“Hair today and Gone tomorrow” or “The Last Trump”

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I’ve been watching Trump quite a lot recently. After all, I’m a Brit – and if he becomes President, the chances of Europe turning into a nuclear wasteland will edge up quite a few points. So I have a vested interest here. I don’t know anything about his policies (mind you, I suspect he doesn’t either.) I’m interested in the superficial stuff- the way he talks, his gestures…his hair.

It’s silly hair…candyfloss hair…a wispy concoction held together by StrongFast hairspray. Nobody believes it. It’s a joke, and everyone knows it…including, I think, him. His hair is like a red flag to a bull. “ Go on ! says his hair, “ I’m silly hair ! OK ? You wanna make something of it pal ?” His hair is in your face, in a manner of speaking.

His walk. The other candidates walk badly, all of them. They shuffle onto the stage, trying not to trip over their own toes, and scurry to the safety of their lecterns. But Trump walks in slowly, deliberately, head up, checking out the crowd. A gladiator stalking into the arena, a professional wrestler pacing round the ring, seeking whom he might devour. The more I think of it, the more I realise that’s it ! Unable to present himself as he really is, he borrows massively from the theatrics of the ring. His opponents are entirely unimportant – he plays to the crowd, telling them what they want to hear, shocking them with profanity ( Ooo !Doris ! Isn’t it lovely to be shocked by profanity !) He feels their unarticulated pain.

Bawling, wheedling, cajoling, he persuades them to follow their hearts and check their brains in at the door. Vocally he’s good, very good – he runs from full-on tortured bull to creepy uncle – and he uses his hands – stabbing out a finger, lips belled out like a trumpet, then making a funny, odd little gesture, circling his thumb and forefinger- it’s almost feminine.

 

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No-one could deny he’s a brilliant entertainer.

But has he got the chops for The Real Job ?

It’s 4am. A red phone in the White House Situation Room starts ringing. The Duty Security Officer picks it up. One of the Northern radar stations has picked up what looks like a multiple missile strike from over the Pole. On the other hand, it could be a flock of geese, or the Moon- it’s happened before. The Duty Officer dashes up stairs to the Presidential bedroom and bangs on the door.
“ Mr President ! Mr President !”
A grunt which sounds like “ What the f..”
The man goes inside, tells his story to the humped form in the bed.
“ What are we going to do, Mr President ? What are we going to do ?
The President reaches out an arm to switch on the light. His pink jowls are shadowed with stubble, stringy yellow hair hangs round his face. He looks bewildered.
“ What are we going to do ?”

 

What’s in a name ?

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