Donald Trump, President of the United States.
Keep saying it. See?
He’s a Jedi. It’s the only explanation.
On Friday I watched Donald Trump become the 45th President of the United States.
This is the seventh US election I’ve followed and now that I have a blog I should take the opportunity to offer my analysis, or maybe even some tenuous connections with Cornish. So:
Trump’s speech featured, in various arrangements, the phrases “blood of patriots”, “America first”, “national pride”, “protected by God” and “When America is united, America is totally unstoppable.” In order to establish the key points of this…
…no, I can’t do it. It’s too awful. I’m going to have to start again. What else did he say?
Well, he’ll be making America Strong Again; Wealthy Again; Proud Again; Safe Again; and above all Great Again. Didn’t he pinch that from Moulin Rouge? Or was that about Truth, Beauty, Freedom and above all, Love? No, even that didn’t end well. Nicole Kidman beats Ewan McGregor to death with a vintage typewriter. Apologies for the spoiler. How about this:
“…to unlock the mysteries of space, to free the Earth…”
Damn that comma! Mind you, every time I see Mike Pence, I do hear this:
(That’s this.) OK then, Star Wars. Let’s go with that.
A long time a go, in a galaxy far, far away… a man came down an escalator and said he was running for President, and everybody laughed.
Bit by bit it becomes more like a bad film. Trump vanquishes his many Republican opponents. His tiny hands swing his light-sabre back and forth as he takes down Little Marco, Lyin’ Ted and the others. And I can’t take my eyes off it. I’m hurtling towards the election in the Millennium Falcon with everyone else.
Then Bernie Kenobi whispers in my ear. “That’s no election, it’s a space station.” And I’m trapped in its tractor beam, and I get drawn into a planet-sized Death Star nightmare election. Bernie is sacrificed to make Hillary Clinton even more powerful. But then Hillary Clinton catches a space cold and falls over. Next to a car.
Suddenly a ray of hope! The rebel alliance finds a weakness in the Death Star. A precisely targeted audiotape of Trump explaining exactly how he uses the force. Surely it will destroy his campaign? No? Everyone just forgets about it. Instead they find some new emails that Clinton stuffed into R2D2 and everyone just talks about those for the last few days.
And during that long night of November 8, the Death Star transforms into a black hole, sucking me, you and everyone else across it’s event horizon. Far away in his Moscow fortress, the Master (less a robed shadowy fellow and more like an bear wrestling former hunk from a 1970s gay porn version of Deliverance) grins silently. And wrestles another bear.
He wins. (Trump and the election that is. Not Putin and the bear.)
And on Friday, at 5pm the moment came. The bit of the story where he actually became President. The actual President. The actual President of the actual United States. The day Anakin Skywalker puts on the big black helmet.
They’re all there in front of the Capitol. Mike Pence is grinning like he’s destroyed Alderaan. Poor Melania looks like she is about to eat a goat penis on I’m a Celebrity. The conquered but defiant Rebel Leader Clinton is wearing white, but knows she won’t be in the sequel.
Suddenly, at the very moment Trump places his hand on his family bible, he is transported to a windswept island in the Outer Hebrides. He looks around him and in the mist he sees a kindly, elderly woman, swathed in Harris tweed.
She speaks, but Donald doesn’t understand her. He has a fleeting vision, of initial letters changing in magical ways, like a broken departures board at Glasgow Central. The language is strange, it mingles with the whispers in the winds that blow up and down the Atlantic coasts.
The vision fades. Trump is back on the steps of the Capitol.
And now it’s all over. Trump is president. His mum’s first language was a Celtic one and he’s now the ‘leader of the free world’.
The Alliance has been crushed. Princess Leia is dead, and we’re all fucked.