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Kneeling Protest Sportsmen ‘All As Dumb As A Brick’ Shocker

Kneeling Protest Sportsmen ‘All As Dumb As A Brick’ Shocker

Letter from Llanaber

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

I am out of step with most of the people in Great Britain on one specific point. I HATE our national anthem. Whilst I admit I am a Republican and would like to see all members of the British royal freeloaders get ‘proper’ jobs (I have a list) this is not my issue with our anthem. 

Then what is? (I hear you cry)

I’ll tell you.

Firstly, the tune. 

It’s a dirge. It drags on and on. You can’t dance to it. It brings you no pleasure when you have to whistle it whilst sitting on the toilet when the lock’s broken, because one is obliged to stand throughout. Whereas whistling for example ‘Keep Young and Beautiful’ cheers you up a bit as well as saving you a great deal of embarrassment should the wife’s maiden aunt barge in for a tinkle when you’re mid-plop.

Then there’s the song’s lyrics, principally its subject matter.

I’m sure God is a nice enough entity and would put him, her or itself out to save any living thing. So why should the Queen call upon all her subjects at every stately occasion, sporting event, or posh nob’s piss-up to sing a song to the Almighty specifically to save her own scrawny neck? 

What’s more her song doesn’t ask the Lord above to save any of the hordes of parasitic ass-holes that cling on to the Queen’s butt like carbuncles to filch themselves comfy privileged lives at the taxpayers’ expense. The Queen can’t think much about that bunch of chinless free-loaders. But then who does?

Where is this twaddle going? (I hear you ask).

It is this. 

Llanaber now has its own village anthem!

Yes, dear reader, it’s true.


The leader of the parish council, Mrs Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim decided at the last council meeting that it was about time we had one, so I was given the job of plundering the hospital budget for £10, and commissioning a poet / songwriter to come up with something appropriate. This was her specific brief, and I quote verbatim:

“It has to be something that sings the praises of someone important… say, for example, the parish leader, for her brains, bravery and stunning good looks… and don’t forget her wisdom. It has to mention ALL the village attractions so anybody hearing it will not be able to resist taking an expensive holiday here in, oh, I dunno… say, for example a converted room above a sweet shop. It must at some point mention one of the village shops, oh, what could that be?... say for example Nanny Trim’s Sweets ‘N’ Stuff. Write it up in your crappy newsletter. Tell the plebs that the village now has an anthem and it is now a law that it MUST be sung at the start of any sporting event, council meeting or official ‘do.’ Now bugger off and get it back to me by tomorrow lunchtime (10:00am in Llanaber).”

Llanaber has no poets. Nor does it have any musicians.

I decided to have a go myself. I ran to my office, slammed the door shut and set to work with my pad and stubby pencil. In less than ten minutes I had the thing buttoned down. This is what I took to my esteemed leader as my proposal for the village anthem. It is to be sung to the tune of  my favourite song, ‘Keep Young and Beautiful:’


Binky Trim is a se-xy babe
She’s so brainy and so ve-ry brave
She’s very wise (and calls me Dave)
And she has a sweet shop*


Above the shop she has a room for rent
The best twenty quid you’ve e-ver spent
Better value than a crappy tent
Just avoid the sink-hole


Llan-aber is a lovely spot
It’s nice and foggy and it’s never hot
With scabby donkeys and a dodgy slot-
Ma-chine ar-cade near the beach

*Nanny Trim’s Sweets ‘N’ Stuuuuuuuff – to be sung in close harmony at the end as per the conclusion of a barbershop quartet ditty.

Can you imagine, dear reader, ALL 84 villagers singing this anthem ‘at full throttle’ at the opening of a yard sale? 


I was so proud my heart was fit to burst. 

I pocketed the ten pound note then sprinted up to Mrs. T’s office at the aforementioned time with my creation.

She was not just impressed… She was VERY impressed!

“Who wrote it?” she asked.

“Er, a passing itinerant Irish musician called Davy O’Smittigan,” I lied.

“I need to meet this genius,” she said.

“No can do,” I lied again, “He’s passed on.”

“Then run and get him back!” she said.

“I mean ‘passed on’ as in snuffed it.” I lied thrice, “He was so engrossed in playing this song on his banjo he wasn’t watching where he was going and walked straight into the sink hole.”

Hook, line and sinker, dear reader, hook line and sinker!

By lunchtime that day I had circulated the anthem to every single villager and most of the married ones. The rules were clear. The anthem was to be sung at every sporting event and major piss-up. Standing looking skywards, along with the holding of ones hand over ones heart was to be mandatory throughout the anthem.

The first test of my anthem was to be the opening match of the season for the village rugby team, the Llanaber Lard-Asses. I was in attendance with my pad and stubby pencil ready to report the event for the newsletter. Also in attendance was every member of the village council and selected village dignitaries (i.e. her fat husband, Leonard, her new lawyer, Ruby ‘The Rottweiler’ Guillotini and Putin Lotzadosh. Solly Weinstein (no relation) would have been invited but he is currently ‘persona-non-grata’ with Mrs. T. for reasons too numerous to mention here. 

The lads from the team were told to haul the piano from the church hall onto the pitch but it was too heavy, and the pitch too muddy, and nobody in the village can play it. So this was abandoned in favour of giving each of the village maidens a Kazoo. I briefly ran through the fundamentals of the tune with them and, as soon as they’d got the hang of the basic melody, Mrs. Trim called for everyone to stand for the village anthem.

It was then that it happened.


All the assembled stood and looked skywards, hands over their hearts… All except the two rugby teams! (The Llanaber Lard-Asses and their opposition on the day, the Druidellau Dorks).
To a man both teams remained sitting on their butts in the mud throughout the anthem!

I cringed with embarrassment.

The maidens’ Kazoos slowly petered out.

We all stood there in the fog transfixed, all eyes on our team, the fifteen sportsmen from our village butt-squatting in defiance of the anthem.

Deathly silence! You could have heard a pin drop onto the mud.

Mrs. Trim went puce with rage. She stormed off the pitch and ran back to her office. I followed in her wake.

There, she went straight to her office and scribbled out a note. She thrust it into my hand and ordered me to have it ‘published in the crappy newsletter’ that very evening.

Outside her office I slowly read the note (yes, I’m still a slow reader). I reproduce it for you below:

‘The LLA (Llanaber Lard-Asses) players are at it again - taking a knee when they should be standing proudly for the village Anthem. Numerous players, from different teams, wanted to show their ‘outrage’ at something that most of them are unable to define. They make a fortune doing what they love. Be happy, be cool! A rugby game, that fans are paying soooo much money to watch and enjoy, is no place to protest. Most of that money goes to the players anyway. Find another way to protest. Stand proudly for your village Anthem or be Suspended Without Pay!’

I knew instantly this was another plagiarized tweet from Trump about his on-going battle with US sporting stars and their campaign ‘Black Lies Matter.’

I could not help myself. I immediately burst back into my esteemed leader’s office and pointed out the flaws in her message thus:

They can’t be ‘at it again.’ This was an inaugural event for the anthem.

They weren’t kneeling, they were butt-squatting.

The Llanaber anthem has no relevance to the Druidellau team. They were entitled to remain butt-squatting.

They don’t ‘make a fortune doing something they love.’ They don’t get paid.

Spectating is free. Nobody is mad enough to pay to watch the LLA.

There are only 15 fat blokes able to run in the village. If we suspended any one of the players we wouldn’t have a team.

She looked me up and down coldly.

“Okay, smart-arse, then find out why they did it!” she snapped at me.

This I did. 

I returned immediately to the pitch where the final whistle had just blown on the game. I collared the team captain for this season (Ifor Gottenit). When he’d stopped wheezing I came straight to the point and asked him why he and his team had not stood and sung the village anthem.

“Was it an act of defiance in the face of a corrupt administration? Was it a statement that represented the common man’s refusal to rise up out of the mud and sing homage to an establishment that lives high on the back of their labors?” I asked.

“What anthem?” he said.

“The new village anthem!” I said aghast, “It was written up in detail in the village newsletter.”

“What newsletter?” he said.

It did not take but a moment’s further interrogation to establish that not only he, but all his cohorts to a man were each as dumb as a brick. (Where have I heard that phrase before?)
Trump may have his issues in the US with sports personalities defying the establishment with their kneeling protests but at least they have a cause. It’s not because they’re all as thick as concentrated high density sheep’s dottle… or are they?

That’s it for now.



And we've uncovered a bonus Letter from Llanaber!

Scruffy Fat Bloke Makes Dull Exposé Movie about ‘The Boss’ – Fears of Being Bored To Point of Self-Harm Rocket

Terrible news! I can hardly bring myself to tell you about it. I’ve been conned big style and as a result I’ll probably lose my job, or even worse, my life!

Let me give you the circumstances.

A few weeks ago I was enjoying a quiet cup of tea in Trevor the Trot’s Trattoria when this big fat slob of a bloke wobbles in. I was the only customer in at the time so he wandered over and sat beside me and asked if I knew anything about Llanaber and the parish council. He said he’d heard it was getting a little bit ‘hot’ for the parish council boss, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, and asked if the rumours about her were true.

“What?” I half shouted, half laughed, “She’s in it up to her false eyebrows, and sinking!”

“Let me buy you lunch,” said the stranger, a broad grin forming on his face.

This he did, and not just the ‘all you can eat spaghetti buffet (it’s just spaghetti),’it was the full works including pudding, coffee and a free toothpick.

He asked me some very searching questions.

He plied me with a half pint of the local brew, ‘journey into space.’ Despite knowing it’s not for drinking but actually for rubbing on donkey saddles to improve the butt grip, I stupidly downed it in one long gulp* to big myself up as ‘a hard man’ in front of the stranger. (* It’s better that way, you only get the burning sensation and the blisters, not the taste.)

My tongue became loosened (literally).

I fear I may have been a little indiscreet.

I told him all about the troubles that are dogging Mrs. Trim’s administration since she fiddled the election in 2016 and took office.

He flattered me. He told me his ‘dear old Ma’ would love to hear my funny stories about Llanaber as she’d once been on holiday near here at a place called Bogbourne, and would I mind if he ‘took a few pics’ on his cell phone to show her?


“Bogbourne,” I recall shouting out aloud, “Don’t talk to me about Bogbourne! It’s a bloody scandal!”

I told him all about how the dreadful place had been annexed by the gangster that owns the slot machine arcade on the seafront, Putin Lotzadosh, and how ‘no-backbone Binky’ had done nothing to stop him.

“Why don’t we pop over there and take a few little ‘piccies’ to show my dear old Ma?” he said. He was all teeth and charm.

I agreed to take him there.

I was a fool. 

En route I told him all about how we store our ‘out of datecode’ old codgers in huts on stilts in the quicksand ridden dump till they ‘drop off the twig.’

I showed him Putin Lotzadosh’s compound in the estuary where he stores his life sized models of tanks, warships and missiles. 

“Interesting,” said the man-mountain of blubber when he saw them, “He wouldn’t mind if I took a few piccies, would he?”

It was a rhetorical question. He took the snaps anyway.

While he was clicking away (and taking videos!), I stupidly mentioned that Putin’s thugs had been smearing ‘unknown substances’ on the old duffers’ front doors to ‘help them on their journeys towards the thinner end of the twigs.’

“Fascinating,” he said, taking more ‘piccies,’ this time of the front doors of the huts on stilts.

“He’s from Rufflotia, this Putin?” asked the porcine stranger, “What’s that like?”

“Don’t get me started on Rufflotia!” I said.

I recall spouting a lengthy polemic aimed at the Rufflotians, their expansionist ambitions and the fact that the only thing stopping them was the combined village military force, TARTS (Together Against Rufflotian Territory Stealing). I then rather indiscreetly went on to rubbish my esteemed leader for her attempts to scupper this coalition, a move that, if she succeeded, would unleash the ‘beasts from the east’ and put all our western liberal villages in jeopardy.
“Mrs. Trim wants to disband TARTS, does she? Interesting… Would you mind saying that all again while I’m filming you?” asked ‘Mr. Piggy.’

“Of course I don’t mind,” I stupidly said, then added, “Mrs. Trim does everything the ‘baldy Bolshevik’ tells her to do because she’s being blackmailed by him.”

I may have gone on to tell the likeable ‘lard barrel’ my suspicions about Putin having my esteemed leader in his pocket because of the secretly filmed DVD we’ve all enjoyed watching of her, and her two male ‘escorts’ playing the golden shower game in a Rufflotian hotel bedroom while her chubby-hubby, Leonard (Lord Justice Arbuthnot Trim) was laid low with a nasty bout of haemorrhoids.

“But she still won the 2016 election fair and square, though,” said the affable human-Weeble.
“Fair and square!... Like hell she did!” I seem to recall saying.


I may have then gone on to tell the ‘hog-man hybrid’ about the ‘help’ Mrs. T. received from the ‘bear with no hair.’ I have a vague recollection of telling him about the dirty tricks; the fake e-mails spread around the village by Putin’s henchman, Egor Blimic; the ‘lock her up’ hate campaign; the bunging of certain persons who shall remain nameless - and here I’m referring to the famous sausage hider and cabaret artist, Spanky Dambuster - that may have provided ‘specialist services’ to Mrs. Trim and were paid ‘hush money’ in the form of bungs through her bent lawyer, Solly Weinstein (no relation)  for the publishing rights to his soon to be published autobiography, ‘Famous Local Parish Council Leaders nicknamed ‘Binky’ I Have Bonked.’

“Do you mind if I get all that down on video?” he asked me.

I did not. I was only too happy to oblige.

What a fool I was, dear reader.

I was charmed by a heady mixture of flattery, a spaghetti lunch with trimmings, and half a pint of wallop into letting these dangerous indiscretions slip from between my otherwise tightly zipped lips.

I was duped BIG STYLE!

How do I know? (I hear you cry).

When I saw him off at the bus stop in Llanaber high street he gave his dirty little game of subterfuge away. As I was about to wave him ‘cheerio,’ he took me by the hand, shook it firmly and thanked me for all my help.

“It’s because of good men like you that are not afraid to speak truth to power, whatever the consequences and personal sacrifices, that democracy stands a thin hope of survival,” he said.
I was flummoxed.

What on earth was he talking about?


Personal sacrifices?

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

I told him.

“What’s yours?” I asked.

He did not tell me. Instead he took out a business card and popped it into the top pocket of my jacket.

“I’ve just finished one about Trump, Fahrenheit 11/9,” he called out to me as the bus pulled away, “It’ll be in a cinema near you soon. I’m calling the next one, Fahrenheit 2016 – Binky Trim - the last ever parish council leader.”


A moment later and the bus was out of sight.

“I’ve just finished one what?” I cried out to the disappearing bus. It was too late. He had gone.

I took out the card he had pushed into my top pocket and read it slowly (I’m a slow reader). I reproduce it for you below:

‘Michael Moore – Documentary Maker, Iconoclast, and lover of pies.’

I quietly crapped myself.

What had I done?!

If Mrs. Trim, or heaven forbid Putin Lotzadosh, or both find out about my little slips of the tongue, then I’m as good as finished in Llanaber. However, the one thing that might work in my favor is this. The mountain of tallow said, “It’ll be in a cinema near you soon.”

The nearest cinema to Llanaber is the other side of a very large mountain and has yet to progress beyond silent movies.

Nobody in this area will ever hear about his crappy exposé film… fingers crossed.

That’s it for now.




Photo by Keith Allison from Hanover, MD, USA  ||  CC-BY-SA-2.0

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