Taking my hat off to Trump
Whenever I see President Donald Trump being interviewed in a baseball cap I’m pleased that my father isn’t around to witness such sartorial slovenliness. Dad’s long-winded rants over the wearing of baseball caps, particularly back to front, would often have me climbing inside my own cardigan. But now I find myself mouthing my dear old Dad’s chapeau prejudices as I watch The Donald peering out from under the brims of his many caps.
I suppose we should be grateful that the president wasn’t wearing one when he committed the royal no-no of walking in front of the Queen and cutting her off during his golf course stroll perusing the Royal Guard at Windsor Castle.
Even if one isn’t a royalist, one would have been appalled by The Donald’s tardiness when he kept the 92-year-old monarch waiting in the hot sun when he ran late to meet her. Maybe he mistook her for one of the many ‘‘nasty women’’ who protested against him during his disastrous visit to the UK. Who knows what goes on inside that orange, pink-eyed head that seems to turn more orange as his presidency continues.
The Trump’s turmeric colour makes him look like a devotee of that seedy free love guru, the late Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, he who had his followers wearing orange 24/7.
With accusations and dawning realisations that Trump might be the most successful plant in the KGB’s history, the American president has been coined, among other things, ‘‘Agent Orange’’. The Russians’ cultivation of a high-profile American businessman with political connections way back in the mists of time and then, softly, softly, catchee monkey, successfully manipulating him into the Oval Office, is quite a stretch.
But after watching The Great Disrupter’s wrecking-ball behaviour toward the EU and traditional American allies, what other conclusion can we draw?
When the American and Russian presidents met in Helsinki for that most private of meetings, did The Vlad tick The Donald off for being too obvious in his defence of Russia? The US bully emerged from the historic meeting looking quite the deflated baby Trump, as if he’d been given a right carpeting by the headmaster.
The former intelligence officer looked coldly on at the after-match press conference as Trump abased himself with his entrenched obsequiousness toward Putin, infamously wondering why Russia ‘‘would’’ meddle in the American elections.
Trump’s later retraction of that statement, blaming bad grammar and a ‘‘sort of double negative’’ as the culprit when he alleged he ‘‘misspoke’’ and really meant to say wouldn’t instead of would, had the world in stitches.
With apologies to an old nursery rhyme, which had me bastardising it, I can’t stop chanting – How much would could a wouldn’t chuck chuck if a would chucker could chuck wouldn’t?
One wonders how those journalists admitted to the inner sanctum of Trump’s chambers to hear the arrant piffle of his walk back on the would/ wouldn’t debacle, managed to restrain themselves from breaking out into hysterical laughter? Frankly, we could do with some audible guffawing from the fourth estate.
And what a crying shame that the Republicans don’t collectively turn their backs and walk out on their leader, who is clearly exhibiting full-blown TDS (Trump Derangement Syndrome)?
Where will it all end? Will Trump limp toward the end of this term, stand as an independent and get voted back in by his hardcore base, prompting American Civil War II? And we thought we had problems back in ’81 when the country was split down the middle over the Springbok Tour.