THAT Trump bloke could cause trouble in an empty house, couldn’t he? He’d stick the nut on a passing nun if he couldn’t find anyone else to fall out with.
I see him with that mush in varying shades of orange and wonder how he didn’t throw a screaming hissy fit at whoever left the spray tan running while they nipped off to the shops.
Still, given his needy, Donaldcentric ways, I suppose the tanning girls just have to flash some booby and say “you look soooo greeaaat Mister President.”
Clearly the old fool sees a sex god in the mirror, while the world sees one of Willie Wonka’s Oompa Loompas in a bad nylon wig.
A large proportion of the world’s current woes could be solved if Trump and North Korean despot Kim Jong Un agreed to settle things the old fashioned way, man to man.
Picture the scene … high noon in a dusty, deserted street with the sun burning down and sage brush tumbling into the distance; a 1970s tape recorder (which is probably the latest thing in Pyongyang) is playing an Ennio Morricone soundtrack.
The Donald licks his ruby red lips. His right hand hovers over the handle of a Colt .45 with a thousand notches on it. His left hand forms a twee little finger-thumb circle.
“I am soooo going to shoot your mad Koreeeean ass into next week, looooser. And you will pay for the bullet. And the wall I’m going to bury your sad, loser ass underneath. Looooser!”
The Donald scrunches his eyes and sticks his tongue out.
Mad Kim Jong Un’s own right hand is clasping a Bic lighter, threatening to ignite the fuses to a dozen out-of-date Standard Fireworks rockets which have been gaffer-taped together.
Kim chuckles, snaps the fingers of his left hand, and a firing squad executes the three remaining members of his family who had dared to not let him win at Snap.
And then, to the delight of all, Clint Eastwood kicks open the saloon door, plugs the pair of them, and we all live happily ever after.
As if The Donald wasn’t making enough enemies in countries he can’t pronounce, he’s now busy trying to start a civil war at home.
If you’ve spent any length of time in the USA you’ll know they take their flag and national anthem very seriously indeed.
Here, we watch England footballers stand embarrassed, barely moving their lips as God Save the Queen plays and we shrug it off. Most of these barely educated multi-millionaires don’t even know the words to Ring-a-Ring-a-Roses. No big deal.
In some parts of America though, kids can recite the Star Spangled Banner before their 2x tables. You can’t find a street in the entire country without the Stars and Stripes flying on someone’s porch on July 4. Here, you fly the flag of St George and a Labour MP accuses you of being in the Hitler Youth.
So when a few black American NFL players decided they were going to flex their considerable muscles and use the anthem to protest the policing of black communities the situation called for calm and reason.
Cue Trump pouring fuel on the fire as fast as his little pinkies could find a petrol can. Does this man have no filters, no judgment, no sense of the dignity of the office he holds? Clearly not.
Don’t get me wrong, the idea of multi-millionaire lumps of muscle and gristle becoming moral crusaders rankles. We are not talking about Martin Luther King here, or Black Power protesters like Tommie Smith at the 1968 Olympics. Times have changed. America too.
The NFL players were picking a fight with middle America they couldn’t win – until Trump jumped in feet-first and turned it into a slapstick shouting match which, in the USA of all places, could turn nasty.
A pal in California emailed me after the last tube attack in London to check we were all okay. Since 2000 the UK’s had 126 fatalities from terror attacks. In 2015 the US had 13,286 gun deaths (not counting gun suicides of which there were 21,334 in 2014).
I told my pal I’ve never felt safer. And I certainly wouldn’t want to be one of Daft Donald’s bodyguards, the way he’s picking fights. Too many guns around, by half.
AHHH - autumn must be in the air, because it’s party conference time when British politicians take leave of their senses for three weeks.
If you saw Tracy Brabin and Paula Sherriff not just walking but floating five feet above the pavements of Batley and Dewsbury on Thursday, no, it wasn’t something they’d inhaled after walking past one of the district’s numerous cannabis farms.
That was the hot air Jeremy Corbyn was busy blowing up his acolytes’ backsides. And they all departed Brighton believing they could actually fly. Because Jezza said so.
The Lib Dems had their turn last week in Bournemouth (all eight or nine of them) but no one takes any notice of the Dim Libs any more.
Their policies would be every bit as ruinous as Labour’s, but the poor sops are too honest to even pretend otherwise, bless ‘em. They are less political party, more Mothers Union.
Indeed if UKIP are in hibernation awaiting the government to backtrack on Brexit, the Lib Dems have gone the whole hog and decided on cryogenic freezing. Wake them if there’s still a planet to save in the 24th century.
Next up are the Tories, descending on Manchester, although given the amount of backstabbing that will be going on their conference should take place on a hospital ward.
Understandably, Brexit dominates the agenda, with huff, puff and palaver all round. It will be interesting to see if Theresa May emerges empowered next week, or is found face floating face down in the Manchester Ship Canal. Odds are about evens.
Back to Corbyn however, who loves promising all things to all men, all women and the confused.coms in between. Jezza’s 1+1 equals anything from 3 to 3,000 (but never 2) depending on the answer his audience wants to hear.
He must be feeling cocky, because he actually came out and said capitalism is dead, socialism is the future – and still the Brabins and Sherriffs and assorted others floated home in a euphoric haze. What had they been smoking?
Whatever it is, it’s catching, because a year ago virtually the entire Parliamentary Labour Party wanted Corbyn throwing under a bus.
And now? It’s like watching a North Korean crowd scene, all the fake adulation.
Brexit, however, is the cuckoo nesting in Jezza’s beard. His firebrands want him to deliver a second referendum and even in the event of Brexit, membership of the single market.
They want the re-nationalisation of everything from the railways to the utility companies, blissfully ignorant of the fact that if we remained EU members, most of their wish list would be impossible. Brussels wouldn’t allow it.
Jeremy says there’s £100 to spend on Christmas, so they ask for a new bike, an XBox, an iPhone 8, laptop and peace on earth.
And the great leader says fine, and these clowns dance into the night believing their own BS.
Fact – Corbyn wants out of the EU while the Stalinistas Len McCluskey and John McDonnell don’t care so long as he gets them in power. They really, actually want to turn the UK into Venezuela, a corrupt and broken police state.
Check them out folks, don’t take my word for it. They mean it, they really do.
And when catastrophe strikes? It’ll be the banks, big business or the Daily Mail to blame. Someone, anyone. It always is.