Most of them died of starvation before completing the Atlantic crossing.
Why? (I hear you ask).
Simply this. These poor souls had been raised exclusively on a diet of leeks (Leek soup, stewed leeks, leek fricassee, braised leek in leek sauce, leek a la mode, devilled leeks, leek bourguignon – you get the picture). In those days the only food permitted on board a trans-Atlantic vessel was limes.
However some survived, a number of who went on to make their fortune, and generations later, although American citizens, still recognized their roots and humble beginnings. Hence, occasionally we get the odd Yank in the village, splashing their cash about, looking down their noses at the abject poverty most of us still live in and mouthing off about what a dottle-hole Llanaber is. They take a few snaps just to prove back home that Rickets still exists in the ‘old country’ before sodding off to somewhere nicer for the rest of their vacation. I suspected this chap was one of these.
But I was wrong.
As I took my seat he introduced himself as somebody or other. He had such an incomprehensible drawl I didn’t quite catch his surname.
“Just call me Stevie,” he said, and before I could introduce myself he launched into a long diatribe. I could only sit and listen, transfixed by his every word. What he was saying was political dynamite!
Whilst I can’t recount verbatim what the strange fellow said, this is the general gist.
‘Stevie’ is a right wing political guru, on a tour of Europe to, and I can quote verbatim here, ‘stir the pot.’
He is on his way to London to meet ‘certain politicians’ in the cabinet there, the names of whom he would not divulge.
Stevie had just come from a right wing rally in France where he was an invited speaker. This was one of many he had attended as part of his ‘bait the hate’ European tour.
I gathered by the fact that I hadn’t even at this stage been invited to offer my name, let alone enter into a two sided conversation, that ‘Stevie’ was a narcissistic gobshite and possibly insane. I feared I was having my lunchbreak freebee hi-jacked by a ‘nut job.’ (Where have I heard that phrase before?)
My fears were realized when he started telling me a very chilling tale about his past. But before I do I must mention that ‘Stevie’ had inadvertently ordered a pint of the local brew known as ‘journey into space.’ It’s a thick brown liquid, not unlike treacle, made from fermented leeks, sheep’s hoof trimmings, and dottle. Only tourists are foolish enough to drink the stuff as it’s really meant for rubbing into donkey saddles to give them a bit of butt-grip. Apparently it was Stevie’s second pint of the stuff, and his tongue had become loose. (I don’t mean he was indiscreet, I mean his tongue had literally become loose). This enabled me to better understand his drawling accent.
This is what he told me:
Stevie claimed to be the genius behind the cheese-ball headed anorexia denier and Braniac, Donald Trump’s election victory in 2016.
It was an outlandish claim and I immediately took him to task.
“Impossible! This could never happen in a mature democracy. How? Explain?” I demanded.
He stared at me for a moment with a twisted, almost manic expression. Then he tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and said, “Putin!”
I was curious.
“Do you mean the gangster that runs the amusement arcade on the sea front here?” I naively asked.
“No!” he barked, now deadly serious, “I mean the gangster that runs Russia!”
His speech was beginning to slur but I still understood every word.
“Trump’s as dumb as a brick,” he mumbled (Where have I heard that phrase before), “He’d never’ve got in without the Ruskies. He’s in hock to them up to his eyeballs. And they’ve got the vid of him with the tarts playing the ‘golden shower’ game on Obama’s bed.”
I had no idea what he was rambling on about but sat motionless, eyes agog, hanging on his every word.
He continued, “Putin hates America. He hates Europe. He hates anyone that thinks Russia is dottle now compared to what it was when he was a kid, the USSR. So, he had a brainwave. Put someone he owns into The White House then break the whole lot to bits.”
I asked for an explanation. This is what he said.
“If you were Putin what would you like to happen, eh? How about this, America fighting with its neighbors, Mexico and Canada, America breaking up Nato, America at loggerheads with the European Union, America involved in a pointless trade war, American companies repatriating their businesses back to the US then finding tariffs stop them selling their products abroad and going bust, Americans fighting themselves, left versus right, blacks versus whites, Hispanics versus everybody, gays versus straights, the establishment versus the electorate…”
His voice trailed off as he started to half laugh, half cry.
“What have I done?” he eventually sobbed through tear stained eyes.
“Do you mean Trump is doing to America what he’s denied doing to Stormy Daniels and f…?”
I didn’t need to finish my sentence.
He nodded slowly confirming the affirmative.
“… And six months ahead of Putin’s schedule,” said the strange visitor.
He started to blub harder into his foul smelling treacle colored toxic brew. I stood and quietly slipped out of the café, leaving this broken man to reflect on the folly of his deeds.
I will not sleep soundly tonight.
My dreams will not be filled of the images of what is yet to befall the fate of mankind, if the bloated faced, mullet-headed crackpot, Stevie’s claptrap is to be believed.
No, dear reader, after three platefuls of Trevor’s Trattoria spaghetti, I defy anyone to get a good night’s sleep.
That’s it for now.
Photo by www.kremlin.ru + Пресс-служба Президента России || CC-BY-3.0