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The Secret Diary of Donald J Trump, aged 71 and 3/4

SINCE LAST NOVEMBER, to avoid despair at the thought of the jackass currently braying in the Oval Office, I’ve been writing, intermittently, a spoof Donald Trump diary (as readers of my website, know). It cheers up people, I’m told, but I really write it for myself: if I couldn’t mock him at will, I’d have to write my will and shoot myself.

My parody uses, as a springboard, the late Sue Townsend’s hilarious, immaculately-written The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 and ¾ but, beyond title-inspiration, there is little similarity between the diaries, largely because the only similarity between the fictional Adrian Mole, the hapless-but-lovable teenager, and the r

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Thusian Spake Bannon

THE REST of the world, apart from a small group of Trini weirdos, heaved an almighty sigh of relief on Tuesday night: at least now there won’t be two 70-year-old jackasses in high office in the US; but half the adult population of Alabama wept because there were not enough God-fearing Christians who would kiss their Bible and vote for a gun-toting, slavery-approving, Muslim-hating accused child molester, so that he could go to Washington and protect the millions of unborn children who will, apparently, continue to be murdered even before they become zygotes.

It’s an enigma of modern life, this Republican moving of heaven and earth to save the unborn but not giving a flying firetruck about babies, once they’re actually out of the womb: the same so-called right-to-lifers who bomb abortion clinics to save fertilized eggs will die to preserve capital punishment; and gather cheerfully outside of prisons on execution nights in the existential version of the football stadium tailgate party.

Most satisfying, though, was the comeuppance to President Jackass. Molester (alleged) Moore’s campaign was taken straight from the Jackass’ manual and the narrow rejection of Moore meant a massive rejection of Trump, comb-over, robocall and all.

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​Open Secret

ALMOST A YEAR after it happened, I still can’t quite bring myself to believe the Americans actually elected the Jackass. It’s not so much that I can’t accept that people would so cavalierly dismiss President Obama’s devastatingly apt warning – that a man who can’t be trusted with a Twitter account shouldn’t have the firetrucking nuclear attack codes – although, of course, there is that.

No, the hard part of accepting that this idiot-savant-without-the-savant is in the Oval Office is that, every time I turn on the TV, he is on it, painstakingly underlining his palpable unsuitability for the post. (Come in, Keith Smith, your alliteration acolyte is in action.)

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