Trumpery - state sketch

'The Donald' arrived in London for his second bite of the State Visit cherry last night as the clouds loured and rain bespattered the camera lenses.

As Air Force One landed on the tarmac at Stansted Airport, actually in Essex - and, let's face it, the visit could only get better from there on - the assembled media jostled for a glimpse of the arriving guests. Unfortunately for the BBC's coverage, their North America political correspondent, Gary O'Donoghue, who is blind and not a small man, blocked the camera as Trump, Melania and entourage were bundled into a US army helicopter (which, we were helpfully informed, was named Marine Two) and whisked away to Central London, leaving the presidential VC-25 standing on the runway. Where are Palestine Action when you need them? I couldn't help wondering. All in all a bit of a waste of effort for the BBC's OB unit. Like most of us finding ourselves at Stansted Airport, I bet they wondered why they'd bothered.

Things weren't much better for the Beeb this morning as its cameras struggled to focus on Trump's helicopter through the leaden skies - not helped by there being decoy choppers in use too - after it left Winfield House, the US Ambassador's very plush residence in the centre of Regent's Park (the second largest private garden in London after Buckingham Palace we were told) where the Trumps had 'overnighted'. Perhaps the idea was to give Potus and Flotus a good night's sleep on an American mattress before subjecting them to the rigours of a lumpy four-poster state bed at Windsor Castle. After all, it would be a disaster if the President woke up grumpy after his six-hour transatlantic flight. Billions of dollars of trade deals hinge on his being rested and in good spirits.

That seemed to have worked (maybe helped by a good ole American breakfast) as Trump landed in Windsor Great Park looking pleased to be there - Melania, as usual, hid her feelings under a wide-brimmed hat - and was greeted by the Prince and Princess of Wales who walked them over the lawn to where their carriages awaited. The President and King Charles set off in the Irish State Coach (more bling presumably) while the First Lady and Queen Camilla followed behind in the Scottish State Coach. There were three further coaches but where they were from was anyone's guess - Wales, England and the Isle of Man perhaps? - no-one seemed to know or care.

It was an odd sort of carriage procession as it wended its way through empty parkland, totally enclosed by a three metre-high perimeter fence erected to keep the oiks out. They hadn't even bused in a load of Windsor primary school kids to wave flags and cheer enthusiastically, presumably fearing charges of child cruelty. There were, however, plenty of soldiers, sailors and airmen for the President to look at, though one couldn't help wondering if he was eyeing the immaculately manicured park for its potential as a golf course. 

And then there were the horses, loads and loads of horses, and lots of First World War gun carriages, possibly a subtle hint about our current military capability for keeping Putin at bay without modern US armaments. The gilded carriages finally pulled into the quadrangle of the Castle where a military band, trumpters and a guard-of-honour awaited. This was full-on pomp and pageantry of the kind we do so well - quite why we do is unclear but I suppose it covers awkward silences. 

Having taken the salute, Trump was invited to inspect the guard-of-honour, this time choreographed to clearly place Trump in the lead with the King walking deliberately behind, presumably to avoid risking a repeat of Trump straying in front of the monarch as he did with the late Queen on his previous visit. After that they all went indoors, presumably for a light lunch to sharpen their appetite for the State Banquet in St George's Hall later this evening.

One guest who attended last time but won't be there tonight - Andrew, Duke of York.


Popular posts from this blog

A knight's tale - creative non-fiction

England - 1088 'What's a king without a kingdom?' 'A man, sire. And a man fights for what's his.' The king had been thinking aloud and the thirteen year-old lad's unexpected reply to his rhetorical question caught him off-guard. It was a bold response but, rather than being angered, he felt chastened by it. It was profound coming from one so young and junior in his service though prompted, he knew, by genuine love and loyalty rather than impertinence.  At a moment of grave peril so early in his new reign he valued candour, a commodity in short supply at court. He had followed his father, the Conqueror, as King William II less than a year earlier and now faced widespread rebellion. At such a time he could ill afford self-pity, much less self-doubt. He blamed himself for allowing a brief moment of self-indulgence in front of his page.  Since receiving the devastating news at Eastertide of his brother Robert's challenge the lad had been his closest companio...
Read more

2024 - a year to forget?*

As we approach the end of another rollercoaster year of 'natural' and manmade disasters, I'm taking a moment to look back - and forward. Janus, the two-faced Roman god, gave his name to the month of January, a time for both reflection and anticipation. But as I find myself unexpectedly housebound with a bout of 'flu - or it could be Covid but who has a lateral flow test kit lying around these days? - I'm self-isolating for the remainder of December. Fortuitously, this gives me some time to ponder the existential ' quo vadis ?' questions now rather than waiting until the New Year. I can always have another bite of the glacé cherry then, of course, so these are just some preliminary musings, though with so much hanging in the balance - Syria, Gaza, Ukraine, a second Trump presidency - my observations at this stage can't really be anything more than prefatory. Let's start with the unfolding situation in Syria, the outcome of which could prove to be piv...
Read more

Withering hates

News of a new film adaptation of Wuthering Heights directed by Emerald Fennell (of Saltburn fame) led me to re-read Emily Brontë's classic novel. It brought back many memories. I was raised close to 'Brontë Country' in the 1960s when that area of the West Riding of Yorkshire (as it still was then) remained very much as the Brontës would have known it: remote, bleak, inaccessible and inhospitable. Today, while the moors, apart from a few jarring wind turbines, remain as ruggedly magnificent as ever, the gaunt 17th and 18th century millstone grit farmhouses have been transformed. Fifty years ago, their cold, stone-flagged floors, rattling sash windows and smoking chimneys made comfort hard to find. Only the main living room, t' house in dialect (in Brontë's text as in my youth), had a constantly-burning range, while rag rugs helped keep the chill off our feet. Almost all have been modernised, if not outright suburbanised. Paved driveways, landscaped gardens, double...
Read more