“An unconvincing toupée of white cloud”
The day after Britain
voted to leave Europe, Donald Trump
descended on Scotland to open his Turnberry golf resort. Dan Davies witnessed
a hair-raising morning unfold
“Empty your bag, sir.” It is 6:15 on the morning Britain has woken to the stark, numbing reality that it has voted to leave the European Union. I am standing on a disused runway bordering a famous golf resort on the west coast of Scotland, being faced down by a burly, unsmiling member of the United States Secret Service. Behind me, scores of journalists, photographers and cameramen — from the UK, the US and all points in between, it seems — are being corralled into lines before being put through the same ordeal.
The global media has not assembled on this picturesque stretch of the Ayrshire coastline to witness the official reopening of a golf course. No, we are here because the owner of the recently renamed Trump Turnberry has decided to take a short break from his campaign to become the 45th President of the United States to cut the ribbon himself. And, as luck — or his proven genius for publicity — would have it, he’s chosen to do so on the day when Britain must reckon with the most momentous decision it’s made in decades; a decision that confirms to Donald J Trump he is right.
Once bags have been searched, names checked and lanyards distributed, buses ferry us the few hundred yards to the grand hotel on a landscaped terrace overlooking the links. Below, a giant Scottish saltire flutters from a vast pole and ribbons of emerald fairway meander
between the dunes. In the distance is the famous Turnberry lighthouse and beyond it the volcanic outcrop of Ailsa Craig, sporting an unconvincing toupée of white cloud. We line up against a temporary crash barrier and wait.
All the talk is of Brexit and what it will mean. “He’s spent £200m on this place and there’s lots of spin-offs,” pipes up a photographer from a local paper. “Even the local fishing club is getting business from all the people staying at the hotel.” It’s not much consolation when news is filtering through that sterling is tanking. Word spreads that Trump is on his way; a tweet has appeared in his timeline: “Just arrived in Scotland. Place is going wild over the vote. They took their country back, just like we will take America back. No games.” Nobody seems to have told him 62 per cent of the Scottish electorate voted to remain.
Standing next to me is a respected golf journalist. We discuss the improvements Trump has made to this superb links course and the speculation his ownership of Turnberry might result in it being removed from the exclusive rota of Open Championship venues. If Muirfield, whose members voted to continue excluding women, has lost its place, how will building a wall to keep Mexicans out of the US, or implementing a blanket ban on Muslims entering it, play with those who make such decisions at the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews? Or, for that matter, the stories in the US press that Trump — a man who boasts he “can sink the three-footer on the 18th hole when others can’t” — has been known to use a “magic pencil” when filling in his scorecard?
It’s almost ten past nine when the nasal whine of bagpipes fills the air, duelling with the sound of an approaching helicopter, which does a wide circle of the site before landing below us. As its rotors slow, the star attraction steps out onto the grass. He is taller than I had expected and his trademark copper mist is wisely restrained underneath a white baseball cap. The employees of Trump Turnberry clap and cheer. Their leader acknowledges them with a raised fist of triumph.
“It’s brilliant,” barks Trump in response to a question about Brexit from the scrum of reporters who thrust microphones and cameras into his face. “They’ve taken control. Other European countries will do the same. People are angry all over the world.” He peels off to shake hands with the people who have overseen the renovation of this latest addition to his portfolio of luxury golfing resorts, before disappearing inside the hotel. We are told to repair to the Caledonian Suite for complimentary coffee and small but very tasty bacon and haggis rolls. As we do so, Prime Minister David Cameron emerges from No 10 Downing Street to announce his resignation.
Soon we are back on the buses and driven to the far end of the course where white plastic seats have been arranged for a press conference against the backdrop of the iconic lighthouse. Tanned American TV news reporters fill time by doing preparatory pieces to camera. British journalists shuffle from foot to foot, channelling the doom. One checks his phone and relays the news that Nicola Sturgeon has announced a second Scottish referendum is on the agenda. “The country’s falling apart and we’re titting around on a golf course,” mutters his colleague. “By the time we get back from this, there literally might not be a country,” replies another. They laugh, thinly.
After what seems like an age, a column of people appears on the horizon and walks towards our spot on the rocky outcrop housing the tee of the newly remodelled ninth hole. Trump’s white baseball cap is evident, prompting the Secret
Service men to visibly straighten and whisper into their lapels. Camera shutters whir as a lone piper strikes up for the new king of Scotland, who takes his time to survey his pristine new kingdom.
When Trump finally approaches the lectern, a scruffy-looking man jumps to his feet from the front row. “Thank you,” says the man, “for allowing me this opportunity to unveil the new range of Trump Turnberry golf balls.” He turns to the massed reporters and reveals a box of six red golf balls emblazoned with Nazi swastikas. “Get rid of him,” growls Trump, and the man (comedian Lee Nelson, it later transpires) is bundled away.
Flanked by his two sons, Eric and Donald Jr, and his daughter Ivanka, Trump quickly recovers his composure and declares: “This is a historic day and not only for Turnberry. We have had one of the big votes in the history of Europe, Scotland, everywhere.” He embarks on a rambling monologue about how today’s opening is “in honour of my mother and my children”. He thanks his children, the local council, Turnberry’s members and his many, many “friends” from all walks of life. His offspring then deliver paeans to his brilliance: “We love you to death,” says Eric; “I’d like to thank you for letting me sprout and grow,” beams Donald Jr; “Thank you, Dad,” gushes Ivanka.
And then it’s time for questions, which are dominated by the US media. The first is about whether Trump sees parallels between his standing in the US polls and the Brexit vote in the UK? “I do,” he booms. “I see a big parallel. People want to take their country back.” He will repeat this phrase 10 times over the next 45 minutes.
Beyond the predictable bombast on borders, immigration and the “dumb decisions” made by politicians, what’s most revealing about Trump’s performance is the detail — or the lack of it. He states the falling pound will mean better business for him in terms of more overseas visitors to Turnberry. When asked whether he and Russia’s President Putin will be the main beneficiaries of Brexit, he brags that Putin has “said some very nice things about me”. He claims to be an “honest politician, one of the few”, and refers to himself in the third person when describing the rebuilding of Turnberry as a “big love-fest”. Accounts of his properties are laden with hyperbole but figures on his political fundraising are deliberately vague. He bristles when a Scottish journalist lists all the British politicians who regard him as “toxic”, and rails at those “who truly hate me”. It is a surreal environment in which to witness an advertorial for Brand Trump.
Trump takes more questions from one pretty but clearly critical female US reporter than he does from anyone else, and this same reporter gets to ask him the final one: “Do you see Brexit as an endorsement of your ideas on immigration, and is the vote evidence your extreme rhetoric is working and will continue to work?”
He juts his jaw, purses his lips and looks at her through narrowed eyes. “All I do is the right thing, and what’s right for our country,” he says. “Obviously it resonates. I don’t think I have extreme rhetoric. I’m not sure if it matters… but I think it does show something about the people wanting their country back… I have a feeling the same thing has happened over here.”
Brightening quickly, Trump declares he loves us and cuts the ribbon before departing with his clan. A piper plays, the sun beats down and waves lap the cliffs to the west. “We’re on the other side of that ocean,” he had said a few minutes earlier, pointing at the North Atlantic. “But we’re not so different.” I’m left to reflect that Britain, or what’s left of it, has never felt more like an island.