Looking on the bright side there are many reasons to be cheerful regarding the visit of America’s ‘so called’ newly, duly elected.
He must be a godsend for every worthwhile British male and female comedian. Not forgetting our highly talented and internationally respected satirists. We the British public could do with a big belly laugh post the Brexit vote.
As preparations are being made to vent our anger at this State Visit no one wants, we have to take on board the situation that has been forced on us.
Rather than do our usual and predictable gathering in our thousands, to line the route to the palace, screaming and shouting various abuses, getting sore throats, bad-tempered and hot under the collar, may I respectfully suggest a different kind of protest all together. SILENCE.
Yes please do gather together in our hundreds of thousands but as soon as Trumps cortège comes in sight all of us turn our backs to the road, our backs to him personally and do not utter a sound. Not a pip squeak.
The massed ranks of the British people in complete SILENCE, with their backs turned to him would unnerve him. He is a creature of the overblown American media. He thrives and survives on sound. Any kind of sound, be it hostile or adulation. It is all oxygen to his over-inflated ego. It might show the world we still, as a nation, retain our dignity. Despite what Mrs May might do.
Our glorious Queen Elizabeth, has over the decades, seen off many a murderous criminal thug from Eastern Europe and scandalous assorted dictators from the Commonwealth. She is well able to do what she does best.
After all this is a first, in her long glorious reign. The first time she has hosted a dinner party for international celebrity White Trash. Keep an eye on the cutlery and condiment sets Ma’am. When it’s all over she and the family will have a wealth of material for their games of Christmas Charades.
I think our news anchors and journalists have a much more difficult job. Keeping a straight face when interviewing any of his backing band of Barbie Grannies. I look aghast at the number of those ‘Old Biddies’ as my mother would have called them. She never being one to undervalue the proper honorific.
Every one it seems has been liberated from the Palm Springs retirement home for old showgirls. These Lazarenes are game I’ll give them that. These fatal females, the Americanisation of the original French, can hiss and spit up a storm when defending their saviour. All those years of back stage infighting can finally be put to good use, even in their twilight years.
Each it seems shares the same plastic surgeon and hairdresser. The fright sight. The cascade of acres of luxuriant highlighted blond tresses. Well extensions anyway. Extensions. Hair sold by some of the poorest women in the world so they can put food on the table. Beautiful hair washed, bleached then stitched into rows so they can be worn by some of the worlds wealthiest, scariest women. Sisterhood writ large on their thin over painted faces. Make up, war paint in their case, exquisitely applied by the same old darling dressing room artist from Las Vegas. Daringly up front gay and put upon in the late 60’s but thoroughly enjoying getting his own back in his late flowering years.
Getting his own back on some of the most selfish, pushy hoofers he ever had the misfortune to work on. Yes, yes, yes citizens of GB. Line the route in your hundreds of thousands but keep stchum, very stchum indeed.
Have a good day.