I for one think we should welcome Donald Trump with open arms. No hear me out. I think we all should, every man, woman and child across the nation. We should ALL be in a feverish state of Trump mania. I say we just ditch the whole stoic British reservedness and go into a full frenzy with shrines to the orange one built on every street corner. People writhing around on the ground of every parish, foaming at the mouth, as if possessed by some unholy force. Trump force. We should have started months ago, from the very moment he became president. A massive clock in London counting down the days to his big visit. Trump Day.
We could use Big Ben.
The global media will capture it all of course, it will generate views, clicks and memes. It’ll be the zeitgeist. But it would be covered with a slightly sideways glance, a kind of abject horror – “what is going on in the UK?” They’ll ask. And so there will be the theories – Have the British people just snapped? Was it Brexit? Was it the football? Could this be the ultimate fate and destination of all Western civilisation? Have Britain just arrived there first? Did Russia slip something into the water? Does this represent a new tide in chemical warfare?
Trump would love it of course, he would have to. But even in his private moments a single thought emerges in his mind, late at night as he watches coverage on Fox news of the former good people of Milton Keynes erecting effigies of him made of tangerines, or of 91 year old Ethel from Market Drayton rebranding her house as another Trump resort. She has a sign and everything, it’s made out of cardboard, but you can’t put down the artistry. Even Trump, in his most quietest moment, that briefest moment of self reflection betwixt the magic hour where our truest thoughts emerge above everything else, a single thought will emerge in his mind.
“This is all a bit much isn’t it? I mean, even for me?”
Not that he could admit it to anyone. How could he? To admit it would be weakness. How could anyone not love him in this way? And so the little grain of truth grates on him, stuck in his psyche like a glass splinter, but he locks it all away – as so many of us do to our most obvious truths. The tweet reads as thus: “My thanks to the British people, for supporting me. Together, with your help, we will make America great again! If only everyone else thought as you do! Sad!” He clicks tweet. It’s away. He smiles to himself for a brief moment, but the thought still lingers in his mind. He doesn’t get much sleep that night. He stares up at the ceiling of the white house bedroom. The ornate sculpture of it. He appears at one of his rallies in one of his safe states, they all love him – but not as much as the British public. In his speech, he rattles through the hits, the fake news, the liberal media, bad hombres, the Democrats, Crooked Hilary, about making America great again. His mind lingers on the thought as he goes into an anecdote about steaks or something, the thought causes him to falter his words for a brief instance. Not that any of his supporters realise.
The next day, in a security briefing. His security warn him that something might not be quite right with the UK visit, but 80s macho-ness takes over, as it always does. And he doesn’t listen.
And so comes Trump Day, the day of wonder. We’ve erected a massive stage for him in Hyde Park from which he will address the British people. One of our greatest architects built it to emulate the temple of the Kings of Old, it’s so big it can be seen from space. My gosh, you’ve got to see this thing.
We all await patiently for the Orange One to appear. We’ll all be clad in orange face ready to receive him. And so he walks on to frenzied jubilation. It takes 15 minutes for the applause to die down and then he gets started with the hits. Thanking the British people, he jokes about how this crowd size is only a fraction of the size of those seen at his inauguration ceremony. He’ll have a pop at Alan Sugar about how The Apprentice never had as good ratings as he did. He’ll probably talk about deals, and how he makes them, he’ll ramble on and to the point that he’s just rambling incoherently like a doddery old man. You know, the way he always does.
And with a cold shiver down the spine, he’ll notice it. The Silence. All around him. Everyone is quiet, not even a bird chirping, not even a passing airplane to Heathrow or Gatwick. An impenetrable silence. Nothing, but hundreds of thousands of faces staring back at him, not with frenzy but contempt. So very gradually like the coming of a thunderstorm – the hissing starts, the booing starts, the chanting “Fuck Trump” over and over again. This can’t be right? What is happening? The signs come out. Signs hanging from effigies of the man, effigies hanging from homemade nooses. In a moment, everyone just turns. Like a deer in the headlights he looks around, the world media are capturing it all. How did this happen? Love to hate in an instant. He knew there was something funny about it all. He should have listened.
The British people, they were acting up all along. Turn off the camers he motions. Turn off the cameras!
He turns to run, as his security team come to apprehend him.
A rattling of chains, metal structures lower from the ceiling… birdcages? They descend down and in these bird cages, people he recognises. Brothers. Piers Morgan in one, Nigel Farage in the other. They’re both gagged, crying, shaking their heads from side to side taking the full weight of the crowds negativity like waves crashing on a beach. Piers manages to break free of his gag. Loyal Piers. Donald thinks. Piers utters breathlessly, “we tried to warn you..”
“Good boy Piers. Lovely boy Piers. He won the Apprentice that one time. How proud I was then. How proud I am now.” Trump smiles serenely in the mess of security guards that attempt to evacuate him. And so, bypassing all his hateful vitriol, bypassing all his mind games and spin, Donald Trumps last action in life is one perfect thought of love. It is a gift from the British people. The last thing he sees, their smiling, happy, laughing faces. Hundreds of thousands of them.
And so the Temple goes up in flames like a tinder box. Whoosh.
Donald Trump is fired from life, history and everything. Humanity course corrects and resumes progress towards our Star Trek future.
So that’s what I think we should do with Trump visiting the UK, Now, it would need a lot of co-ordination from us all but I have a strong faith in the British people. There’s always a next time with these visits? So, I reckon we should pull up our collective sleeves and get cracking.
Thanks for reading. Please feel free to comment.