Staggering Press Conference Following Summit Meeting Puts Leader’s Integrity And Sanity In Question
Letter from Llanaber
...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
Staggering events! If I hadn’t have been there I would have thought it was all made up. I refer to the press conference following the infamous summit meeting between my esteemed leader and boss of the village parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, and the gangster that owns the arcade on the seafront, the ‘beast from the east,’ Putin Lotzadosh.
Let me briefly give you some background facts concerning this important groundbreaking carousal.
Firstly, it was meant to be a low-key affair, but word of the meeting ‘leaked out,’ that despite me specifically telling all the villagers to keep it a secret in the newsletter I circulated to them all yesterday (copying in the Druids, of course).
Some loudmouthed cretin leaked! (And I don’t mean old Mr. Widdle whose Catheter keeps detaching itself when he starts his ‘jiving’ every time the church clock’s bell sounds off on the hour).
There were protests!
The seafront was overrun with belligerent ‘out of datecoders,’ i.e. the old codgers that have been banished to the quicksand ridden marshlands at Bogbourne to live in the wooden huts on stilts until they ‘dropped off the twig.’
There were ugly scenes!
The old duffers were engorged with the red hot flushes of injustice, and rampant. Their wrinkly old bellies were afire with their revolutionary cause, justice, the prevailing of right over wrong, and the rule of law.
The wrestling of the illegally annexed Bogbourne out of the grasping hands of the gangster Putin and his henchmen and back firmly under the control of the Llanaber parish council.
At one stage massed gangs of old wrinkies hobbled at speeds nearing 1 mile an hour up and down the promenade in their wheelchairs and on their Zimmer frames, wheezing hard and kicking feebly at the trash cans in failed attempts to tip them over. Were it not for the pack of devil dogs, on loan for the afternoon from the Druids to Putin’s thugs, there could well have been ‘trouble.’
As it was the combination of Putin’s thugs, the devil dogs and the early closing of the public restrooms soon had the auld’uns hobbling on their way back towards the high street to catch the last bus back to Bogbourne.
Peace, dear reader, blessed peace.
The democratic rules of a civilized society had satisfied both sides’ needs. The crinklies had exercised their right to protest peacefully, or in this case otherwise, and the movers and shakers were free to complete the heavy burden of their political responsibilities with unfettered hands.
Then there was the meeting itself.
Only three people were to be present at the conflab. Mrs. Trim, Putin Lotzadosh and myself as translator.* (*This is because Mrs. T’s language can become a little Anglo-Saxon should she lose her ‘rag.’ Putin is of Eastern European extraction and his grasp of the English language is not yet crash-hot. I would therefore have to remove all Mrs. T’s expletives then ‘Janet & John’ what was left so the Balkan Ball-buster would be able to understand her insane rants).
No minutes were to be taken. What was shared between the two mega-Braniacs would be hush-hush, between the three of us, and I am under threat of a ‘re-education’ from Mrs. T’s boss of Homeland Security and Prevention of Extra-Terrestrial Services, Mateo the Knife, if I leak so much as a burp.
Demonstrations aside, the carousal did not get off to a good start. The meeting was to be on neutral ground, i.e. in Putin’s front room. As I had feared would happen, neither wanted to be the first to enter the room in case it was taken by the other as a sign of weakness. This was awkward as it was Putin’s home and he was already in his front room watching the DVD of Planes, Trains and Automobiles. When the door opened and Mrs. T entered, Putin shot behind the settee to hide. Mrs. T, thinking Putin hadn’t turned up yet, slipped out of the window and went round to the front door again. This nonsense was repeated six or seven times, only stopping when Mrs. T tripped over Putin’s left leg when lunging for the window.
The two ‘great leaders’ then stood up, dusted themselves off, and took their seats opposite each other on the small dining table next to the TV.
The meeting lasted for four hours, only breaking occasionally in order for each participant to satisfy ‘a call of nature.’
At the conclusion of the meeting the two great minds and mega-powers stood and smiled cordially at each other.
Hands were proffered.
Hands were shaken.
Had agreements been made?
Had an ‘understanding’ been reached on many and wide ranging subjects?
Turning to me, Mrs. T barked, “You, short-arse! It’s time for the press conference.”
I immediately ran from the room and took my place outside Putin’s front door, pad and pen in hand. In the absence of any world press interest whatsoever, as the chap that writes the village newsletter I had been given strict instructions by Mrs. T to act like a baying pack of news hounds. I was to ask some ‘searching questions’ of the two great leaders once they had made their statements about their carousal and any outcomes.
I took my place and stood alone outside the front door.
After a short interlude for them to take ‘a tinkle’ Mrs. T emerged holding Putin’s hand. They each took a place either side of the front door.
Mrs. T spoke first.
I repeat below what she said verbatim:
“Gentleman of the world’s press, this is an historic moment. I am the greatest leader of all time, official! Did we get along? Yes, of course we did. He’s great, I’m great, we’re both great, and that’s great, really great, great for you, great for me, great for the solar system and any alien life forms as yet to be discovered.”
“Da!” added Putin distractedly, glancing occasionally through his front window trying to catch the end of the movie, “Binky is a gas. Around my little finger she spins!” The ‘baldy Balkan’ then winked at me and said, “I put her in job, y’know.”
“You!” Mrs. T suddenly snapped at me, “Ask an awkward question.”
I swallowed deeply and bit the proverbial bullet.
“This one’s for you, Mrs. Trim,” I nervously stammered, “Will you condemn Putin for illegally annexing Bogbourne, smearing ‘unknown substances’ on the front doors of the oldies that live there, for nobbling the 2016 parish council elections by bribing the electorate to vote for you, offering them free goes on his penny falls slot machines, and finally, for having his henchman, Egor Blimic, spread false and defamatory emails throughout the village about the poor old Mrs. Clinton?”
Putin wandered back inside to watch Steve Martin and John Candy in the ‘car driving the wrong way up the highway’ scene. As the front door slammed Mrs. T turned to me and launched into a vitriolic polemic, the key points of which I summarise below:
That Putin would kick the proverbial dottle out of me if I said anything like that again.
That there was absolutely no, none, nothing whatsoever, nada, nichts, niente, non, nyet interference by Putin in the 2016 election, and that he had told Mrs. T so himself, so its’s the absolute and undisputable truth, and now officially a fact.
That the old codgers of Bogbourne, in a free and fair poll, carried out stilt-hut to stilt-hut by Putin’s very own thugs, produced the overwhelming result of 100% to zero that, to a man, they all wanted to keep their legs unbroken, and for Bogbourne to remain annexed to Putin’s slot machine empire.
That ‘Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller, the man investigating the 2016 election voting ‘irregularities’ and who arrested Egor Blimic for spreading malicious email fake news about old Mrs. Clinton, is himself a totally incompetent numpty that can’t spot a half decent bribe when it’s offered to him.
There was the sound of a Champagne cork popping inside the house that caught Mrs. T’s attention.
“That’s your lot. Now, sod off and write that up word for word, you butt-licking minion,” she barked at me.
With that she spun on her heels and walked back inside the house. Moments later I could hear the sound of glasses chinking and raucous laughter coming from Putin’s front room.
Crestfallen I wandered back through the fog to the parish council offices to ‘do as I had been told.’
I genuinely fear for our hard won democracy.
There are dark forces afoot, no longer in the shadows, but now blatantly flaunting their evil deeds fearlessly for the world to see.
Where will this all end?
Are we to live in a topsy-turvy world where lies have become the new truth, where bullying, greed and buck naked corruption are the norm, and society bends its knee in subservience to cronyism, nepotism and unjust absolute power?
Who knows, dear reader?
For my part am I obliged to ‘do my bit’ and speak truth to power, regardless of the consequences?
I am under the strictest of instructions not to disclose anything at all about what was actually discussed and agreed, or otherwise, during the meeting. I am bound by the rules of collective responsibility and the confidentiality required of my office.
No, I will not speak out.
I will remain true to my professional obligations even though it is to the detriment of my ideals.
For four hours they met.
For four hours they had the opportunity to negotiate matters of great import in an entirely confidential environment.
For four hours, dear reader!
Were great matters discussed?
Were bridges built, the beginnings of a new era of peace and understanding forged?
Or did the two idiots watch the ‘Home Alone’ and ‘Home Alone 2 on the DVD?’
No, dear reader, my lips remain sealed.
That’s it for now.
Photo by www.kremlin.ru || CC-BY-4.0 International