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Trump Mulling War With Iran To Shift Focus From Payoffs And Putin

Trump Mulling War With Iran To Shift Focus From Payoffs And Putin

Letter from Llanaber

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

I think she’s gone through the looking glass once and for all! I refer, of course to my esteemed leader, the boss of the parish council in Llanaber, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. It has become so bizarre here in the village I don’t know how to relate to you recent ‘events.’


Let me start with an ‘aide memoire’ for you. 
In 2016 there was an election for parish boss of the council. There were only two contenders, Mrs. Trim and the old girl that runs the card shop in the village, Mrs. Edith Clinton. Whilst Mrs. Clinton won 99% of the popular votes, Mrs. Trim got the job because the election was rigged. Voters were bribed by the ‘beast from the east,’ Putin Lotzadosh, with free goes on the penny falls slot machine in his amusement arcade on the seafront in exchange for their vote for Mrs. T.


An investigation was launched by the village top-cop, Robert ‘Robbie the Bobbie’ Muller into voting ‘irregularities’ and he is due to produce his unredacted report into the matter any day now. 


It has come to the attention of the Trim administration that someone within the investigative team is ‘leaking’ and I don’t mean old Mr. Widdle whose catheter comes loose now and again. I’m talking here about blabbing!


How did I find out about this? (I hear you ask).


Mrs. Winfrey, the official village gossip.


She cornered me by the parish council cycle shed this morning as I was bending down removing my cycle clips, her massive bulk blocking my escape. As usual she managed to conflate several stories into one single gossip blurt, which I reproduce for you in full below:
“Have you heard? To draw attention away from Trump being recorded bunging hookers cash, America is going to war with Iran using the excuse that Rouhani bad mouthed *Mr. Pastry’s mother (*John Bolton – That’s what they call him in the village) for illegally spying on the Trump campaign when they were colluding with the Russians to nobble the 2016 election held to lock up Mrs. Clinton. It’s disgraceful. Robbie the Bobbie found out Mrs. Trim was involved and he’s blabbing it all around the village.”

 


I immediately pushed the old gobshite to one side and hurried off to look for Robbie the Bobbie to find out what the real story was. I located him in his office inside the cop-shop. He was busy steeping his hob nail boots in the local alcoholic brew, ‘journey into space.’ Whilst tourists and the stupid drink the stuff, it’s really intended for rubbing into donkey saddles to improve the butt grip. Robbie uses it to improve the purchase of his boots when cornering during ‘hot pursuits on foot.’


I asked him if the rumour I’d heard from Mrs. Winfrey was true. Had he discovered something incriminating about Mrs. Trim, Putin Lotzadosh and the 2016 election campaign?


“I can’t say,” he said, pointing surreptitiously at the speaking tube on the corner of his desk then handing me a sheet of A4 paper.


I understood his gesture. Someone was listening in!


I slowly read what was written on the paper (I’m a slow reader).


It was a note from Mrs. Trim to Robbie the Bobbie, which I reproduce for you verbatim:
‘Looking more & more like the Trim Campaign for Parish Boss was illegally being spied upon (surveillance) for the political gain of Crooked Edith Clinton and her card shop emporium. Ask her how that worked out - she did better with Crazy Paving**. Really must get tough now. An illegal Scam!’

 


(** Mrs. Clinton recently had the pavement outside her shop crazy paved just before the massive sink hole in the high street opened up. The lot dropped in).


The village top-cop then, without speaking a word but using an ancient form of sign language known only to villagers, ‘mimed’ what was really going on through a complex set of facial expressions, hand and groin movements and unusual body positions.


My take on the interpretation of his complex facial contortions and body shaping was either one or the other of the following:


a)    This is a covert threat from Mrs. T to me, a warning that I have to say nothing about what I’ve unearthed in my investigations, or else! So you know, there was definitely collusion between Trim and Putin. Leonard* told me himself. I had to arrest him recently for raucous behavior in the high street. He was wearing a Cossack’s hat and singing like a canary about Mrs. T and Putin’s ‘special relationship.’ I think he’d been watching the DVDs that have just recently come to light and they’d pissed him off, especially the one about Mrs. T bunging the two male escorts, ‘Big Boy’ and ‘Wanger,’ to keep their traps shut about the golden shower game in the Rufflotian hotel bedroom. 


(*Mrs. Trim’s blubby-hubby, recently appointed as top judge, Lord Justice Arbuthnot Trim).

 


b)   My hemorrhoids are giving me jip today and I’ve got a bit of bacon rind stuck in my teeth.


I opted for option a) as being the more accurate of the two interpretations.


If true then this was dynamite!


Mrs. Trim? Attempting to gag the top-cop and pervert the course of justice!?


At last! The walls were closing in on Mrs. T’s corrupt regime. Her toppling from high office and downfall must surely follow soon. I skipped through the fog back to my office my heart light and my disposition approaching happy.


My joy did not last long, dear reader.


When I arrived back at the parish offices Mrs. Trim was waiting for me.


“You! Short-arse! My office. NOW!” she barked.


I knew trouble was coming when she closed the door behind me. 


“Read this,” she said, handing me a string of news feed ticker tape, “The man is an absolute GENIUS!”


I slowly read what was printed on the tape (You know the speed I read).

 


I looked up at my esteemed leader. She had an evil glint in her eye.


“When the hounds are baying at the front door, he knows what to do,” she said, “All I have to do to make this 2016 election nobbling and escort bunging crap go away is to follow the strategy used by the Duck himself.”


She then handed me a sheet of A4 paper and barked, “Send this off now!”


The following message was scrawled on it in her spider-like handwriting. It was a corrupted version of the Trump / Rouhani email I had seen in the newsfeed ticker tape room late last night. I reproduce her version for you below verbatim:


‘To Iranian President Rouhani: NEVER, EVER THREATEN LLANABER AGAIN OR YOU WILL SUFFER CONSEQUENCES THE LIKES OF WHICH FEW THROUGHOUT HISTORY HAVE EVER SUFFERED BEFORE. WE ARE NO LONGER A PARISH THAT WILL STAND FOR YOUR DEMENTED WORDS OF VIOLENCE & DEATH. BE CAUTIOUS!’


I was flummoxed. Iran had NEVER threatened Llanaber as far as I knew.


“What does this mean?” I asked naively.


“It means this, you little butt-minion, Trump’s in the dottle big style. The comb-over cutie has his back against the wall. He’s been caught bunging hookers to keep their gobs shut. He’s about to be exposed for fiddling the 2016 election. He’s in hock financially to Putin’s lot and what’s more they’ve got the ‘slasher’ movie of him and the hookers playing the golden shower game. During the post Trump / Putin summit press conference he as good as said ‘Vlad here’s got his arm so far up my ass he’s working my mouth.’ But does he worry? No! He’s a head case. He’s so narcissistic he’s prepared to start world war three to take the heat off him and his crooked cabal.”

 


I was none the wiser. It must have shown in the expression on my face.


“You really are thick, aren’t you?” she said, “I’m in the dottle too, Dimbo! Have you been walking round in a trance for the last few months?”


The fog in my brain still would not lift.


“So?” I asked meekly.


“So, my dear crap-lizards, we’re throwing our lot in with the Yanks!  Get a message to Trump straight away. Tell him our catapult is at his disposal and the two least wheezy of our defense force (the stick it to ‘ems) are his to command should he declare war on Iran. Write what we’re doing up in your crappy newsletter and send it to every house in the village.”


She then took hold of the short hairs on the back of my neck, twisted them hard and marched me out of her office.


I am nothing if not professional. I sent the threatening note to president Rouhani by post, second class stamp. I also added the following note to the bottom of the daily village newsletter:

 


‘In other recent news, we are throwing our lot in with America and going to war with Iran (possibly). You might want to stock up on tinned food, bottled water and body bags in case it goes nuclear.’


I don’t envisage mass panic. I doubt anyone in the village will over-react to this momentous news, or even read it. The soccer season is about to start, so that’s the only talking point in the village now.


I doubt if anyone in the village other than me and Mrs. T even knows where Iran is… or America.


That’s it for now.


Cheerio!

 

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

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