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‘Twitter-Spitter’ War Between Trump And LeBron Brings Intelligence Into Disrepute

‘Twitter-Spitter’ War Between Trump And LeBron Brings Intelligence Into Disrepute

Letter from Llanaber

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

I was having a quiet post prandial zizz at my desk yesterday afternoon after picking my way through the wife’s egg and cress sandwiches (I have to remove the cress – it gives me the hives) when my feet were suddenly and unceremoniously shoved off my desk.

“You!” a voice bellowed at me.

It was my esteemed leader and the mad old bat that heads up the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. She was standing the other side of my desk holding a string of news feed ticker tape in her hand and glaring daggers at me.

“Read this!” she yelled at me as she tossed the ticker tape onto my desk.

I wiped the sleep from my eyes then picked up the tape and slowly read what was written on it (as you know, I’m a slow reader).

It was an article about a spitting contest that occurred overnight between the cheese-ball headed self-declared Braniac and fanny magnet, President Trump, and a very tall man who plays basketball called LeBron James. I gathered from the article that there was no love lost between the two gentlemen, and, the latter having been interviewed on TV and said things that upset the former, the former took to ‘Twitland’ to say nasty things back. There was a verbatim copy of what the comb-over cretin had tweeted which I reproduce for you below:


‘Lebron James was just interviewed by the dumbest man on television, Don Lemon. He made Lebron look smart, which isn’t easy to do. I like Mike!’

I gathered from the small-minded twit that he was no great fan of Don Lemon either. But what had this to do with me, my esteemed leader Mrs. T. or Llanaber? I was soon to find out.
“Why haven’t I got a professional sports personality to gob off at?” the Guv’nor demanded of me.

Did I hear my esteemed leader correctly? Has the boss of the parish council become so obsessed with jumping on every puerile bandwagon emanating from the thumb of ‘Trump the Tweet’ that she was actually complaining there was no sportsperson in the village she could pick a fight with? (Or should that be ‘with whom she could pick a fight?’)

“Er, we don’t have any basketball players in the village,” I stammered out, “Professional or otherwise.”

“Further,” I added, “For the sake of clarity, there is no basketball court in the village, or sufficient flat space to build one as we live on the side of a mountain. We could put one on the beach but the tide would keep washing it away...”


I was doing my best to be helpful but my effort was ‘lost in translation.’

“Are you taking the pee?” she snapped, “It’s not about basketball, dolt!”

I was befuddled.

“Then what is it about?” I asked naively.

She looked at me as if I was a pile of dottle floating in her Jacuzzi.

“It’s about prestige,” she said calmly, a smile forming on her face, “Now, my little butt-weasel, I need you to do something for me.”

It is never a good thing when Mrs. Trim smiles at you before giving you a task, and this was no exception. I was ordered by my esteemed leader to go forth amongst the villagers, pick out the most sporty and bring him or her to Mrs. Trim’s office so she could officially ‘sneer a bit’ at him or her. She would then ‘up the ante’ by ‘getting snotty’ with the chosen subject, and conclude by rubbishing him or her with a tweet.

I foresaw two major flaws in her lunatic plan, and rather stupidly pointed them out. They were as follows:

1.    A tweeting campaign against any selected village sports personality (should we find one) would be a complete waste of time. Mrs. Trim is the only person in the village with a mobile phone and the village is bereft of mobile phone signal.* Also, there is no internet connection. 
(*Gwynedd council has promised coverage by 2038, or soon thereafter).


2.    We have no ‘sporty’ people in the village. The nearest thing to a sport played by our citizens is rugby, an ancient pastime that has been played by families in the local villages for centuries. For those that have never heard of the game it consists of two teams, 15 per side. They face each other on a field of mud and fog for 80 minutes of violence. The winner is the person left standing with the lowest hospital bill. Only the clumsiest, fattest and least fit of our villagers is allowed to play.

A sly look came into Mrs. Trim’s eye.

“Yes… the village has a rugby team, the ‘Llanaber Lard-butts,” she said, “There must be someone amongst their ranks I can pick on… I seem to recall there’s a young lad from the village plays for them called Mervin ‘Merve the Swerve’ Evans.”

She was correct, yet incorrect.

Correct yet incorrect? What’s this nonsense? (I hear you cry).

She was correct inasmuch as ‘Merve the Swerve’ had been voted the man of the match when Llanaber won the inter-village rugby tournament in Druidellau earlier this year.

She was incorrect inasmuch as Merve Evans was NOT from Llanaber! The young lad had been allowed to join the team as a ‘ringer.’ He does in fact hail from the failing village to our south, Spanibont!

My knees started to tremble.


Collectively the village has been able to keep the lid on this terrible secret since we won the final. Only a select few members of the Llanaber rugby team’s inner circle know of this deception. In my capacity as the man that writes the sports page for the village newsletter I am ‘on the inside’ and therefore complicit in this deceit!

My hands began to shake.

If news leaked out about Merve’s ineligibility to be a member of the Llanaber Lard-butts it would be a scandal of epic proportions. We would have to forfeit the cup! We would be known throughout the land as the ‘village that cheated.’

My stomach began to churn like a front loading washing machine on full spin.

I needed to think on my feet.

I needed to throw Mrs. Trim ‘off the scent’ before she inadvertently exposed our wrong doings and brought shame and ignominy to our little village.

I had no choice.

I offered myself as a sacrifice.

“Er, I play… er, Tiddlywinks,” I stammered out.


“What?” barked Mrs. T.

“Tiddlywinks. You know, the board game where you have to flick plastic discs into a cup. I was very good at it,” I lied, “I won a cup for the village a few years ago.”

“Then you’ll do,” she said.

Disaster for the village had been averted, but what tortures and torments now awaited me?
Mrs. Trim looked at me coldly.

“I take your point about there being no internet and mobile signal, smart-arse, so write this up in your crappy newsletter.”

She then proceeded to scribble something down on a Post-It note which she slapped onto my forehead before flouncing out of my office.

I gently peeled the note from my head (to minimize the pain - the latest batch of Post-Its has quite strong adhesive that can pull the hairs out of ones forehead). On the note was scribbled the following:

‘David Smith was just interviewed by the dumbest person in Llanaber, me! (Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim). I made Smithy look smart, which isn’t easy to do. I like Me!’

I stared at the note.

I don’t think the deranged old bat has quite got the hang of these Twitter spitting contests. I for one do not intend to point out her error, but will do as I have been instructed and print it in the newsletter tonight.

That’s it for now.




Photo by Christopher Johnson  ||  CC-BY-SA-2.0

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