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There is a public house in Carmarthenshire which, for the sake of this tale, we shall call the Tight Fart.  The Tight Fart has a car park alongside it and both facilities are presided over by the Landlord whom we shall call Unfortunate.  Now the Tight Fart’s car park has the usual “for use by Patrons only” clause which is fair enough.  However, errant drivers beware; for if you are foolish enough to assume the marked out bays may be stopped in for anything longer than 10 seconds you will suffer the mighty wrath of the landlord.

Once you have realised your heinous crime and you then attempt to manoeuvre from the Tight Fart’s parking area you will find your egress blocked by our opportunity-seeking landlord who, you will notice, has sprung, gazelle-like, into action to block your egress with his own vehicle.  I say “sprung, gazelle-like”, but I fear I am heaping remarkable feats of speedy dexterity, manoeuvrability and general responsiveness on our chump unfairly; so I take that bit back.  Sorry.  Anyway, where were?  Oh yes, “Ye shall not pass”.  That is to say, you shall not pass until you have crossed our hero’s chubby palm with silver.  Well let’s get really specific shall we?  You won’t be allowed to move your vehicle unless you cough up five pounds, yes, five quid.

You have, my foolish driver friend, fallen into Carmarthenshire’s darkest secret - the Tight Fart’s Extortion Racket; a system so cunning, Al Capone would have taken notes had he been brave enough to venture near this venerable establishment.  Behaving like a super-sized Trapdoor spider, Mr Landlord sits watching the Tight Fart’s car park for an innocent victim to stumble into his lair.  He will continue sitting (by far his most energetic activity) watching as you get out and seek advice as to where you may or may not park.  But he will not venture his advice; he will not make himself known to you and inform you of the Tight Fart’s car parking rules.  Oh no.  He will wait until you have wandered far enough away seeking advice from others before leaping into action.  Oh I’m sorry, there I go again.  Before heaving himself into action at oil-tanker turning speeds; heaving forward to enact his money-making enterprise.

So what do you do when confronted by this charmless fellow, whose opening gambit when you return is to accuse you of being a Crymych Cowboy?  (Perhaps he had a bad experience in Pembrokeshire as a child?  Like a walk or something.)  Well you can try pointing out that you’re from Canada over to enjoy the beautiful Welsh hospitality and were unaware of this rule (cue anti-Canadian comments from the Tight Fart’s representative).  You could try that, but tough.  It won’t wash.  You are an illegal parker and you must be admonished; you must suffer the trial and retribution that the guaranteed conviction from the Tight Fart’s resident law maker and enforcer will administer.  Pay up or he will just leave his car there, after all, where’s he got to go?  McDonald’s is too far and Burger King won’t be open yet.  Which reminds me, did I mention that it was 8.45 in the morning?  Yep – no other souls around just 16 cycling club members, two cars (one in a car park space; one reversed right up the first’s bumper) and The Man.  Top Dog.  This small riverside village's own Vito Corleone, the Godfather.  El Lump.

So the situation is this: you have carelessly placed your vehicle in a spot, in which you have no right to be unless you’re a patron of the Tight Fart or willing to pay five pounds.  You cannot leave because the Landlord says you can’t; his car’s been placed deliberately in the way to help you understand the Tight Fart rule book.  The Tight Fart is not open so the option to become a patron does not exist.  You don’t want to pay £5 because you don’t want to park on the Tight Fart’s car park (especially now that you’ve been up close and personal with your delightful host who has done very little to endear himself to humanity).  All of a sudden the parking fee has become a release fee.  No signage in the vicinity to this effect however; are we getting into a grey legal area?  I would ask Mr Personality, but I fear the only Bar he is aware of is the one that prevents him falling forwards and crushing his drinking clientele (I’m sure someone frequents the Tight Fart).

So this, dear reader, is an impasse.  The idiocy of the argument emanating from the Tight Fart’s most prominent staff member has escalated it seems.  Now Al Capone’s long lost manure dump is claiming that the £5 parking/release/extortion fee goes straight to the Air Ambulance charity.  We’re all for that.  But why did he not mention this earlier?  Perhaps it was the fact that we were phoning the police for some adjudication on the postion that the Racket-meister felt we should be made aware of his altruistic intent; his only-raising-money-for-good-causes approach to car parking.

First on the scene from Dyfed-Powys’ finest is a PCSO.  His heart sinks when he sees who’s involved in the fracas.  “The man is known for his temper,” the PCSO mumbles half to us, half to himslef as he shuffles reluctantly over to discuss the situation with the assembled members of the village vegtable patch.  The assembled cycling club members are told not to worry and go off for a ride.  This is not before our Friend to All Mankind has commented that one of our members “is not from round here”.  No, he’s from Northern Ireland actually; perhaps you’d care to insult that race as well?  Is no creed safe from the Master Race that are clearly developing their own Final Solution from the depths of the Tight Fart?

We return several hours later to meet the now assembled ranks of police officers engaged on the matter.  Is this now becoming a race-hate crime we wonder?  A conclusion is reached and, in keeping with the best traditions of Enid Blyton, lashings of ginger beer help soothe the situation. We must frequent the pubic [sic] house and spend cash to qualify for patronage.  A glass of pop is purchased from the Tight Fart.  We are now officially patrons of a suspected racist establishment.  With this in mind we are keen to leave, quickly.

Our new best friend is going somewhere in his car.  Someone suggests to him that he has a reputation that’s known in the area.  Mr Defensive and Lacking in Self-Confidence starts to mouth something from the comfort of his driving seat...  We ignore him and wave him on his way.  Maccy D’s must be open now then.

Now it may be that Mine Host of the Tight Fart is an exceptional landlord, a genuine ‘people-person’, loved by all and regularly engaged in good deeds for the benefit of everyone at the exclusion of no-one.  You know the scene: happy families wave at him from passing cars, small children run up to him to receive a pat on the head and a small lollipop, songbirds rest on his shoulder as he skips through his community spreading joy and happiness wherever he treads; flowers bursting to life and dogs wagging their tails, etc, etc...  This might absolutely be the case.

However, to our simple eyes, this morning was an abject lesson in crass rudeness, stubbornness and a complete lack of empathy to the consideration of mutually beneficial compromises.  For example, on our sagacious pub landlord’s doorstep was a large group of cyclists,  members of a club that now exceeds 70 in total numbers.  Connected to the club are various other organisations, businesses, families and friends; you get the picture and suffice to say it is our complete and unequivocal recommendation that this pitiful little man and his so-called business practices be avoided all cost.  This will be our message to people we care about and would not want exposed to this silly little (Ha! That's a laugh) man.

At least with us and our associates giving the Tight Fart a wide berth, our cheeky chappy of a landlord will have plenty of time to polish his Landlord of Year, Exceptional Customer Services and Pub of the Year awards.  Good luck to him and his approach to life.  And his car park.  Idiot.

Of course we’ve not detailed the actual names of people or places here.  There is an outside chance that Senor Blobbo may have an acquaintance who can read.  If you need clarification as to the location of this Carmarthenshire version of Fawlty Towers, just ask...

Now then.  Who’s gonna print off a copy of this and send it to a) The Tivy Side, b) The Carmarthen Journal and c) the infamous establishment itself...