Pity Ireland: the next page of the Trump family album
Acollective sigh of relief as the Trumps left the UK en masse; the land a little less orange, a little less Sad! The palace staff keen to get cracking on Febrezing the shit out of all the furniture any of them touched. Harry unclenching his fists for the first time in 48 hours.
Unfortunately for the Irish, Donald and Melania Trump arrived at Shannon airport to inflict themselves on another nation’s hospitality – like a less charming double-act version of Edward Gorey’s Doubtful Guest.
The taoiseach, Leo Varadkar, last seen mixing with the Trump administration on American soil when he pointedly introduced his fit doctor boyfriend to anti-LGBT deputy president, Mike Pence, played another blinder. He refused to meet the Trumps at their Doonbeg golf course and instead “hosted” them in an airport lounge. Which is about as welcoming as spitting in someone’s tea in addition to making
it the colour of a greyhound. Let’s take a look.
There are two letters missing from this picture and two letters only.
Melania is dressed as one of those flying saucer sweets that literally nobody likes. Who is hearing “sherbetfilled rice paper” and thinking “yum!”? Nobody, that’s who. Well, Melania. I am real Melania. I am being held against will. When he eats hamburger in bed, he wipe grease on the duvet cover. He tweets in shower, and then doesn’t understand why phone break. Please help me. I want live in basement with Tiffany. But he not let me. Do you have basement here in Ireland? Meet me at midnight.
In all seriousness, this looks like the opening scene of a film that establishes the loner credentials of the protagonist who will go on to kill and kill again. The guy behind him will accidentally bump into Don Jr, and he’ll freak out, and that’s how we know he’s unhinged. But also because he’s wearing a padded jacket indoors. In June.
Here is Varadkar looking at Trump while he compares the US-Mexico border to the Northern Ireland-Ireland border. This is the look I gave to a friend when, at the age of 29, she asked me whether football teams get a point in the table for every goal they score. This is the look I give to people when they go to a fancy restaurant and order a salad. The look I give to people standing on the packed lower deck blocking the stairs, when the entire upper deck is free. This is the look Jake Gyllenhaal gave to his co-star in a press junket when he butchered the pronunciation of “melancholy” for the fifth time (definitely worth your time).
Not to be outdone by brother Don Jr, Eric – who I am still not entirely convinced isn’t in one of the Twilight films – models the look of minor celeb en route to a police station for questioning, while their PR scrambles to make it clear they are “voluntarily attending to assist with inquiries”.
Westlife when they got off the stools.
Midnight.
If you are confused, allow me to explain: this is a photograph of a man jumping on to a giant inflatable mattress with a terrifying picture of Trump’s smug face on it. The installation is on display in Belfast. This is the stuff of nightmares, or would be, if every single waking day wasn’t the equivalent of A Nightmare on Elm Street, but if you replaced “street” with most of the world’s surface area. As patron saint of Ireland Ronan Keating said: Life is a rollercoaster, just gotta ride it!!!
• Hannah Jane Parkinson is a Guardian columnist