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Mother Of All Wars With Iran Risk For Trump

Mother Of All Wars With Iran Risk For Trump

Letter from Llanaber

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

A bizarre turn of events that could lead the village to WAR! Let me bring you up to speed with the circumstances.


I was sitting at my desk this morning idly picking the cress out of the sandwich I was about to have for my elevenses - my wife has put two rounds of egg and cress in my lunchbox every day for the last twenty eight years. I haven’t got the heart to tell her that cress gives me the hives (Urticaria to the educated) - when Ginger, the lad from the post room dropped a letter on my desk. The letter was addressed to my esteemed leader the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. There was a Post-It note attached to the front of the letter which I reproduce for you below:


‘David, just in case this has been smeared with ‘unknown substances’ open this, read it, then send me a precis of the contents.’
The note was simply signed ‘Binky.’


As the letter was very official looking I opened it straight away. It was from a gentleman called Hassan Rouhani who claimed to be the President of Iran. I read it, then re-read it, but I could not make neither head nor tail of what it was about. It didn’t help that it was written in Persian and, though I do speak the odd work of Welsh, I have always struggled with languages of the non-English variety. I reproduce the letter for you so you can see my problem:

‘Llanaber باید بداند که صلح با ایران مادر تمام صلح است و جنگ با ایران مادر تمام جنگ ها است. با دم دم شیر بازی نکنید، آن را برای همیشه پشیمان خواهید شد.’

Fortunately I knew where to get the letter translated. There is one Muslim living in the village, Mr. Ragesh Patel, the old gentleman that runs the Barbers & Spicy Shoe Polish shop. With the letter tucked in my inside pocket I nipped out of the office for a quick short back and sides (He actually always gives me a French style square back because it’s the only cut he knows how to do). While Ragesh was snipping away I casually broached the matter of the translation.

 


“Gimme a butcher’s at it,” he said.


I gave him the letter which he studied for a few moments.


“I can’t make any sense of it,” he said, “I’m a Pakistani. I speak Urdu, not Persian.”


“Then how can I find out what it says?” I asked.


He scratched his head and said, “You can always use Google Translate.”


I had literally no idea what he was talking about, but luckily he saw the fog in my eyes and went on to explain. I was beginning to see the light. 


I coughed, paid the 29p for his services, and politely took the note from Mr. Patel’s hand. I briskly left his shop before he had a chance to hold the big mirror behind my head in a pretense that I could see then nod my agreement to the carnage he’d meted out on my hair on the back of my bonce. 

 


I ran through the fog back to the bus stop and caught the next bus to Druidellau. I knew their council offices had a computer with an internet connection and for a small consideration they would probably let me use it. (The Druids are very sensible when it comes to money matters, so there is always a ‘small consideration’ when dealing with them, even when simply wishing them good morning).


When I arrived at the Druid council offices I was met by the young lad that runs their IT system, affectionately known as ‘the Chutzpah Kid.’ (The lad, not the IT system).


I handed him the letter and asked if he could make sense of it.


“Just use Google Translate, you Shmendrik!” he said, then calling out to a passing friend, he shouted, “This cockamamie shagetz has just schlepped over from Llanaber just to use our computer, the yutzi!”


His friend called back, “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” Then, under his breath as he walked away, his friend added, “Kolboynick.”


“Give it here,” said the lad to me.


I handed him the letter.


He disappeared into his office and was out moments later holding the original letter and a sheet of A4 paper on which was printed the following:

 


‘Llanaber must know that peace with Iran is the mother of all peace, and the war with Iran is the mother of all wars. Do not play with milk tail, you will regret it forever.’


I did not understand.


“What’s a milk tail?” I asked the young lad.


“Fecked if I know,” he replied.


I paid him a small consideration then caught the next bus back to Llanaber. All the way back to the village I had the nagging feeling I had seen this sentence somewhere before. Then it hit me like a kick in the stomach from one of Dai the Donkey’s scabby mules. I had seen almost exactly the same message on a string of news ticker tape late the previous night. This was a message from Rouhani to Trump in response to the cheese-ball head’s capital letters shouty-tweet threatening war. 


It wasn’t ‘milk tail’ dear reader, it was ‘lion’s tail.’


The letter was a ‘warning off’ from Rouhani to Llanaber. Any more provocation from us and he is ready to attack!


As soon as I returned to my desk I pulled from the bookshelf behind me the ‘Guinness book of Nations’ Relative Weaponry 2018’ and turned to the appropriate pages.

 


I scribbled down the relative ‘scores on the doors’ as follows:


Iran: 
Total population – 82 million of which 43 million are fit for service
Total military population – 934,000
Total aircraft – 505
Combat tanks – 1,650
Armored vehicles – 2,215
Artillery, self-propelled – 440
Artillery, towed – 2,188
Rocket projectors – 1,533
Total Navy assets – 398
Defense budget - $6,300,000,000
Llanaber:
Total population – 82
Total military population – 9 (all wheezy)
Total aircraft – Nil
Combat tanks – Nil
Armored vehicles – Nil
Artillery, self-propelled – Nil
Artillery, towed – 1 Rusty Catapult
Rocket projectors – Nil
Total Navy assets – 6 Swan Pedalows (with potential to mount the catapult on)
Defense budget - £63.50


I looked at the figures and sighed deeply. If we went to war with Iran there is no doubt about the result. Even if we rented the devil dogs off the Druidians we’d still get trounced.


It was just as my depression hit rock bottom my office door opened and Mrs. Trim waltzed in.
“What was in the letter?” she asked.


I could not bring myself to tell her the truth.


“It was a flyer, an advert for something called Google.”

 


“What’s that?” she asked, disinterestedly.


She didn’t even wait for my reply. She turned and walked out of my office, no doubt late for a round of fog golf followed by a slap up lunch, all paid for by the boss of the Druids and her close buddy, Benjy Yahoo (They’re as thick as thieves).


Should I have told her, dear reader?


Should I have alerted her to the potential conflict?


Should I have put our armed forces on a war footing in preparation for an onslaught from the land of Mullahs and mayhem?


No, dear reader, let sleeping dogs lie. 


If Mrs. Trim was to find out the true contents of the letter, she would undoubtedly react. Things could escalate. If there will be war, then there will be war, but what is to be gained by chasing it along? I for one do not want to play with the lion’s tail.


Besides, I’m no shmendrik! A heavy bombardment of our beach would start Dai’s donkeys off crapping everywhere again, and nobody wants that when the tourists’ kids are digging their sand castles.


That’s it for now.


Cheerio!

 

 

Photo by Alireza Bahari  ||  CC-BY-4.0 International

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