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Humiliating Press Conference Reversal A ‘Blatant Lie’ Shocker

Humiliating Press Conference Reversal A ‘Blatant Lie’ Shocker

Letter from Llanaber

...Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...

I have to report quite a number of ‘events’ in today’s newsletter. It’s been a busy 24 hours. You will recall that yesterday I went ‘on the lam’ by hiding in my back yard, living in the kennel out there with my Bloodhound, ‘Comey.’

This was because ‘incendiary’ secret information came into my possession which I believe, if it got into the hands of the authorities, would topple the current incumbent parish council boss, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim from her position. Further, it exposes the village gangster, the ‘beast from the east’ Putin Lotzadosh, as a blackmailer who is using the ‘dirt’ he has on Mrs. Trim to manipulate the law and council policy to his advantage.

For those that are honest and law abiding citizens take my advice. NEVER go ‘on the lam.’ Life is intolerable, insufferable and tough.



His breath stinks, this despite the wife feeding him bowl upon bowl of breath freshening mints. Trying to get forty winks cheek by jowl with him panting on you is as near as damn it impossible.

He snores like a drain.

He takes up all the blankets.


When the wife leaves my meals outside the kennel door, he growls menacingly if I try to eat them. 

Worst of all, he dribbles slobber constantly. It gets everywhere, even on the soles of my shoes. I slipped over three times last night when I popped into the house to attend to ‘a call of nature.’
Where is this all going? (I hear you ask).

I decided to put my faith in the authorities and the justice system and take the moral high ground of the whistle-blower. I decided to ‘turn myself in.’

Disguised as an itinerant strolling musician, under the cover of darkness and with the help of particularly thick fog, I made my way to the village high street and the cop-shop. 

I was in luck. 

The blue light above the door was on, signalling the village top-cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller was in residence, awake, and ‘burning the midnight oil.’

I left my Zither and my false beard with the nose and spectacles attached by the door and slipped inside. I’d assumed Robbie the Bobbie would be working late into the night to complete his investigative report into the irregularities that occurred during the 2016 election, so it was with some reluctance I knocked on the inner door of the cop-shop. I did not for one second want to tear him away from this essential work, but ‘needs must when the devil and mad Rufflotian gangsters drive.’


To my surprise he wasn’t working on his report. He was sitting in his favourite armchair in his ‘Sherlock Holmes onesie’ smoking a joint and watching a DVD (Flubber).

“Oh, hello David,” he said to me genially, “Come in. I can start it from the beginning if you like.”
Then he convivially offered me a pull on his reefer and added, “Have a bang on this little number. It’ll blow your socks off!”

I declined his kind offer, instead, slipping the Jewel DVD case containing the ‘dynamite-dirt’ on Mrs. T from my inside jacket pocket. I held it out towards the law enforcer.

“I got this from Putin’s house. I think we should see what’s on it,” I said, my voice starting to quiver through nervous tension.

He took the DVD from me and read the scrawl on the outside. As an ‘aide memoire’ I reproduce what was written on the DVD for you below:
‘Secret Video - Mrs. Trim with two male ‘escorts’ playing the ‘golden shower’ game on Billy-Bob Bobbityboo’s hotel bed (Gwynedd Council – Miss Child-Bearing Hips Event – Rufflotia - 2013).’
He handed it back to me.

“Got it already,” he said. Then to my surprise he flipped through his DVD collection and pulled out a handful of similar DVDs, all with Putin’s hand writing on them.

“Have you seen these?” asked the lawman, “They’re red hot too!”


I looked at them one by one. The hand written labels read as follows:
‘Secret Video – Mrs. Trim and fat Leonard bonking – Fact Finding Tour of Rome, Winter 2012.’
‘Secret Video – Mrs. Trim and hubby in the bath – Playing with his submarine – Fact Finding Safari – Africa 2011.’
‘Secret Video – Mrs. Trim getting her ‘medical’ from Dr. Mengele – New Year’s Eve 2010.’

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

He winked and replied, “From Putin’s mechanical grab slot machine in his arcade. I’m a dab hand with the crane. There’s loads of ‘em and it’s a lot cheaper than renting ‘em from Solly Weinstein.”

(*FYI – Solly Weinstein (no relation) is Mrs. T’s private lawyer and the official village amateur video maker and pervert).

I was shocked!

I was staggered!

Words failed me.

I walked silently out of the room and headed home through the fog.

Am I the last in the village to discover the truth about my esteemed leader? Is it common knowledge she is a corrupt liar and Putin’s puppet?

I decided to carry on with life as normal and put this shattering news to the back of my mind. However, the next morning this proved very difficult for me. Let me fill you in on the circumstances.

I arrived at the office as usual only to find Mrs. T standing waiting for me.

“You!” she barked, “I’m catching heaps of dottle for bigging up Putin in the news conference yesterday. The villagers think he’s a git and unless I lie through my teeth again there’ll be big trouble.”

She thrust a sheet of A4 paper under my nose.

“Here!” she snapped, “Print this retraction in the newsletter NOW! Say it was a slip of the tongue and that’s what I actually meant to say.”


Then she turned on her heels and flounced away.

I slowly read what she had written on the paper (I’m a slow reader). I reproduce it for you below 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 (NT). He’s (NT) great, I’m great, we’re both great (BUT HE’S NT), 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.”

I could not bring myself to do it. I slipped out of the office and walked up the high street through the fog quietly sobbing to myself over the loss of any kind of moral standards nowadays in public life. 

I was shuffling round the rim of the sink hole when I heard voices. They were coming from Trevor the Trot’s Trattoria. I noticed that his restaurant was open, which was unusual for nine o’clock in the morning. He only opens between ten and noon, then closes for lunch for the rest of the day.

My curiosity was aroused.

I headed for the restaurant to see what was ‘going down.’

There was a sign on the door:
‘Private Party – Nelson Dingbat’s Memorial Lunch.’

I peered through the window. 


There was a small crowd of people listening to someone giving a speech. I recognised the speaker straight away. It was none other than the ex-parish council leader and Mrs. T’s predecessor, Mr. Billy-Bob Bobbityboo (born and bred in Wales but with West Indian proclivities). 

Despite the sign on the door I slipped quietly into the restaurant and stood at the back of the room where I listened transfixed by the almost hypnotic oration coming from the ex-leader. 

I hung on his every word.

I was mesmerised.

Such wisdom!

Such incisive understanding!

Such verbal dexterity!

I took out my ‘Guinness book of little notebooks’ and my stubby pencil and scribbled down every word as fast as I could so as best to reproduce it for you as accurately as possible. What he said was as follows:

‘Dat Misses Trim, eh? She’s allus tellin’ dem lies, Bro! She lies and lies and lies and lies and lies and lies and lies!”

There it was in a nutshell. The political shenanigans of the village (if not the world) laid bare in three simple sentences.

My faith in the forces of right over might was restored. As long as there were strong, upright men like him prepared to fearlessly speak truth to power, there was still hope for the survival of justice, honesty and freedom in the face of the ever strengthening forces of evil.

That said, I glanced out of the window and spotted half a dozen of Putin’s ‘political advisers’ hanging about outside. They each had a devil dog and were practicing with their coshes. 
I slipped away and headed back to the parish offices, my fingers crossed in the hope that Trevor the Trots’ café had a rear entrance. 

That’s it for now.




Photo by www.kremlin.ru  ||  CC-BY-4.0 International

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