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Stormy's Lawyer Considers Running In 2020 Election To Make Filth Great Again!

Stormy's Lawyer Considers Running In 2020 Election To Make Filth Great Again!

Letter from Llanaber

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

You will not believe what happened today. I was making my way to the office through the fog when an eerie shape formed in front of me. As I drew nearer I recognized who it was straight away. It was none other than the lawyer who had just recently been ‘canned’ by the boss of Llanaber parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. It was the official village pervert, Solly Weinstein (no relation).

Whilst Solly may be currently ‘persona non grata’ with Mrs. Trim and her close associates, I always liked old Solly, and have frequently enjoyed the many documentary style home movies he’d made on the subject of the village maidens’ feminine hygiene issues. I always considered their rental cost of £20 per 2 hour period very reasonable and represented good value for the entertainment provided.

So, I wandered over to Solly to give him my regards. I discovered upon approaching him through the fog that he was not, in fact, on his own. There was a large, athletically built, and in my opinion, overly ‘flash’ young man sitting on the bench nearby. I also saw as I neared that Solly had a ‘bullhorn’ in his hand and was just about to step onto a wooden soapbox.
As soon as he ‘clocked me’ he could not have greeted me in a more warm and friendly manner, giving me his usual hearty welcome.

“Hail fellow well met!” he boomed at me through the fog, “How’s your bum for spots?”
I shook him firmly by the hand and returned his greeting in what I believed to be an equally warm manner, belting out, “Why, you old pervert! Did they let you out early for good behaviour?”

After we had exchanged a few more light hearted insults I pointed at the bullhorn and the soapbox and asked him, “What are you doing here mucking about in the fog with those things?”

He winked at me, tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and said enigmatically, “Testing the water, old son.”


It was at this point the flashy young lad, who, in my opinion seemed to be ‘too far up his own bottom’ stood up, walked over to Solly and shouted in a most haranguing way at him, “When are you going to sort out this bung I’m entitled to then, baldy?”

The young man’s rudeness was dealt with in Solly’s usual affable way. He prodded the young lad firmly in the testicles with his bullhorn. 

Then, as the lad sunk slowly to the sidewalk clutching his goolies, he turned to me and said, “Have you met my new client?”

I told him I didn’t believe I’d had the pleasure.

“Unlike Mrs. Trim then!” he quipped, “She certainly has… and more than once!”

Solly then went on to introduce us.

“David, this is Spanky Dambuster. He’s a cabaret artiste and a veritable wizard at playing ‘hide the sausage.’”

Between squeals of pain the young man offered me his hand to shake. It was not a particularly pleasant experience. The lad’s handshake was limp and wet, like shaking hands with a wilted lettuce leaf salvaged from the dishwasher sump.

But I had heard the name before. 

It was linked with scandal!

I leaned in to Solly’s ear and whispered, “Not the Spanky Dambuster, surely?”

“The very same,” said Solly, “I took him on as a client yesterday, and I fully intend to drag Binky through every court in the land until I’ve cleaned her out. This poor, put-upon young man deserves every penny of the 5% of the bootee he’ll get when I’ve fleeced the old crow. When I tell you, and through your village newsletter everyone else in the world, what this poor slip of a lad had to suffer at the hands of that monster for only £20 a session, your eyes will be so filled with tears of sympathy you won’t be able to watch any of the unlimited amount of women’s health videos I’ll let you borrow for free.”

Then he winked at me and said, “The left hand washes the right, David, know what I mean?”

I did. 


He intended to use my newsletter as his mouthpiece to further his plans to winkle significant sums of money out of my esteemed leader for past indiscretions. In return I could have the use of any number of his DVDs on the subject of ‘feminine hygiene.’

Fair enough.

I agreed to write up a piece for the newsletter that would be even handed. I would  put both sides of the story in a balanced and unbiased way but, as for anything concerning the Druids and their cruel treatment of the travellers, make sure I make it clear that Binky’s a ‘perverted and sexually depraved ratbag’ that deserves a short spell in clink.

I may not have warmed too much to the overly preened ‘sex toy on legs’ but at least the only harm the young lad’s ever done to anyone is through the transfer of his despicable diseases to visiting private areas. Mrs. Trim, however, is a different kettle of fish entirely, and deserves what’s coming.

Business concluded, I started to walk away. Then I remembered his quip earlier, so I turned and asked him, “What’s all this about testing the water?”

He looked me in the eye and said, “I’m here to listen to the great people of Llanaber, explore the fog and see whether it makes sense to run for the parish boss or not. I’m serious about considering it. I haven’t made a decision as to what I’m going to do. I’ll make a decision in the coming weeks. Maybe a bit longer than that.”

“Pardon?” I said, a flummoxed look on my face.

“You heard,” he said.

Yes I had, but I could not believe my ears!

There it was!

Solly Weinstein (no relation), official village pervert, ex-private lawyer to the current parish boss, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, now private lawyer to Spanky Dambuster and therefore in direct conflict with her, i.e. locked in a legal battle over the bung to secure of the rights to his upcoming autobiography ‘Famous Local Parish Council Leaders nicknamed ‘Binky’ I Have Bonked,’ is considering standing against her in the next council leader election in 2020!
I could not believe how long that last sentence was. I had to sit down to catch my breath. This wasn’t big, it was MEGA!

“But why the bullhorn?” I asked.

“I need this to spread the word. There’s no use shouting. The fog dampens the noise down.”

I smiled at my old friend and could not suppress a little giggle at his expense.

“How long have you lived in this village?” I chaffed him.

He looked at me with a bewildered expression on his face.

“You don’t need a bullhorn to get the message out there,” I said, “Just wait a few more moments.”

Sure enough literally seconds later through the swirling fog a huge grey shape appeared rumbling slowly towards us. It was the massive bulk of a woman, and it was carrying a galvanized bucket with a mop sticking out of it. It was the official village gossip, old Mrs. Winfrey.

Solly’s eyes lit up as soon as he recognized her. He punched me playfully on the arm and said, “Thanks old pal. I’ll make sure you get a copy of Mrs. Trim’s ‘the golden shower’ DVD starring ‘Big Boy’ and ‘Wanger.’”

“I’ve seen it,” I said as I set off to continue my journey to the office, giving Solly, Spanky and Mrs. Winfrey a friendly wave as I departed.

Later, at the office, I was passing my esteemed leader’s office door. I heard Mrs. Trim giggling like a schoolgirl. I could not resist popping my head around her office door.

“What’s tickled your chuckle muscles?” I asked her with a smile.

She was at her desk, reading a string of news feed ticker tape. She looked up and said to me, “Read this.”

It was an article from the United States about Stormy Daniels’s lawyer, Michael Avenatti.

Apparently he may run against Trump in the 2020 US presidency election.

“Old cheese-ball head’s deep in the dottle if he does,” Mrs. Trim chuckled.

What a strange world we live in, eh dear reader?

That’s it for now.



And we've uncovered a bonus Letter from Llanaber!

‘Unhinged’ Sacked Administration Insider Threatens ‘Tell-All’ Book Shock-Horror

An absolute bombshell! Old Mrs. Winfrey, the official village gossip, has been sacked from her day job of cleaning the parish council offices. She was summarily dismissed on the spot by one of the councillors, old Thomas the gravedigger (honorary – the village doesn’t have a graveyard) for unacceptable ‘mucking about in the corridor.’ 

She is threatening ‘not to go quietly’ and claims she has written a book, a ‘warts and all’ exposé about the ‘goings on’ she has seen first-hand within the parish council offices. She claims to have recordings that will back up her fanciful assertions. 

She is threatening to expose the boss of the parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim, as being a ‘fattist’ saying she has Mrs. Trim referring to her blubby-hubby, Lord Justice Arbuthnot Trim (formerly known as fat Leonard), as ‘fatty fun-balls.’

Let me give you the background.

Yesterday evening, after the parish council meeting had finished, we all traipsed off home depressed as usual. As we left, Mrs. Winfrey was just arriving with her galvanised buckets and mops.

Before she had the chance to collar one of us with her opening gossip gambit, “Have you heard the latest,” we all did a body swerve and slipped out the rear entrance.

Mrs. Winfrey, thinking we had all ‘buggered off home,’ set about her usual routine.

However, unbeknown to her or us, old Thomas the gravedigger (honorary) had nipped into the restroom for a quick ‘whaz’ but had inadvertently nodded off mid-stream. This is not unusual for the old codger. He frequently has to ‘spend a penny’ up to a dozen times a night, so is constantly sleep deprived.


It transpired that the old duffer was rudely awoken by a deafening racket and clattering noise in the corridor outside the restroom. He quickly shook off the remaining drops, adjusted his ‘dress,’ and ran outside into the corridor to see what on earth could be the cause of the terrible din. What he saw was to shock him to the core. 

The ghastly racket was being made by old Mrs. Winfrey! 

Apparently, thinking the building was empty, the old girl had stripped to her underwear and ‘blackened up’ the whole of her body from head to toe, including the ‘hidden corners,’ using a tin of ‘spicy’ black shoe polish bought from the village barber’s shop. On each of her feet she was wearing an empty galvanised bucket, and she was using an inverted mop as a pretend microphone. There, in the corridor outside the Gent’s urinals, the old girl was singing ‘gangsta-rap songs,’ the lyrics of which she has subsequently claimed to have written herself. Mrs. Winfrey was singing ‘at full throttle,’ i.e. the equivalent of ten on the Richter scale. 

To make matters worse, she was significantly raising the decibels level by cavorting in what can only be described as a parody of an African tribal dance, lifting each foot up alternatively and crashing it down onto the tiled floor as hard as she could, in time with the rhythms of her songs. 

Councilor Thomas had no choice in the matter. Mrs. Winfrey had transgresses the following council rules, all of which are dismissable offences:

Blackening up on council property.

Falsification of ethnicity.

Wearing unacceptable footwear on council tiles.

Singing with deliberate intent to appear happy during office hours (technically they run 24/7 for all council employees).

Using council equipment for personal pleasure (the mop and buckets).

Dancing around in ‘scants’ in a public place (the offices are classed as a public space in our constitution).

Using offensive language (her so-called gangsta-rap lyrics included the words ‘missionary, ‘fatha-mucker,’ and ‘antidisestablishmentarianism.’)

She was sacked on the spot.

Mrs. Winfrey was allowed the courtesy of a quick shower to remove the spicy polish then told to leave her buckets, mops and other cleaning accoutrements in the storeroom, and then get out and never darken the council offices doorsteps again.

At the time she promised to go quietly, but she bumped into Mrs. Trim’s ex-lawyer and official village pervert Solly Weinstein (no relation) on her way home. Within moments of old Mrs. Winfrey telling him her ‘tale of woe’ he had signed her up as a new client.

I’m sure that it’s Solly himself driving this outrage behind the scenes. He and Mrs. Trim are no longer the ‘partners in crime’ they were so recently and there is a lot of bad blood between them.

So it was no surprise to me when I saw the press release from Solly on behalf of Mrs. Winfrey in which she claims to have a book coming out soon that will ‘blow the pants off’ Mrs. Trim’s whiter-than-white image. 

The title of the tome is: ‘Unhinged: An Insider Account of the Trim Shite House.’

Surprisingly, Mrs. Trim is not only shaken but stirred by the news. 

Her first reaction was to tell me to nip round to see the old ‘gabble-chops’ and quietly offer her a bung of £15 a month to keep her blabbering pie-hole shut. But  before I could set off she told me not to, rambling on about her not having signed something called an NDA, then denying ever asking me to do it in the first place. She went on to make the following comments about the ex-cleaner and, despite never having read it, the upcoming book (and here I quote her verbatim):

“It’s riddled with lies and false accusations. It’s sad that a disgruntled former Council House employee is trying to profit off these false attacks, and even worse that the media would now give her a platform, after not taking her seriously when she had only positive things to say about the Parish boss during her time ‘mopping out’ for the administration.”

“What media?” I naively asked.

“You, you pillock! If Solly offers you another bung of free borrows of his mucky DVDs in exchange for you publicize her tawdry work of fiction in your newsletter, you’d better say no, or I’ll make your life a living hell!”

Then she looked me straight in the eye and asked me this:

“Do you believe that I am fattist?”

I told her in all honesty that I did not for one moment believe she was. I pointed out that it was beyond any shadow of a doubt that her husband, Leonard, was a mountain of lard in a barely human shape. The very fact that she remains married to the living ‘tub of tallow’ would prove in any court of law that she holds no such prejudice towards the ‘fuller figure’ choice of body shape.

She leaned in and whispered in my ear.

“Leonard’s got glands.” 

She said it to me as if she was allowing me into an intimate secret she and her tubby-hubby had kept the lid on for years.

“Haven’t we all,” I added, not knowing quite what to say in response.

I didn’t think it was the right moment to remind her that the gluttonous lard-barrel is a compulsive eater and consumes his own weight in chicken fat alone twice a day.


I slipped quietly from her office and nipped out into the fog for a breath of damp air. There I quite literally bumped into Solly Weinstein (no relation). He was heading into the council office with a manuscript tucked under his arm.

I greeted him with my customary warmth and, while we were both scrabbling around on the sidewalk picking up the sheets of paper that I’d knocked out of his arm, I asked where he was going.

“I’m off to make the old battle-axe ‘bob’ herself,” he said, tapping the side of the now reassembled manuscript.

I bade him the best of luck and he went on his way.

Who knows where this sorry tale will lead us, dear reader. 

More scandal?

More enmity between Mrs. T. and her erstwhile favourite bagman, Solly?

A bigger ‘bung-for-life’ for old Mrs. Winfrey? 

Or, heaven forbid, a recording contract for the mad old gossip’s ‘gangsa-rap’ songs? 

I can’t bear to even think about it, especially the last one.

That’s it for now.




Photo by Luke Harold  ||  CC-BY-CC0 1.0

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