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Trump Herds His Sheep At Rally

Trump Herds His Sheep At Rally

Letter from Llanaber

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

My life has become a living hell because the boss of the village parish council, my esteemed leader Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, is obsessed with mimicking the antics of that comb-over cretin Trump. If you are a regular reader of my ‘Letter from Llanaber’ you will no doubt be familiar with some of the bizarre and often brainless tasks I have been given by ‘the Boss’ to carry out. However, this time I believe she has reached a new low in ‘cretinicity.’

Let me fill you in with the circumstances.
I was putting my bike in the parish council cycle rack this morning when I was clattered around the ankles by a galvanized bucket wielded by none other than the official village gossip, Mrs. Winfrey. She had just finished her shift cleaning the council offices and was on her way home, but couldn’t resist the urge to collar me for a ‘gab.’
It started with her usual opening gambit, “Have you heard the latest?” 

Obviously I hadn’t. It was six o’clock in the bloody morning and I’d only been up for ten minutes.

“Go on,” I said, in the hope that she would literally do that, i.e. go on and take her galvanised buckets & mops and bugger off! 

It was not to be. 


She bent in close to me so she could whisper in my ear. There then followed another of her long gossip blurts that consisted of several stories all conflated into one. I will recount as accurately as I can what she said:

“Mrs. T. is spitting feathers this morning because Donald Trump drove his rally car to a place called Wilkes-Barre in Transylvania where a crowd of red-necks cheered him for colluding with Russia and lowering their taxes and stealing the immigrants’ kids to make them build a wall to keep out the extra-terrestrials that want to stop Putin from fiddling the mid-terms over in America.”

I knew it was all bollocks but in amongst it was something that made the hairs on the back of my neck bristle as if in an arctic wind.

Trump had had another rally.

Trump had once again stood up in front of a hall full of the ‘escort-bonking bozo’s death’s head fanatical followers so he could wallow in their adulation. 

I knew it wouldn’t be long before Mrs. Trim would demand the same. As it turned out ‘wouldn’t be long’ turned out to be the time it took to take off my cycle clips and wander up to my office.
There she was.


In her hand was the news feed ticker tape with the true version of what happened at Wilkes-Barre.

“They’ve given him an ‘A plus plus’” she said.

“Who?” I naively asked.

“Trump, you dunce!” she said.

“Is that a type of battery?” I asked.

“Are you trying to be funny?” she said, “It’s for Trump’s performance to date as President.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny. I just did not know that there was a graduated scale for the performance of a President.

“Yes, but bear in mind this score would have been given by a hall full of his acolytes, so it’s hardly an objective measure.”

This did not go down well with Mrs. Trim who thinks the very sun itself emanates from the butt-hole of the anorexia denier and ‘escort bonker / bunger.’ 

A heavy paperweight bounced off my head.


“Where’s my rally? I want one!” she screamed at me, “Get it organised for tonight. I want a huge crowd of fanatical Trim supporters, some reporters for me to rubbish and shout ‘fake news’ at, some giveaways for the dolts, ‘Make Llanaber Great Again’ hats and balloons with old mother Clinton’s face on them and the strap line ‘lock her up’, stuff like that, and a heckler I can get Mateo the Knife to bundle from the room for a good kicking in the alley outside.” 

“You’re asking a lot at fairly short notice,” I meekly protested, “There are some inhibitors to a successful outcome.”

“Like what?” she said.

Where to start!?

I did my best. 

The conversation that followed went along these lines:

Me: The village hall only has capacity for 15 people and the fire regulations only allow them in five at a time.

Mrs. T: I will give special dispensation for one night only to waive the fire regs and allow up to ten thousand attendees.

Me: Even if we could have the merchandise you asked for produced at such short notice, we don’t have any money left in the village hospital’s budget to plunder. Nowhere in the county sells novelty hats and the Druids bought all the balloons in the county to water-bomb the Travelers last February when it was 30 degrees below zero.

Mrs. T: Take a £1 coin out of petty cash. Get the bus to Spanibont. Pop into the pub there (The Abandon All Hope) and raid their condom machine. Blow them up using your gob and write the slogans on with a marker pen. That should do

Me: Where will I find a heckler? If Mateo the Knife is in the room no one would dare even squeak at you.


Mrs. T: You look like a heckler to me. You’ll do.

(I had no choice but to play my ace card)

Me: No one will come… Nobody likes you. Everyone in the village thinks you’re a ratbag. If nobody turns up you risk getting a score of ‘Z minus minus.’

Mrs. T: Tell them to like me and to turn up when I tell them to.

Me: HOW!!!! (I was getting a little desperate at this stage).

Mrs. T: I have every confidence in you, or the bloke I’ll replace you with tomorrow.

There it was. I had no choice but to follow the orders I had been given or lose the job I love. I trudged slowly back to my office wondering what on earth I could do to fulfil my brief to the satisfaction of the mad old bag.

It was when I was on the bus to Spanibont that an idea struck me.



There are a lot of them in the village.


The perpetual fog was particularly thick that day.


An ‘open air’ rally!


Need I say more?

At eight o’clock that evening I reported to Mrs. Trim that everything was in place for her rally. It was to be a candle-lit affair and because there were so many attendees I’d abandoned the idea of the village hall in favour of the beach. I had temporarily re-named the beach Wilkes-Barre, Llanaber, in honour of the great man himself.  I reminded her that there was likely to be flash photographers and that she should wear dark glasses in case she gets dazzled by all the flashing lights.

At ten minutes past eight, Mrs. Trim, Mateo the Knife and I left the parish council building heading for the beach. Mrs. T. was wearing her dark glasses and clutching a wedge of papers on which was written her speech.

The fog had thickened again. Visibility was down to four inches.

The event was an enormous success.

Mrs. Trim did not recognize the difference between a huge cheering crowd and a flock of dumb sheep bleating. I believe this is also true of Donald Trump.

After the event I thanked Mateo for making the ‘good kicking in the alley’ a brief affair, and, as the ambulance whisked me off to the village hospital as fast as the fog would allow, I told him to report back to Mrs. T. that the crowd had voted her parish council leadership performance to date a resounding ‘A plus to infinity.’

That should keep the mad old hag off my back till the bandages come off.

That’s it for now.




Photo by Gage Skidmore from Peoria, AZ, United States of America  ||  CC-BY-SA-2.0

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