Oh, the harshest of mentions! During the Trump-Starmer press conference, Sky News’s Beth Rigby brought up Peter Mandelson, referring to him as “the elephant in the room.” The name seemed unfamiliar to Donald Trump, who leaned in slightly as if trying to catch the sound of a distant whisper. Unfortunately, he couldn’t place the name. “I don’t know him,” Mr. Trump said with a hint of regret in his voice. He then turned to Sir Keir Starmer and asked for his thoughts.
Trump is quite the cheeky character, more amusing and sharp-witted than some of his critics admit. In person, he appears bulkier and more slouched, making you acutely aware of his 79 years. His complexion is pale, with a hint of Scottish ancestry, and his hair a strawberry-blond. You can’t help but notice his pronounced eyelids and his somewhat distant, almost mystical gaze. He’s still a hefty fellow, perhaps due to a steady diet of burgers.
The setting was the Great Hall at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s residence in Buckinghamshire. Paintings of chinless aristocrats from the 17th century adorned the walls, though some appeared overly polished. Reporters gathered in a tent within the walled garden, surrounded by hollyhocks, dahlias, and verbena bonariensis, while the sunflowers had withered. The pear trees were heavy with fruit.
Chequers is nestled in parklands, bordered by cedars and oaks. Yesterday, a massive security presence was in place, with police officers stationed along country roads, seemingly ready to confront any suspicious wildlife.
Accompanied by Sir Keir and the stylish Lady Starmer, who wore an olive dress with floral patterns, Donald and Melania Trump ventured outside after lunch to witness the Red Devils’ sky-dive. The strong winds almost carried the parachutists away to Wendover. Mr. Trump, however, had little regard for the wind. “It’s disastrous,” he remarked, calling wind “a joke!” His strong words were directed at windpower, though his hairstyle seemed to be battling the brisk English breezes during this state visit.
The conversation shifted frequently to Vladimir Putin. Mr. Trump expressed his disappointment, stating, “He has let me down,” which certainly is a stark way to describe the widespread devastation among civilians and soldiers.
The President did not think much of our government’s Palestine policy. He thought the Royal Navy ought to sort out the small boats. Illegal immigration ‘destroys countries from within’. Earlier he had raved about the economic effects of his tariffs. And now he was talking of peace between ‘Aberbaijan and Albania’. Azerbaijan and Armenia, perhaps.
Sir Keir, standing beside him, adopted the jaw-taut expression of a man with electrodes attached to his sweetbreads. A lawyer next to his colourful client. A lion tamer beside a batey old king of the African jungle. And yet the nasal knight did okay, even if his eyes did bulge a bit – two oysters a leaping – when Mr Trump invited him to give his thoughts on Mandelson. I was laughing so much, I quite failed to listen to Sir Keir’s blurted response.
Donald and Melania Trump stand next to Sir Keir Starmer and Lady Victoria Starmer at Chequers
They watched a skydive by the Red Devils parachute display team
And I bring you great tidings. Sir Keir, until now thought a dreary atheist, affirmed himself a Christian. A US reporter had asked if we were still a Christian kingdom. Sir Keir: ‘I was Christened. That’s my church. Has been all my life.’ Hosana to the Highest.
Melania and Lady S attended the press conference, as did Marco Rubio, Secretary of State. What astonishing ears. They could be novelty accessories from a joke shop. The president’s press secretary, Karoline Leavitt, far from the vixen of lazy caricature, seemed chatty and good fun. Mr Trump, when he passed the finialled front gates at the start of the day, veered over to speak to US press photographers and marvel at Wednesday’s night’s Windsor Castle dinner. He had obviously loved it.
His gait was heavy, perhaps more from gouty twinges and near-constant travel lag than from any desire to look menacing. Once inside he flopped gratefully into a Howard-style armchair to talk to Sir Keir for an hour, the room decorated in Colefax and Fowler’s Berkeley Sprig wallpaper. Chequers may lack the Oval Office’s gilded bling but, like Windsor, it seemed to soothe him. Even with the damn sound of bagpipes in the distance.
And then his enormous helicopter arrived, to whisk him away, back to the New World and its hassles. His trip to cod-medieval Camelot was at an end.
And all I could think was ‘poor Peter’. A disowning of near-Biblical proportions.
