\”The point is, you can never be too greedy.\” – Donald John Trump
The needle grazed fifty while my eyes were resting. My pelvis felt like it was shattered.
My mind had scrambled back in the trunk years earlier but it had a habit of sneaking out to write once in a while when no one was looking. It was not that I felt old. Or more beleaguered than the next inebriated wretch. It was just that I felt out of step with prevailing weather patterns. The world was fucked. The fat man padding restlessly back and forth upstairs until my brain felt like it might erupt out my nose in a Pharaoh\’s sneeze. America seemed hell bent on electing an imbecile to office, and while I never once fancied to venture far from my island home – to holiday in extremis – the mosques were piling up in rows while the beach huts winced and paddled out into the sea. Just to escape the crowds. The niqab had all but eclipsed the ubiquitous little black dress in all the smartest periodicals. Going postal was the fashion. Strapping on the explosives vest. Posing for Instagram with the pin between thumb and forefinger. YouTube. In our schools, the lockers bristled not with sticks of incense but clips and magazines. The ones getting stoned had been accused of adultery. The KKK shared column inches with the PKK. The ballots were not rigged, they were governed by market stalls peddling trumpery. Tiny hands fluttered like blades at work on a rabbit. Palming coins, shuffling cups. I took in a young Jack Russell to see how far I would get walking the dog. I listened to Emerson, Lake & Palmer just to punish myself and found myself implausibly wanting more. The puppy pissed on my carpet. I did not warm to the neighbourly practice of wrestling its turds into plastic bags to dispose of them discreetly. It escaped and I laboured after it in the dark, attempting to lure it away from the genitals of other dogs with rawhide chews purchased from the corner shop. It is not that the Donald is some kind of magician. The sleight of hand is pure deception. The circus tent is straining under all that political correctness. The global village has been commandeered by suicide bombers, geriatrics in a national lottery to sock the patsy in the jaw. The barbershops are overrun by skinheads. Merle Haggard is back in the saloon. They might as well share a joint and fuck each other in the ass on stage like people used to do back when Cassius Clay welched on Uncle Sam. Obama. Merkel. The baby boomers are having none of it. They are too close to retirement to countenance their Miami burning down like Aleppo. Beirut. Old Baghdad. The Jack Russell packed her bags after just three nights. Millie. She was a sweet little thing. Like Michael Jackson\’s pet rat. A week after she had gone I could not get the smell of shit out from under my nails. My balls. It followed me around like a migrant in cheap cologne.