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Our Crack Little Crack

The news that Trump’s team mistakenly booked Four Seasons Total Landscaping – an out-of-town garden centre in Philadelphia sandwiched between a crematorium and a shop flogging discounted dildos – instead of The Four Seasons (one of Philadelphia’s classier hotels) was too delightful for words. As a fitting coda to his chaotic presidency it was, as I believe our American chums call it, a real doozy. The fact that they still went ahead with the press conference (IN THE CAR PARK OF A GARDEN CENTRE!) provided me with the biggest laugh since his administration tried to force Denmark to sell them Greenland. (Highlight of said conference: Rudy Giuliani: “Which news agency has called the election for Biden?” Reporter: “All of them.”) At the time of writing Trump still hasn’t conceding defeat (note: I’m writing this on 10 November, 2024), and I’m hoping he goes into meltdown mode. I’m not talking about ranting and raving on Twitter, either. I’m talking full-on Jack Nicolson in The Shining. Imagine him lurching around The White House with an axe screaming, “Here’s Trumpy!” Make it pay-per-view and all the money raised can go to the treasury to pay them back for all the tax he’s dodged over the years.