Trump To Meet Putin For Further Instructions On How To Shaft The West
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
I have become extremely worried about ‘events.’ To make matters worse, I have no idea what’s happening and, much to the annoyance of my wife, Brenda, I’m losing sleep. Matters came to a head on the subject last night. Let me fill you in on the circumstances.
My wife and I had gone to bed early. The perpetual fog was down so there was no TV signal, and what’s more both of us had each had a hard day, I with my work for the parish council and her with her work sexing our chickens (we have a smallholding). As per usual, after a few minutes listening to each other’s tummy rumbling, we both started to nod off.
Suddenly I sat bolt upright in the bed.
“Something big is happening!” I cried aloud.
“Not tonight dear, I’m knackered,” said the wife, rolling over and breaking wind.
She had misunderstood me. I gently prodded her in the small of the back with my ice cold left foot.
“I want some cocoa. How about you?” I whispered.
“I told you, I’m knackered!” she bleated, again misunderstanding my intentions.
I explained that I could not sleep and intended to go down to the kitchen, make myself a hot bedtime drink and ‘think things through.’
When she asked me what was wrong, I said that I couldn’t put my finger on it. Once again she protested that she was ‘knackered.’ Sometimes I think she’s deliberately obtuse. I slid out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen. A few minutes later the wife joined me and we both sat at the kitchen table nursing our hot drinks.
Now adopting a much more sympathetic tone, Brenda asked me ‘what was wrong?’
I explained as best I could, in the hope that by talking through these ‘events’ I could see through the perpetual fog that lays so heavily in my brain lately and understand precisely what was happening, i.e. what was causing me so much worry.
I sat there sipping cocoa with the wife and talked through my day at the office. The fog slowly began to lift, then it fell again, lifted slightly, and then descended completely.
I was flummoxed.
When the morning sun failed to poke its rosy fingers through the perpetual fog, I felt, after a night spent churning matters over, I was none the wiser. It was a complete waste of bloody time. What’s more, when we did turn in for a last ditch attempt at a zizz, I found I still couldn’t sleep. With all that cocoa inside me I had to keep getting up to pee.
One thing that did become clear to me was that something is definitely ‘going on’ and it’s BIG. I will recount below as briefly as I can the long night’s chinwag I had with my wife.
Our chitti-chat centred around the gangster that lives in the village, the man that owns the amusement arcade on the seafront, the ‘beast from the east’ Putin Lotzadosh. You will recall that he is believed to be behind the nobbling of the election in 2016 that brought the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim to power. Also, that he recently ‘unilaterally’ annexed the dangerous swamp area near the village (Bogbourne) to store his collection of life sized models of tanks, missiles and submarines. You may recall that I mentioned in a recent letter that he and ‘Binky’ (as he calls her) are now openly carousing.
What you may not know is the following:
Putin Lotzadosh comes from a village the other side of the mountain to the east. It’s a lousy place called Rufflotia. The Rufflotian men are all musclebound bullies notorious for pushing people off their land, and smearing ‘unknown substances’ on people’s doors. The Rufflotian women are all po-faced and have beards. It’s grim there. The shops have nothing in them and the high street is full of ice.
Due to their nasty habit of pushing people off their property all the other villagers many years ago formed an alliance known by the acronym, TARTS (Together Against Rufflotian Territory Stealing). They have a rule that if one village is attacked, then it’s an attack on them all, which is sensible.
Each village council chips in a few bob every year to keep the TARTS’ force, made up of volunteers from all of the villagers, in beer and fags. Every year Llanaber contributes 2% of the turnover from the shops in the high street and from the bouncy castle and donkey ride concessions. In addition the two ‘least wheezy fighters’ from our defence force, the ‘stick it to ‘ems,’ are sent for an away day with the other villagers’ defence soldiers.
Manoeuvres are carried out to simulate war with the Rufflotians during which stones are thrown at our lads and they practice how fast they can run away. Now and again we let the other villagers’ TARTS solders practice with our catapult. It a shagged out load of old junk but it looks impressive to those that don’t know better.
The threat from the TARTS has been sufficient for the last 50 years to deter the Ruffotians from expansionism and contain them in their village. However, the annexation of Bogbourne by Putin Lotzadosh with no reprisals whatsoever is a sure sign that he and his tribe are growing in confidence. I fear that they may try and pull the same trick somewhere else and believe they will get away with it again.
What makes you think that? (I hear you cry).
It is this.
Yesterday the bosses of all the western villages that contribute to the ‘beer and fags’ fund for the TARTS soldiers met in Llanaber village hall for their annual ‘general matters and piss up’ conflab. I was there as the official minutes taker. They were all slapping each other on their collective backs, congratulating themselves that everything was tickety-boo when Mrs. T suddenly did a ‘Khrushchev.’ She removed her left boot and started banging it on the table for silence.
A deathly quiet descended in the room. It was so quiet you could hear the village hall’s mice fart. All eyes were on Mrs. T.
“You useless buggers are not all chipping in your two percents,” she barked, “If you don’t cough up soon I’m withdrawing my two ‘stick it to ‘ems’ blokes and the use of my catapult from the TARTS alliance forces.”
She then stood up and stomped out of the room, calling back just before she slammed the door behind her, “Putin’s a great bloke and you lot are chiselling shag-bags!”
What was going on?
Was Mrs. T somehow working to further the expansionist ambitions of Putin Lotzadosh by threatening the withdrawal of Llanaber’s forces?
If Mrs. T withdraws Llanaber’s support for TARTS, will the Rufflotians go back to their old expansionist habits and start pushing people off their land?
Are bad things about to happen to the villages in the west in the form of a ‘domino style’ collapse of resistance to the Rufflotians as Putin marches his thugs westward crushing all under foot?
My wife is very level headed. When I told her what was causing me to lose sleep she patted me gently on the hand and smiled.
“Look at the bigger picture,” she said reassuringly, “We are a small village, true. But it is part of Gwynedd county, which in itself is part of Wales, which is part of the United Kingdom, which is part of the European Union. Further, when it comes to matters of defence, these countries are part of an even bigger alliance of countries with western values, NATO.”
She went on to further reassure me that nothing could ever happen to split up this rock solid organisation.
“America is the leading force in NATO,” she said, “And that nice Mr. Trump would never do anything that would put in jeopardy the protection of Europe, and fuel Putin’s expansionist ambitions.”
Then, my mind at last at ease, I lapsed into a deep and dreamless sleep for the remaining six minutes before the alarm went off.
I awoke refreshed and with a light heart walked as briskly as I dared through the fog to the parish council offices and to the tasks that lay ahead of me, the first as always being to check the news feed ticker tapes.
It was there I read about the nasty spitting contest that had occurred at NATO headquarters yesterday between America and the rest of the organisation’s members. It was started by Trump. He is threatening to break up the organisation that has kept the western world safe since the 2nd world war.
I also read that the cheese-ball headed self-declared Braniac is soon to meet with ‘Vlad the bad’ Putin for ‘further instructions.’
My heart sank.
I fear it will be another sleepless night tonight.
That’s it for now.
Photo by www.kremlin.ru || CC-BY-4.0 International