Summit With Putin Protests In Llanaber
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
The marching season is upon us once again in Llanaber. Like our neighbours across the water in Belfast, our little village has a long tradition of ‘marching.’ This is when the village citizens show their affiliation to one group of barmpots or another by marching up and down the village high street in the fog waving colourful banners about. Meaningful slogans pleading one or the other cause are frequently scrawled on the demonstrators’ banners. Let me give you a few examples:
The Vegans – ‘Eat your foot – See how that feels’
The Catholics – ‘Happy to settle out of court!’
The Druids – ‘They Were Asking For It!’ (A reference to the Travelers, no doubt).
The Muslims – ‘Scared of us, yeah?’
The Schizophrenics – ‘Am I looking at me?’
The Liberals – ‘Always a pleasure.’
The Fascists – ‘We meet every third Wednesday of the month behind the cycle sheds on the seafront to call everyone else names and to discuss innovative new ways of being disliked. All new members welcome.’ (Theirs is a particularly wide sign and they have to walk up the high street sideways).
The Foggists – ‘Always a pleasure.’ (they’re often confused with the Liberals).
Of course, it is essential to manage the various groups’ marches.
Why? (I hear you ask).
Is it because of the extreme views expressed by the participants and the fear that, should they go ‘head to head,’ there could be disturbances in the streets as opposing beliefs clash?
Is it the fear of riots, anarchy, loss of the control of law and order?
No, it’s because of the bloody great sink hole in the high street full of garbage. We’ve lost enough people already. We don’t want crowds more villagers marching straight into the bloody thing.
The job of co-ordinating the various demonstrating factions falls within my purview as Parish Foreign Secretary and Anti-Corruption and Nepotism Tsar. Under normal circumstances this is not an arduous task. The groups are small.
For example, there is only one Muslim in the village, Mr. Patel, the old gentleman that runs the Barbers & Spicy Shoe Polish shop. He’s a fine, upstanding chap normally and fits into village society like a hand in a glove. However, in marching season he has the tendency to go slightly doolally tat, and runs up and down the high street putting paper bags with eye-holes cut out over the heads of any women he sees.
Similarly, there is only one sufferer from Schizophrenia in the village, ‘Megan the Mad’ and she is a self-declared example of the illness. Dr Mengele, the village boss of the hospital, has frequently given her thorough examinations (at her request) and officially declared that there’s nothing at all wrong with her, apart from being a bit batty.
However, this season is likely to be much more challenging than in previous years.
Why? (I hear you ask).
Yes, dear reader, I said protesters.
Hordes of ‘leftie-pinko-live-on-your-knees-thumb-sucking-sandal-shuffling’ scruff-bags have descended in great number on our village. Word has leaked out about the summit meeting due to take place later today between the boss of the Llanaber parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, and the gangster that runs the slot machine arcade on the seafront, the ‘beast from the east,’ Putin Lotzadosh.
These two ‘peacemakers’ are due to meet on neutral ground, i.e. in Putin’s front room, for a ‘general clearing of the air’ conflab. There will be only three people in the room when this meeting takes place, Mrs. Trim, Putin Lotzadosh and my good self. I am due to be at this meeting in my capacity as official translator.
Let me explain.
Mrs. Trim has a tendency when riled to speak very fast and pepper her dialogue with expletives. I will act as translator by transmogrifying her foul mouthed word vomits into simple English and remove the profanities so that Putin can understand what the old bat is saying.
It was to be a low key affair. Every effort had been made to keep their carousal a secret. I even put a note in the village newsletter telling everyone not to be anywhere near Putin’s house, no. 23 Seagull View, Seafront, Llanaber, the one next door to his slot machine arcade, to the left of it looking as if from the sea, with the red window frames, especially not at 2:00pm this afternoon, just in case there was a secret meeting between Mrs. T and Putin.
But we are a small, tightly packed community. We live in each other’s pockets. It is not easy to keep secrets. So, I was not surprised that information about this meeting ‘leaked out.’
Now this. Protesters!
Who are these radicals, these anarchists, these rebel-rousers? (I hear you cry).
As I look out of my office window now, I can see them gathering in the street below me. I can see the organisers handing out placards, unfurling banners, and no doubt preparing their Molotov cocktails as I write.
I will not tell you who these scum are just yet. I will give you a chance to work it out for yourselves by describing the scene below me in more detail.
There! A placard with ‘Give Us Our Teeth Back!’ written on it.
There! Another. This one says, ‘Cut Our Meat into Tiny Chewable Slithers!!’
There! Yet another with the scrawl, ‘We Demand Zimmer Frame Access to the Public Restrooms!’
There! ‘Bridges Over the Quicksand Pits NOW!’
There! ‘Putin! Stop Smearing Unknown Substances On Our Doors!’
There! ‘Out of Datecoders’ Lives Matter!’
There! The one that says it all, ‘Bogbourne Annexation –Trim! Strap On a Pair!’
Yes, you’ve guessed right, dear reader.
The group preparing to protest in the street below me consists entirely of the ancient and decrepit ‘out of datecode’ people from the village. These are the ones that have been ‘retired’ from active life in our community and sent to eke out the final years of their pathetic lives in the wooden huts on stilts in the dangerous swamplands of Bogbourne.
You will recall that Putin recently unilaterally annexed Bogbourne into his slot machine empire proclaiming he needed the plot near the estuary for the storage of his ‘life sized models of tanks, planes and missiles.’
Bogbourne has belonged to the village for centuries and, whilst it’s a dark and dangerous place fit only for the storage of old people, its annexation by the ‘baldy Balkan’ has put a few people’s noses out of joint.
I for one entirely agree with the motives of the protesters.
The annexation of Bogbourne is an aggressive and despicable act and has no basis in law. Bogbourne should be brought back under the full control of the parish council and Putin and his thugs should stop sawing the stilts off the wooden huts and desist from smearing the out of datecoders’ doors with unknown substances.
I shall not interfere with their protest march.
I shall let them demonstrate as is their right in this free and fair democracy in which we live. Besides, they won’t get as far as no. 23 Seagull View, Seafront, Llanaber. The old codgers won’t be able to negotiate their way around the rim of the sink hole in the high street, not with their Zimmer frames and carrying those heavy signs. Even if they manage to, Putin’s heavies have rented the devil dogs from the Druids for the afternoon. You can’t outrun a Rottweiler on a Zimmer frame, even a three legged one.
I suspect Mrs. T and Putin Lotzadosh will have their little tête-à-tête in peace. I also suspect Bogbourne will remain annexed to Putin’s slot machine empire, bearing in mind he and Mrs. T are as thick as thieves right now.
That’s it for now.
Photo by www.kremlin.ru || CC-BY-4.0 International