Mrs Trump might not really have a ‘Fake Melania’ double – but we wouldn’t blame her
WHERE is Melania? That’s the burning question on everyone’s lips as the internet tears itself apart with speculation that ‘Flotus’ has been replaced by a body double.
The theory is that the woman who appeared beside Donald Trump on the south lawn of the White House this week was not actually his wife Melania, but an imposter, hired for nefarious reasons to play the part of the First Lady and to conceal the fact that she’s missing in action.
Eagle-eyed observers pored over the footage and declared that her mouth and her nose looked totally different, she was wearing a bad wig and that, all things considered, it definitely wasn’t her.
It was either an actor hired by the White House to play the role, or, even better, a dead-eyed Russian robot designed to conceal the fact Melania left Donald months ago.
Hiding behind huge dark glasses which covered most of the top part of her face and wearing a beige belted Burberry trench coat, Melania, or ‘Fake Melania’, if you prefer, did look remarkably like a Bond-style secret agent on a mysterious assignment to overthrow a sinister regime, but further fuel was added to the fire when Trump opened his mouth to speak.
“My wife Melania, who happens to be right here,” he told the press, who were also right there and so didn’t really need to be told that Melania was right there.
Hmmm. What was going on? Was Trump simply stating the blindingly obvious – and why would such a sophisticated man do something so idiotic? – or did he have something to hide?
The plot thickened, the internet went crazy, and lo, Fake Melania took her place alongside the grassy knoll and 9/11 in the pantheon of great American conspiracy theories.
Conspiracy theories work best when there’s just a sliver of suspicion that no matter how mad they are, there’s a teeny-tiny chance that they might just be true, and let’s face it, we’ve all looked at Melania over the last year and thought – girl, just run. That’s why there’s a little bit of us that wants desperately to believe in Fake Melania; we wouldn’t blame the First Lady in the least for seizing the opportunity to run away from the Washington merry-go-round and send a stunt double to go and perform her duties instead. We wouldn’t blame her for not wanting to stand beside her husband as he insults the families of dead American soldiers and threatens North Korea with nuclear war and boasts about his ratings. We wouldn’t be keen on it either, and if there was a stunt double handy, we’d probably put it to good use.
And come to think of it, Donald Trump and a dead-eyed Russian robot would be a match made in heaven. Fake Melania, we salute you. Keep up the good work.
Apologising for nothing
HURRICANE Ophelia provided us with another timely reminder that the internet really is home to an alternate reality. You’ve probably read the story by now: the Happy Pear twins, purveyors of all that is healthy and wholesome, went for a dawn swim on Monday morning in the seaside town of Greystones, hours before the winds picked up on the east coast. It was peaceful at the cove that morning and they posted a photo of themselves emerging from the water, as they do every day. Within hours, they’d been bombarded with criticism on social media, accusing them of everything from being a bad example to putting the lives of the emergency services in danger.
Only, as anyone with reasonably functional eyesight could see, the water wasn’t even a tiny bit choppy when they went for a swim.
The sea stretched out behind them like a millpond, an occasional tiny white horse breaking behind them.
No one was at risk, and yet somehow the twins found themselves the poster boys for reckless endangerment.
It was fake news, as Donald Trump might say, and I’d have loved to see the twins give a giant two fingers to all the people who were essentially telling lies about them. But, being smart, and knowing that you can’t argue with that kind of online madness, they deleted the post and apologised. For something they didn’t do in the first place. Mad? Definitely.
Second city has a case of Trumpitis
SOMETHING else Ophelia taught me was that not even a hurricane can quell the indelible mark of a Corkman: oneupmanship.
“The strongest gust of wind was felt in Cork,” announced my husband smugly on Tuesday, as if Cork had just won another All-Ireland. “And more trees were felled there than in any other county. Not that you’d know it, with the way they go on up here in Dublin.”
I sighed, and added these facts to my mental checklist of all the other superlatives my husband has claimed on Cork’s behalf over the years: the longest building in Ireland, the second deepest natural harbour in Europe, the tallest building in Ireland, the second busiest A&E in the country.
He says it’s second city syndrome, but I reckon we could give it another name these days: Trumpitis.